I realized a long time ago that there is nothing “sexy” about this disease. In fact, it’s downright disgusting. Every time I try to explain to someone what endometriosis is, I cringe a little. Literally, my mind works at a mile a minute attempting to find any way to describe it that isn’t quite so… revolting.
But the fact of the matter is, there just isn’t any good way to describe uterine tissue implanting itself on various other organs and then bleeding every single month right along with your regular cycle.
It’s disturbing. And while I guess I get that no disease is really “sexy”, I have to be honest when I say that this one really ranks up there on the freaking-nasty-o-meter.
Which is why I try to find humor in just about everything else that goes along with it. Because seriously, if I can’t laugh at it I’m afraid that people will just look at me and think “Oh her? That’s the girl who has menstrual blood seeping out of her pours. No seriously. It’s all over her other organs and just floating around inside her. Every time she gets her period, she basically oozes. From everywhere.”
Freaking nasty.
You have to be able to find the humor.
And that’s what I was trying to remind myself of as I pulled up to the physical therapists office on Friday afternoon.
Making a valid attempt, one more time, at a little PT for my cootchie.
No matter how humiliating it may be.
As I told the boy the night before my appointment “My vagina is broken. It needs a massage.”
Which is why when I pulled up to this place downtown and realized it looked like a happy ending massage parlor, I started to get a little nervous.
Not that I’ve ever actually been to a happy ending massage parlor, but this was pretty much how I would picture them to look in my head.
Where on earth had Dr. Cook sent me?
The devirginator was again waiting desperately for any and all stories I was willing to share about this endeavor, and the boy and one of his co-workers were sending me all kinds of fun text requests for the appointment.
Because yes, it’s apparent that the affairs of my busted vagina are rarely ever kept private.
I should probably talk to my therapist about that.
I just kept making jokes with all 3 as I wandered through those office doors. I didn’t know what else to do. I had in my hand another referral for a “Internal Pelvic Floor Release” and this time, I knew Dr. Cook had intentionally found someone for me that he believed would deliver.
All in the name of working out some of those muscles that have been so affected by scar tissue and trauma that they have become mecca's for pain and discomfort.
Which I suppose is something I should be all about. And I would be. If only it didn’t involve letting some stranger stick their hands up my cootch for a deep tissue vaginal massage.
Because let’s be honest – I don’t care who you are, there is nothing comfortable about that scenario.
I walked into the office and was relieved to see that the sketchiness dissipated as soon as I walked through the doors. From the outside, this was a run down and beat up building, but from the inside; perfectly acceptable physical therapists office.
Bullet dodged.
Still, I sat in the waiting area growing more anxious by the minute. My first experience with cootchie PT had been entirely anti-climactic. There was never an actual exam done, and each of the appointments basically consisted of the physical therapist giving me a series of exercises to do at home that I’m pretty sure I could have looked up online. After all the buildup, it had basically felt like a waste of my time. So I never went back. But this time, I knew Dr. Cook had gone to lengths to find someone who would specifically work on those traumatized muscles of mine.
Those traumatized vagina muscles.
When she finally called me back, my anxiety grew. When she asked me to disrobe from the waist down, I thought I was going throw up.
Here it was. This was actually going to happen.
I was actually putting myself into this completely awkward position.
Again.
One more time.
The exam basically consisted of her testing the strength and tension of a variety of my down there muscles – both interior and exterior. I’m pretty sure I went to another place mentally for this, much like you almost have to for vagisounds. I swear, sometimes I really find myself wondering why it is that guys don’t have to do anything awkward like this until they’ve reached middle age.
After everything was said and done though, we talked about the results of my exam. She said the biggest concern with the muscles in my lady bits was that they were constantly tensed. It’s a combination of being in so much pain for so long (and therefore forever barring down, even without meaning to) and scar tissue on internal muscles deeper in that are all connected. Basically, she said that everything down there is just too tight.
I might have chuckled to myself and and thought “Isn't that a good thing?”
Because sometimes, I’m fairly sure I’m a teenage boy.
She said that wasn’t actually the main issue though. The entire exam had consisted of her testing various muscles in my stomach and back as well, and she said that it was clear from those tests that my upper stomach muscles were overcompensating for the lack of muscle strength lower down, and had been for a long time. As a result, all the muscles in my stomach are far too tense and overworked (so will someone please tell me why I don’t have a six-pack?) and even more, the muscles in my back aren’t doing a darn thing. She started listing off some Pilates moves that I likely struggle with, and sure enough – they were all the positions that I dread and to this day (even after months of practice) still feel like I can’t do. They all also happened to be the moves that involve back strength, which apparently I have none of.
So that’s where she wants to start; building up balance. Getting my back to start doing its part, and my stomach to start calming down. She said it’s all related to the trauma of the last few years, but that in order to get the muscles down there functioning normally again – we need to start with the muscles higher up first.
Meaning, the vagina massage is going to have to wait.
Which I am completely OK with. Because after the discomfort of just the exam, I’ve got to admit that I’m not in any huge rush to jump into a deep tissue cootchie session.
She gave me a few exercises to work on at home for my back, and explained that next week we’ll start with some fascia massage on my upper stomach muscles.
So there it is. One more weekly appointment I’m going to need to squeeze in. I would be bitter about it, except that she was able to pin-point almost all of my pain spots without me ever saying a thing. Which does make me wonder how much of the pain I’m feeling now (and how much of the pain I was feeling way back then) really may be muscular. The idea of having someone massage my stomach is beyond bizarre to me (although, clearly not as bizarre as the idea of having someone massage my lady bits), but… what if it could help? What if it could make a difference?
I guess it would be silly not to try, right?
Not to give it a go one more time.
Even if there is nothing sexy at all about going in for weekly stomach massages.
It’s all about trying something new. Looking for help. For relief.
And putting just a little bit of faith into the medical community.
One more time.
In the hopes of finally finding something that combats this disease.
That combats this pain.
And that sets me up for the happy, healthy, fulfilling life I deserve to be living.
Not just today, but forever.
ADSPACE
