One Year

I push things down. I walk away from them, I ignore things. I generally cry once about things and then move on. And you know, while this is sometimes a horrible personality trait, it has helped me pretend plenty an awful haircut has never happened and many a worse man never existed. It is my magic power, really, the tamping down.

Well, also in my 20s, I had this amazing ability to wake up in weird places.

So, it has been a year since I was diagnosed with PCOS. And that was a pretty crappy time, the whole “Hey, Single Lady, your ovaries are jank”. It really knocked the wind out of me. It was unexpected and seemed painfully unfair, but life, she does not play fair. I guess the one gift of being a pessimist is when shitty things happen, I just think “Of course.” It is almost as if I am perpetually steaded for the worst.

I think I have mostly dealt with all of this through not dealing. Of course, I have done my best to remain healthy and even managed to lose a few pounds. And when I say a few pounds I really mean five. But somehow this seems a huge accomplishment as I was gaining weight at such an inexplicable and impressive rate that to no longer gain is in and of itself huge.

Ladies, I think you should try my diet plan of remaining exactly the same weight and feeling amazing about it. It is liberating. You may be in fat pants but you never have to buy the fatter pants.

I haven’t gotten a second opinion as I, in my heart, know the diagnosis is true. I saw my sonogram, read the films. And really, I just cannot see another doctor. Between this and my IBS diagnosis a few months ago, if I never see another doctor until the day I die, I think I will be perfectly fine with that. The poking and the prodding and the busted veins and telling another nurse how many sexual partners I have had; it is just too much.

Not my sexual partners. The tests are too much. Well, ok, maybe in some states my sexual partners are too much.

So, I make jokes and live my life and do my best and on a daily basis, I feel alright. There is nothing I can do now, not a thing I can fix or predict or change. Future Lexa may have a bit of a road ahead of her, but I will drive myself insane trying to predict the turns in that road.

All I can control is my own behavior. And my behavior is to just live with this this, to know I am not dying, that this is hurdle that other women have to jump as well. That, sure, I can maybe get a bit reflective and write the occasional blog post about it, but this is not a thing that defines me or consumes me. I worry much more about my rapidly greying hair and my next apartment than this.

My behavior about this is so very me that I could have written this post a year ago. And I would have been right. It is fine, it is hidden in the deep, tangled mess that lives inside of all of us while life carries on.