Because, as I tweeted, maybe self-dissection is what I'm going to have to resort to, and maybe if I died from vulvodynia-inspired wounds the medical community would give a shit.
I mean, die for awareness? Okay, fine. Vvd makes me want to shoot myself in the head anyway, if only 'cause that way I WIN.
I went to the orchestra on a moderate flare. I was hardly able to walk away. I seriously felt like I was going to piss myself. It felt like I was walking with a spike shoved up alongside my urethra.
We went to a bar. See, the Cavs were playing, and I couldn't quit on Lebron even in massive pain. Would Lebron quit? No. It took way too long to get food -- I thought eating would make the pain better. But it didn't. Ridiculous, ridiculous pinching and burning like I can't even describe. Still not the worst pain ever. No unstoppable bawling.
My friends were awesome as usual, talked about it, kept asking me questions as if this is somehow a palatable subject -- and to them it is, somehow. Understood when I was eager to leave.
Now I'm on the pot for that lovely lady exposure chugging water mixed with a little bit of apple-cider vinegar -- been trying it lately, think it helps my flares. Which makes no sense because baking soda seems to help my flares too, and they are OPPOSITES.
I want to die.
Okay, shut up. I want to never eat pecans again. #1. #2, I WANT A DOCTOR TO CARE. I WANT THE SCIENTIFIC METHOD TO BE APPLIED TO MY BODY BY SOMEONE OTHER THAN ME. WHY DOES MEDICINE THINK IT'S ABOVE SCIENCE. WHY DOES MEDICINE FEEL IT'S OKAY TO IGNORE EVIDENCE.
I have an appointment with a naturopath two weeks from Monday. I've also been wondering if it's time to return to the urologist. At least with interstitial cystitis, diet change is a KNOWN and ACCEPTED treatment. And maybe they can, like, swap out my urethra too.
And I've got an appointment on Monday for the hemorrhoids. At the university health center. That is going to be SEXAY.