Finding Gene Kelly

by Torie Jean

Cementing a fair amount of my organs and ligaments together, endometriosis has negatively impacted enormous swaths of my life. Incurable, treatments and management plans range from miserable to soul-crushing, and true relief is hard to come by. Most of the time, people are too uncomfortable with negativity and pain for honest answers. Wanting to fix it, fix me, they offer positivity and solutions, which become toxic in their frequency. I’m an optimistic person in my own way, but there’s a danger in forceful optimism and not recognizing reality. I exist in a state of perpetual pain, and I’ve had to accept that to survive—it’d be nice if others acknowledged and were okay with it. Otherwise, the guilt and anxiety of being “a downer” are put on me too.

He, frankly, is home. And I’m suddenly sick.

“There are only two places in the world where we can live happy—at home and in Paris.”

trapped inside her anxiety-ridden, still-trying-to-perfect-her-top-eight-on-MySpace cage.

None of this gets easier. I just have to get tougher.

Hell, I am so tired of having to be tougher.

One moment changes everything. Validates everything. Doctors who have told you your whole life you’re mentally unstable or have a low pain tolerance, that it’s just painful periods (that one’s hard to swallow when you’re very aware it happens almost every day) suddenly tell you you’re one in ten, ushering you into a forced kinship nobody wants to be a part of.

the journey to diagnosis is degrading and doctors are typically assholes to you.

And you have to keep on keeping on until you find the Unicorn Doctor, Magic Vagina Fairy, whatever name you prefer, who believes you and wants to help you get better and fights for you.

Either people care too much about your pain and you have to endure false pity while they tell you you’re strong, a warrior, and handling things with grace, unconsciously heaping pressure to maintain composure to meet their expectations, or they think you have a low tolerance and need you to quiet your drama queen tendencies.

How long have I been surviving without living?

My incurable disease? Why yes, yes, it is.

I’m in pain because I have lesions growing in my body wherever they damn well please. I’m in pain because when they shed themselves like they’re having a period, I bleed internally and build up scar tissue that adheres my ligaments and organs to each other and to my sidewall over time. That’s it.

I’m in pain. It never stops. I’ll make plans difficult. I’m dramatic. Selfish. I hold grudges. I’m impulsive in the worst ways and timid when I should be bold.