Saturday, January 30, 2010

Drunk Post

Hi. I'm in a bar. Too tipsy to drive home after work, so I deem, and so I'm sitting here after my more tolerant co-workers have left...still drinking. Yay iPhone.

Today a customer at another server's table told me I'm stern. He's in customer service, you see, and knows about such things in a professional way. I went over to his table to apologize for the discretions -- sorry, in-, told you: tipsy -- he had voiced to the other server, and he demurred, later led me away, and said he didn't want to say so in front of the whole table but my demeanor since they'd walked through the door...

First I would sass, but, employed, I only half-sassed, as much as allowable, then ran off to beat the stream of tears when my boss came to my defense.

Thank god my boss is awesome -slash- thinks I'm the nicest person alive.

The thing was, I realized sequestered in the thickly stocked back office, though my days are smoother, I am still under so much frickin stress...and to hear what amounted to arrogant, opportunistic waxing in the middle of brunch, albeit solicited by my apology...

Since I've come to what I figure is "acceptance" about my vulvodynia, my pain has become a sidenote. I don't really notice it. But the fact remains that my pain kept me up all last night, my clitoris burning bright through every leg orientation I tried, and I blamed the non-sleep on so much Effexor-induced day sleep until I admitted that yes, this is my crotch keeping me awake.

It all fell on me when I ran away from that customer. It wasn't his comment -- fuck that, been up against that too many times. It's genetic, got it from my mom. You know how Michael Jordan hangs his tongue out when he dunks? We furrow. Deal with it.

And seriously, if I were a furrowing man, would you care?

What if I had Asperger's, you judgmental dipshit?

But this other stuff...erupted. I thought it was under control. I thought I wasn't this upset about my life.

Honest: on the anniversary of my 3rd vulvodyniaed year, I promised myself I wouldn't live to see a 4th. I don't recommend this pact to anyone; I mention it because I'm convinced honesty heals ALL overall, eventually.

That's what I thought of sequestered in the office today during brunch. My pact.

I've been having dreams that I have to move back in with my parents because I can't afford my life. I'm off the school's health insurance because I'm not taking classes and I'm not sure what I'm going to do. I can maybe afford to get insured thru Ohio's open-enrollment program -- passed Jan 1 -- but the numbers aren't overwhelmingly convincing. My co-worker goes to the county hospital and says it's okay, though, which makes me feel less like I'm falling off the no-insurance cliff.

The end on that.

There are a lot of life-beaten people at my job and in my neighborhood. Like this guy who just ate this ginormous salad. Actually I just mention him because I told him I would. But anyway....once in a while my mind does a minute or so cha-cha over "THERE'S NO WAY OUT OF THIS PAIN?!?!?"

And it seems that the only feasible way to handle the pain is to ignore it. Or, through medicated mood, to be more or less ignorant of it.

To forget it exists.

It's just this hum in the sidespace, like an evening bullfrog.

The question of the day is, do I eventually go insane?

I thought no, but given its proximity as proven today....

I just feel really shitty about ME. I wanted to tell you about my post-urologist visit but I never did. I remember shouting at my dad in the car that all abnormalities that befall me should be a form of POWER, not deficiency. All this over pelvic-floor dysfunction. Because somehow bipolar is a POWER but PFD isn't?

I've tried not to feel shitty about me but it keeps creeping back.

This post must be getting long. And I'm sobering up. So.

Please no pity. I'm writing this for all my chicas who someone here just mentioned, something like Charlie's Angels...but please not beholden to the service of a man...

Thursday, January 7, 2010

I Had Sex!

I had sex! Penetration-sex!

A little while ago, my body suddenly decided that this one particular guy was really sexy. It said to me, get your hands on that, yo.

And lo, from the Heavens (literally -- Christmas party), I found myself in a social situation with this person. And lo, I set a course. And he ran away. And I set a course. And he ran away. And I set a course! And I got suckerfished by several other men -- but no! No! NO, other men, get off my periscope! I'm heeding my body's call!

I was, I should tell you, wearing a really short skirt, and I occasionally had on a long sweater, and I had arrived with my long turquoise coat on top of all of it. Remember that.

So eventually at like 3 a.m. either this guy finally figured out why I kept feeling his material George-on-Seinfeld-style (one of my two flirting maneuvers) or he was too drunk to keep walking away. Actually, there's a little more to the story, and it would be fun to tell, but it risks revealing his identity to very unlikely readers. I've been working hard on red herrings with these people since the event, so I'll keep it vague.

The only thing that matters anyway is the sex. WAIT, wait, that's his line! Because I told him when we were finally getting down and he was descending a little too fast that I can't do that, dude.

"Can't." That's an ambiguous word, I found out. Apparently, sometimes it means you're afraid of sex. Sometimes it means you spent all night getting him not because you were attracted to him but because you were sent by evil female forces to rain cockblock on his dick. Sometimes it means you think his penis is ugly. Sometimes it means you think he's a douchebag. Sometimes it means you should give him head now to make up for being an evil female who thinks he's an ugly-dicked douchebag.

Sometimes it means welcome to the real world.

My body has different standards than the rest of me. I thought about dealbreakers and wondered why the deal hadn't broken yet. Clearly, he wasn't worthy.

I explained to my whiny lover, after several rounds of pain talk, that I can't do random penetration-sex anymore, but I still looooove everything else -- how do I get what I want without leading people on? Anyway where is your imagination? And since when are you a twenty-year-old again?! Why has every other guy our age been so respectful while you're practically weeping into your debodied pants?! Oh my body, WHAT were you thinking...

I was pissed at him, but I didn't want to leave. I wanted to smell him and have him lie on top of me. I wanted him to give me that amazing oral sex I'd fantasized about that apparently takes place in eight seconds on his planet.

He was pissed at me, but he wasn't kicking me out. He kept sounding like it was ultimatum time, but he was having the same dilemma I was having. Maybe we were both hard up.

So we negotiated, and I negotiated with myself. I'd been doing my exercises and things had been pretty quiet down there. I hadn't tried vaginal sex in almost two years. I didn't want to risk a bladder infection but I was pretty sure my bladder had blinked out of existence for the moment.

I told him he should put his dick on a burner for the whole next day as an act of sympathy and that he had to go slow. While he put on the condom, I got into my physical therapy position and checked out my pelvic floor muscles. Open arms, let me tell you.

He was nice once we were actually having sex. He was slow and regular, kept asking if I was okay, and waited for me to give him signals to dial it up. Apparently this guy turns into a prince once his sword is sheathed.

The pain on entry was bad, but it wasn't breathtakingly horrible like it had been in the past. As we got into it, the pain subsided and we were able to move around. Whether there was pleasure, I didn't care -- I was focusing on the simple fantasticness of physical intimacy.

We took a (fun) break and then tried again, this time with me on top. That didn't fly. We flipped around. It was hurting worse -- not my vulva but something inside, my cervix, my bladder, my gut. I had to stop. I tried to determine whether I had to fart (my farts are sometimes too polite to speak even to ask for exit).

I laid beside him with my eyes closed trying to figure out whether I was going to be able to stand up. Still princely, he didn't make a stink about stopping and said I should just sleep there. But I was in the kind of pain you need to be alone for.

I left, and this is where I test your memory. What was playing when I started my car? Cake, "Short Skirt Long Jacket."

I felt the universe winking at me.

At home I showered and tried to poop out (I love my blog) whatever pain had curdled inside me, but exercising that (pipe) organ didn't relieve the pain. It was almost dawn, and I laid in my bed laughing about the night, congratulating myself on a mission accomplished, and wondering if I should go to the emergency room.

Here's the thing: when you're in pain all the time, you don't know when you're in the kind of pain that means something bad is happening. I had this shudderingly intense pain centered on my bladder, stretching up toward my belly button and going all the way down through my mound. My vulva itself was dandy. If I were a normal person, I asked myself, would I be scared? Would I want to go to the hospital?


But I waited. I thought, this is probably intestinal. Time will tell. If it's not better in a day, I'll go in.

The next day the pain was better, but it hadn't moved and it felt like something foreign was lodged in me. Every time I coughed it killed. My vulva burned a little, but not near as bad as prior post-sex days.

The pain eventually went away, and I still don't know what it was. I've never had problems with different sex positions, so I don't think it's a tilted uterus or whatever. The urology people don't think I have interstitial cystitis, which is another possible cause. I just did a pelvic MRI... I'm going to have to ask all my doctors and I'm afraid they won't really care to get me an answer. It's gone now, right? And it couldn't possibly be a new symptom of all that other wacky stuff going on down there, no, no...

As for the guy...I'm too much like a guy. Been there, done that, over it. Kinda. He's still sexy, and he's generally a nicer guy than my analysis above has made him out to be, but I'm indifferent about everything else. I guess I realize I don't want to date him -- or that though we might have a nice fling, it won't go farther and so it's already over in that Buddhist way, la la la, this is how I think about all dating, why don't I ever date?! Ah, but the sex! But I've now learned that the sex is just mildly good (even subtracting the pain), so why bother with more, especially with all that whining. He might be trainable, though, so we'll see.

The most important thing is that I have hope that I can have a regular sex life again. Penetration isn't a must, but it is the hardest test for my pain, and I was operational for a bit! That gives me hope for my entire reproductive system and for my sexuality and libido. I needed that. He may be a partial douchebag, but that guy ended up playing a huge part in my ongoing reseach, sponsored in this segment by short skirts and a relentless, singular pursuit.

P.S. Posted from my iPhone. No joke. Please excuse odd typos. There's no Internet for me to steal right now but I just HAD TO TELL YOU.