hathycol | (no subject)

The first, and the most important thing I want to say, is that this weekend I saw Mad Max: Fury Road and it is just as good as everyone says it is. It is possibly better. There was a point, about 2/3 of the way through, where I realised that if I was trapped in a room and had to watch nothing but this film for all eternity, I would probably be okay. It's an brutal art-house dystopian feminist action masterpiece and yes, there is a guitar that doubles up as a flamethrower. Who killed the world, indeed.

Which is why it's a bit pants that in the last 24 hours I have sold my car and sort of mentally spent some time trying to shout at myself WHAT WOULD FURIOSA DO THE WHOLE POINT IS THAT YOU ARE NOT DEFINED BY YOUR CAPACITY TO BEAR LIVE YOUNG FOR FUCK'S SAKE at myself. I think I am more upset about the car, actually, to be fair, but.

To go back to the start: I came off the Pill in order to regain a sex drive, as you know. I am delighted to report that this particular project has been a success, sorry neighbours. However, attempts to get the coil were scuppered by the fact I had to wait for my periods to come back. And I waited. And I waited. And I waited.

Waited a bit more. Peed on a lot of sticks. Not pregnant, but still. Hmm.

As we were up to in the last installment, my thyroid function was fine, the GP reckoned all my hormones were fine, and an appointment at the local gynaecology clinic was set up. I trundled along on Tuesday, where the consultant told me that my hormones were sort of fine, and a GP might not pick up on it, but all of the elevated ones in combination are potentially problematic. After checking my problems weren't just leaky boobs (they're not, I would have noticed) and an exciting internal examination she said that the hormones plus the lack of periods (I did have one six weeks ago but it was, er, brief) means that I probably have polycystic ovaries, although I don't have a lot of external symptoms. (I think this is code for 'you have no particular fuzziness on the face and you're not overweight but you are still acne ridden at 27')

"Oh, right," I said. She leaned forward.

"Are you trying to get pregnant at the moment? We'll need to put you on a pill if that's the case."

"Er, no?" I said, dumbly, not quite sure what this meant for me. She then said I needed to go for another blood test to see if it was a fluke and to go for a scan. Sooner rather than later at that. I sort of didn't really realise what it all meant until I went outside and cracked out Dr Google and worked out what the above conversation all rather meant.

So... it's not definite, yet, If you have two out of three of the list then polycystic ovarian syndrome is what it is. Obviously if I go for a scan and have cysts then it's three out of three and I presume I get some sort of prize.

I know people with this and they are... quite ill with it, with some fairly obvious symptoms, but it looks like ten years of the pill have maybe masked things, I don't know. I'm fine with not having hirsuitism, although it may recognise why my weight remains stubbornly higher than I want despite a rapidly improved diet. The conversation, though, plus Dr Google, has made me rather horrifically aware that I am, apparently, unlikely to get pregnant without intervention or rather a lot of luck.

And I don't want children. God knows, I do not want children. I find myself weirdly furious, though, that a. the choice has maybe been taken away from me and b. for fuck's sake I could at least be properly barren and then I could stop spending so much fucking money on fucking condoms. And a bit teary. Which is stupid. I don't know my feelings on the matter, I think. I told Mum yesterday and she sounded like I'd told her someone had died, she sounded ashen about it. Which again, nonsense, I don't want kids and that's always been the case. And the whole thing isn't properly diagnosed yet, and I don't have any major symptoms which is a mercy.

And yet, and yet, and yet. I don't know. I feel very odd about the whole thing. It's like... when I was desperately looking for a job after I graduated, and I got interviews, and I realised I didn't want the job very much, and then they rejected me, and then I cried and I cried because the point was what's wrong with me. Oh, it's a very silly reaction, I know.

So even though I had something of an answer about what the hell is going on with my body, and even though selling the car is a good thing, I still felt fairly pants yesterday. And now writing about it again I want a glass of wine.

Or to ride across the desert on a motorbike, screaming ONE MAN, ONE BULLET, but that's just a Wednesday.