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Endometriosis.

One in ten women suffer from the chronic illness known as endometriosis.

I’m one of those ten—it’s a condition I unfortunately inherited from my mother.

If you don’t know what endometriosis is, it is “[a] disease in which tissue similar to the lining inside the uterus … [is] found outside the uterus, where it induces a chronic inflammatory reaction that may result in scar tissue.”

Basically, if the above makes very little sense to you, endometriosis is painful as hell. By the time I was fifteen, my period was incredibly irregular and came twice a month. Each time it came, I’d vomit endlessly until I would inevitably pass out. Passing out became so common I’d use disabled toilets, because it’d be less obvious whenever I did pass out. (A few times I passed out in non-disabled toilets and it caused a big, melodramatic and rather unfortunately embarrassing circus.)

After years of this, when I was barely sixteen, I had my first surgery—an attempt to remove the cysts and scarring build up. I needed a second one just after my nineteenth birthday. I’ve been on the pill since my first surgery, and I’ve had rounds and rounds of tests.

I’m no longer allowed to have more than two to three periods a year—which is not much different from before. Before I was allowed three to four. But things have gotten worse again, and in an attempt to avoid another surgery and potential infertility, I’m no longer allowed more than two or three.

But that doesn’t stop the pain. It’s like my body knows when that time of month is meant to come, even though—thanks to the miracles of a rather expensive pill—it doesn’t. However, my body still likes to remind me that my stomach (or uterus) would like to self-implode.

And when that time of month does come?

It’s like hell on earth. If I have to work, I have to overdose on strong pain medication to just be able to walk (don’t worry—I dated a pharmacist and my mum is a nursing unit manager with a heavy background in pharmaceuticals. I don’t do anything dangerous or stupid).

If I don’t have to work, I still do the same, but I curl up into a ball with heat packs and hope to god I pass out (which, fortunately, still often happens). Sometimes the pain is so bad that pain medication like Tramadol doesn’t work.

So what’s my point?

My point isn’t to get sympathy, it’s to raise awareness. If you have a daughter, friend, sister, relative, or partner who’s suffering from that much pain, something is not right.

I was fortunate. Because of my mother’s previous experiences, I got help early. With a lot of luck, I’ve managed to avoid a lot of pain (which is saying something) and have dramatically reduced my chances of infertility.

However, not all women are so lucky. Not all women are listened to. You may genuinely need to fight to get your doctor to listen to you. Mine didn’t at first—the only reason he did, in the end, was because the pain was so bad they thought my appendix was going to burst (which it did, a few years later, and holy hell that is pain like no other that I’ve ever felt. Even morphine barely dented that).

Endometriosis can be dangerous to your health and body if left unchecked. It’s a silent disease from which there is no cure. We need to spread the word—because women should not have to go through this alone.

[Photo credit to Carla]

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