A bitter November?

I have been resisting the words that could come out of me during this period. I have been resisting them because I was scared and I still am. I held myself together for a while, I don’t remember the last time I cried for days in a row. They are not long episodes of tears but I can easily let them flow for a while. You know it’s not easy to tell I cried? I think I can have sad looking eyes sometimes and get a way with some secret crying.

I am in what I’d like to call an emotional cul-de-sac… but for all the right reasons. A boy did not reject me. My dad didn’t disapprove of me. It wasn’t external. It wasn’t. It was about me, a part of me. A neglected part of me that only now I realized the significance of. I opened my eyes still waiting for the anesthesia to wear off to look under the dress to cry a cry of relief. Ever since that moment, it feels like I am unveiling this part of me and crying all over again. I cry and cry and cry. My tears are flowing and I don’t know if I am in a state of grief or relief.

I had medical insurance and vague symptoms. I am lying they were not vague but they ceased for a while. At least they weren’t the same debilitating symptoms again. Crunching pain, cramps that feel out of control, a whole thoracic area feeling crunched up in a line, everything spasming all at once and lungs that cannot keep up with the pace. It was too painful. It was so fucking painful. It disrupted my most peaceful moments. It stopped my exercise, it woke me up from my sleep, it was there with me on the toilet seat. Whenever I got a moment alone, the pain like my period became a monthly visit until it stopped. I dismissed my pain. Although I always spoke about women’s pain being so normalized and so dismissed. Pain so ingrained in every moment of our life that was particular to us seemed to be accompanied with pain. I, just like a patriarchal society, dismissed my own pain as another form of this punitive culture that is somehow internalized in me.

A Saturday of a November is when I went to the gynecologist. It was almost 9 months later than my last excruciating pain episode. I went because I wanted her to write me blood tests and also for a general check up. The ultrasound easily detected the huge cyst, chocolate cyst, that was there where every part of my femininity is. I had more than one. They can’t tell much with an ultrasound and they asked for more tests. The Dr. was an ‘ I know deep down you’re a nice person behind the tough love’ kind of doctor and she just said big words… I am a pharmacist these words don’t scare me. Yet, little to no empathy were said when she asked for tumor marks in my blood check up and an MRI. I cried in the bathroom and called my boyfriend who was arriving the same day. My whole body shook and everyone looked at my tests with pity. I was apparently young and a cancer would be an unfortunate thing for a girl my age to have. I felt like a little girl but carrying a weight. I wanted to cry. I wanted to panic. I wanted to lose it right there. Tumor Markers. MRI. I held it together. I held it together. I did the blood tests. I did the MRI. The MRI was not easy. It would be easy were it a peaceful experience. But it screams at you, loud noises… like my dad said once ‘ as if you are in a carpentry or fixing pipes’. Screaming noises, screaming repetitive noises… TA TA TA DA DA DA DA EEEEEEEEEEEE. All this time, 40 minutes, I was trying to be somewhere else. So I floated in the sea. I floated in Kas. I remembered that photo I took and I floated. I imagined my arms moving me as I swim on my back. One at a time… peacefully unlike the machine I was floating in. I swam and swam. Swam and Swam. I wanted to be held by the sea. I was scared in that MRI but I needed it to end. I needed to know. My results needed a day to be out. I had a romantic dinner awaiting for me that same night and for a moment to float in something else. Sex… locking lips, being touched gently… cumming. All where it is all silently hurting.

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