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I had just been diagnosed with endometriosis when a dress caught my eye on the sales rack of an Urban Outfitters. It was the end of spring and I needed forgiving apparel to hide my recently accumulated stress-induced weight. This dress was short, flowy, and gray, with a delicate floral design. The tag read extra small — a size my body has never been. I held it up against my chest and swayed back and forth; the tent-like design was very generous. I imagined myself wearing it with opaque black tights on chilly days, and with bare legs and sneakers during the sweltering New York City summer. Satisfied, I headed for the register, ready to hand over $25 and make it mine. Soon it would become known, to me and everyone who knew me, as The Dress (no, not that one).

A few weeks earlier, my journey with endometriosis had begun. I’d stumbled down the hallway from my bedroom in the middle of the night, severe abdominal cramps and nausea forcing me up. I stood up slowly while clutching my stomach, attempting to avoid further angering the beast wreaking havoc inside of it. I almost made it to the bathroom when I blacked out and collapsed outside the door. The next thing I remember was hearing the sound of my roommate dashing out of her bedroom to assist me, but I couldn’t see anything and my body was covered in a cold sweat.

Over the following weeks, I was tested for everything including cancer, which happens to run in my family and left my parents an anxious mess. I thought of my penchant for diet soda and artificial sweeteners — had I done this to myself? After weeks of uncertainty, I was told I would likely need surgery to remove cysts on my ovaries caused by endometriosis.

Had I done this to myself?

Endometriosis is defined by Mayo Clinic as “an often painful disorder in which tissue that normally lines the inside of your uterus — the endometrium — grows outside your uterus.” Frequently, the tissue isn’t shed properly during the menstrual cycle and causes cysts to form. The chronic condition causes immense, often debilitating, pain. We still have a long way to go in understanding what causes endometriosis. As a result, finding doctors that have an expertise in the condition is very challenging.

My doctor explained the procedure to me. Four small incisions are made in the abdomen and one in the belly button. This way, the uterus can be reached from all angles to remove the cysts. Then, she said “I don’t perform surgery in the city.” I had to find someone else.

Finding a doctor who could perform my surgery became a second job. I was turned away time and time again, mostly due to long wait times for a simple consultation. The ticking time bomb in my abdomen did not give a flying fuck about my need to navigate the healthcare system before I could find a doctor to remove this festering mass. As a result, my crumbling mental health became undeniable.

I was angry at how deeply I allowed my situation to get to me. This is not a terminal illness, I’d tell myself. My endometriosis is much less severe than so many of the women I’ve met online who suffer for decades. I have health insurance. I am an adult and I should be able to handle this! It’s not that bad! But I was struggling, and I needed a push.

The Dress, it turned out, was the thing that gave me that push. Got a date? Throw on The Dress. Drinks with friends? The Dress. I love to act, and whenever I had an audition, I wore The Dress. The only times I ever felt remotely confident, I was in The Dress. It exposes parts of me I like, the scooping neckline showing just enough of my chest and clavicle, the short design hitting my leg mid-thigh. It is loose against my tummy, kindly masking my consistent bloat.

Before long, I was wearing it habitually. It appears in so many of my Instagram posts that I should probably feel some sort of shame, except that I don’t. It gained a reputation among my friends.

“The Dress!” they’d say when I’d show up wearing it (and a pair of bike shorts to ease the chub rub). One friend in particular recognized the spell it had on me and gave The Dress its name. The Dress gave me the confidence to step out of the cocoon of depression just long enough to distract myself with friends or acting or travel.

By August, the largest cyst in my ovary constantly throbbed. I avoided using my abdominal muscles by pushing myself up out of bed or pulling myself out of my desk chair the way pregnant women do, except this was due to a “chocolate cyst,” a blood-filled growth, rather than a bundle of joy. Sleeping on my side was impossible, mostly because a mix of hormones and overeating caused my boobs to swell to a sweaty, uncomfortable size, making the placement of my arms difficult even with the strategic placement of pillows. Still, I feared the cyst would burst under the weight of my body like a water balloon.

Meanwhile, I was being tossed around to different doctors. I’d call one office only to be told that doctor wasn’t available for months for a consultation, or they were away on leave. Once, I called an office so many times with no response that I broke down on the voicemail and said, sobbing, “please, someone just call me back.” They finally did, but I was referred elsewhere. Finally, I found a doctor that could take me, but the earliest appointment I could get was still two weeks away. The solid appointment date became like a light at the end of the tunnel — once I got to that appointment, the twisting in my abdomen would soon go away, and my mind and body would be healthy again.

The Dress gave me the confidence to step out of the cocoon of depression just long enough to distract myself with friends or acting or travel.

The Dress is practical for doctor’s appointments because it allows for easy access for examinations or drawing blood. Wearing The Dress for good luck, I arrived for the appointment I’d hoped would solve everything. The women at the reception desk were brash and in a hurry and I waited for 40 minutes. When I finally met with the doctor, she told me she wouldn’t be performing any surgeries for months because she was moving to a new practice. Oh, and she was sorry to have disappointed me.

I half-listened for the remaining moments of our brief meeting, mustering up every bit of strength I had to keep from crying in front of her. When I left her office, I barreled past the reception desk and out the door, finally allowing hot tears to flow freely. I forfeited any concern for the comfort of the strangers I passed in the lobby, or those on the street, or those who strolled by me as I processed this moment on a park bench that became my hideout for the next hour. The anger came later, but in that moment I felt nothing but defeat. After counting on that appointment to be the beginning of the end, I now had to start back at the beginning.

I wiped my tears with The Dress.

With nowhere else to turn, I made a post on Reddit’s r/Endo subreddit explaining my situation. “I’m so sorry you’re going through the run around,” one commenter said. “But consider this — if you get in with an excision specialist, all those other so-so surgeons kind of did you a favor by NOT operating on you.”

With the guidance of the women in that subreddit, I found a doctor who was lightyears ahead of the others, using advanced robotic technology to perform surgery. She was a leader in the field. I called the office, got an appointment right away, and had a surgery scheduled two weeks later. The carefully laid out pre-op schedule and clear end date came as a welcome relief.

I arrived at the hospital draped in The Dress with my mom by my side. I swapped The Dress for a hospital gown, gave my mom a hug and a kiss, and walked into the operating room.

How lovely it would be if I could say I rode off into the sunset with a pristine uterus and The Dress blowing in the breeze? In reality, I rode off in a bumpy taxi. It took me one heavily-medicated week of recovery before I could return to work and another six lazy weeks before I was able to do anything physical. My doctor told me the largest of the cysts she removed was the size of a golf ball and I was left with four purple scars that streak across my abdomen. Now, more than a year later, the scars are almost invisible. I take birth control every day so I don’t get a period, which helps to prevent new cysts from forming.

“Do I have to worry about fertility?” I asked my doctor at my first appointment.

“No, and endometriosis has nothing to do with anything you’ve eaten.”

For the first time since puberty, I don’t have menstrual cramps. In fact, I have no pain whatsoever. Frequently I worry this painless bliss is a fluke and that once again collapsing in agony is an inevitable possibility. But with the physical part finally resolved, I was at last able to focus on getting proper mental health treatment with therapy and medication.

A year after my surgery, someone on Twitter raved about Dawn O’Porter’s podcast Get It On. In it, she talks to different well-known people about why they wear what they wear. While talking to Jason Segel, he talks about clothes for “happy Jason” and “not so happy Jason.”

“Your weight fluctuates with your mood,” Dawn summed up. “What does sad Jason wear to feel good?” she asked. It was a simple question but it resonated with me. The Dress didn’t cure my endometriosis or erase my depression, but it covered my body in just the right way to give me the confidence to step outside and face my disorder, and ultimately, the world.