I gotta get my head out of my vulva

My appointment with the specialist is at the end of this week and I am going toe-tappingly crazy waiting for it and anticipating what might come out of it.  My head, yes, is consumed by my vulva.

I was excited for a long time but now I'm getting magical thinking about it, like if I rotate something the right way I will get a good outcome at my appointment, or if I don't touch my right ring finger to things, or if I pick the right color socks to wear.  I'm told this is mild OCD but frankly, I am tired of talking about my entire life in terms of illness.  It is superstition.  It is begging the fates.

I think I will take a break from blogging after this appointment.  A break from everything vulva-related.  I feel like I've been acting as if I have a mission about vulvodynia lately, more so than ever, and it is only making things worse.  I think of people who march about things.  They are very strong to march about things that affect them personally.  It eclipses the rest of life to think about a problem so much.

I think this is what it was like when my vulvodynia first started, especially those several months before I knew what was going on.  At least these days I know what's going on.  I'm just scared of what good may come, and I'm scared of what good may not come.  How strange to wonder how I'll cope if my pain goes away.

K wrote at her blog, Feminists with Female Sexual Dysfunction, "I’ve often thought to myself, ‘If I have a lid on the painful sex and chronic pain, why am I still depressed?! I should be happy for that reason alone!’ Nope. It worked that way for awhile! But then it didn’t anymore."

If it ever happens that vulvodynia is not a major problem in my life... what will I do with myself then?

I once promised I would do cartwheels like the chimney sweeps do in Mary Poppins.  Okay.  Focus on that.