Gynecologist visit

I don’t really understand why this thing that is routine for most women – even some of those that are survivors- is so horrendously traumatic for me. For days ahead of my appointment I found myself coping heavily through dissociation. Last Monday while working I was so disoriented I couldn’t remember what day of the week it was or what hour of the day. My mind couldn’t bear the thought of a silent hour. I strung headphones under my uniform and listened to a history podcast to keep anxiety at bay.

I needed to go. A previous Dr suspected I have PCOS and recommended I go to see about treatment for that condition and others. My periods have gotten increasingly painful. Cysts are reoccurring. I suspect endometriosis. I wanted to discuss a hysterectomy.

When I arrived I found out they didn’t take my shitty insurance, despite my primary care office saying they did. So the idea of establishing care with these practitioners for future needs or diagnostics became out of the question. I can’t afford diagnostics or procedures or surgery out of pocket. I’ve got to find better insurance.

But I was already there. I didn’t want to leave without knowing anything. I didn’t want to wait months to find out what’s next and go through the dread of facing a pelvic exam all over again. At least they could direct me to the next steps.

I came in with a list of things to discuss. My Medical Manifesto 2.0: Gynecologist Edition. I didn’t really reference it during the visit. The discussion flowed all on its own. I quickly learned that hysterectomy is not readily available without significant documentation of having tried everything else. They urge you to try hormonal birth control first. That’s not something I want to consider. The side effects of most of them jeopardize my mental health and that’s almost as terrifying as the pelvic exam. But it seems I don’t have much of a choice but to try. The resident Dr wanted me to try a hormonal iud, even though having it placed could be an ordeal for me.

The other thing to pursue is a PCOS diagnosis which would require and invasive vaginal ultrasound. None of these things could happen in this visit. They would all be additional visits at great expense out of pocket. Additionally the Dr did recommend a pelvic exam today to rule out any apparent or emergent abnormalities. I started to cry as I explained that these things are traumatic for me and I preferred to get as much done in one visit as possible. I consented to the pelvic exam. I knew that was very likely to happen at this visit and I wanted to know if there was anything bad going on.

I hate this process. I hate my feet in the stirrups, feeling like I can’t close my legs, no matter how hard I try. They always ask you to let your legs fall open. I can’t. I open my knees as wide as I can manage. But my muscles are wound tight from my hips to my toes. My partner leans over my head and grips my hand. I felt silly needing to hold on to them when I first laid back. But now, when the Dr. puts her hands on me, I squeeze their hand tighter and stare into their masked face. Leigh talks to me about inane things like the color of my eyeshadow, whether I’ve ridden in a hot air balloon… “squeeze as tight as you need to. Squeeze. You’re doing good.” The Dr. removes the tool and reports there is nothing visibly amiss. She asks consent to do a manual exam. I say yes, my voice shaky but clear. I turn my attention directly back to Leigh’s face as the Dr. begins. I can feel my face contorting into a wince and I feel my fingernail digging into the skin of Leigh’s hand. I try to relax my grip so I don’t hurt them. They are talking about the green flecks in my brown eyes. They’ve never noticed them before. Another tear escapes my eye. The green in them is always brighter when I cry. The Dr. withdraws from my body saying that she didn’t feel anything out of the ordinary. She folds away the stirrups and tells me I can sit up and get dressed while she steps out to bring the attending Dr. back with her to discuss next steps. I am sobbing and gasping before they even leave the room.

Leigh is there in front of me, embracing me and murmuring comforting words. They remind me to breathe slow and help me get cleaned up and my panties back on. We move from the exam table to the side by side chairs in the room. Leigh wraps me in their arms while I sob and try to slow my breathing down. The Drs. soon return and express concern over my distress. They find me tissues. The attending apologizes and begins talking about how myself and the resident discussed having an IUD placed. However upon observing my response to a pelvic exam she isn’t so sure that’s the best choice for me. “Even women without your history find it quite painful. I’m afraid it would be too traumatic for you… perhaps we can back up and discuss other hormonal options? The side effects of other types of birth control don’t always cause mood issues!” She chirped. It was all I could do to hear what she was saying and comprehend it. There was no way I could give enough attention to make an informed decision at that moment. I just wanted to sink into the floor and disappear. I needed to get out of there. Tearfully I confessed that I didn’t feel I was in the frame of mind to talk about this. They understood and wrapped up the visit quickly, directing us to the check out desk. Leigh helped me up and said to the Drs, “she’s pretty far gone at this point.” They nodded in understanding. My eyes stared straight ahead, unfocused on nothing and everything. I was propelled forward by the promise of home. We would just go home. Lee sent me straight to the car. Before I could get inside, loud sobs ripped through my body. I started to re-live the exam on a loop, painfully feeling it in my body, over and over. I kept hearing the Drs. voice… “I don’t feel you are a good candidate for an IUD…” I felt like the first Dr. sold it to me as the best viable option but then the attending snatched away any hope I’d been given for relief of painful, debilitating periods.

I felt deeply ashamed that I’d been belligerent or uncooperative. My hands fisted into my dress. If I could have curled into a ball in the passengers seat I would have. I forgot to breathe every few minutes and had to gasp for air when I realized I needed it. I turned my face away from Leigh in the drivers seat, wishing I could hide the tears that just would.not.stop.

I vowed that I would never seek help again for any gynecological problems. I vowed to just take my punishment in the form of cramps and cyst ruptured. I vowed I would never ask for help again. I would never have a pelvic exam. I could never let anyone touch me ever again. I never wanted to eat again. I felt like I could vomit at any time. I wanted to die. I want to die. I don’t want to feel my body. I don’t want to exist anymore. I don’t want to feel anything. I just want to die. Please let me die…. And then the flashbacks would start all over again. The feeling of hands on me in places rarely touched. The confusion of memories. Which ones happened now, which happened long ago. I don’t know. My body or brain can’t tell the difference. It feels the same. I want it to be over. I want it to end. I don’t want to feel this. I want to die to be free from this. I want to die…

The drum beats on in my head. Only deafened by small dose of cannabis to calm my mind and body. Before I was spiraling so badly I was afraid we would have to return to a medical facility for mental health purposes. We didn’t. But every waking moment I hear the drum beat from my body.

The Question I Need Answered

The hair on the back of my neck prickled just from the way the door opened. My hands froze over the keyboard and I watched the cursor blink while I listened. The door didn’t slam shut, maybe I was over-thinking. Then her bag hit the barstool where it lived. And I knew. I wished I could dim the computer screen reflection on my face, wished the chair wasn’t so damn squeaky. I watched her silently stalk through the living room from the office window. I quickly saved what I was working on and closed the browser screen. I was going to try to sneak out the back door, but then I heard the shutters in the hallway door rattle as it was forcefully closed behind her.

“Rebekah! Where are you?” She yelled.
“Right here,” I said, standing from the chair where she could see me from the living room. She startled. Whoops, I thought, should’ve thought that through.
Her surprise turned to anger when she realized I’d been there the whole time and saw her come in.
“Why didn’t you say anything?” She barked.
“I don’t know,” I mumbled.
“I can’t hear you, come out here.”

The louvred door between the office and the living room squeaked as I opened it and stepped into the living room, straddling the threshold between there and the kitchen. I stood with the kitchen counter at my back, facing her.
“Yes ma’am?” My brain scrambled, running down the mental checklist of chores, trying to remember what I’d clearly forgotten, glancing around the tidy living room to see if I’d left anything behind that might set her off.
“I asked you to deal with that art project in the carport before I left for work this morning! And there it sits! You had plenty of time to deal with it but no! You’re on the computer again!”

I felt my stomach sink to my toes and my blood run cold. I forgot. I meant to go back out and pick things up when I got home from work but I came inside and got busy cleaning the kitchen and living room instead. My dad had cooked the night before and the kitchen was a wreck. I knew that would set her off if she walked into a mess so I took that possibility away. But I forgot the project.
“I forgot. I’m sorry.”

“You forgot, huh? Sure you did. Get out there and clean it up RIGHT NOW. I’m so tired of you ignoring me. If you don’t want to contribute to this household maybe you should move out.”

I wanted to defend myself, point out the things I HAD done, the dishes done, meals cooked, house picked up and cleaned every weekend before we hosted Bible study. But any word spoken in my defense was “rebellion.” Doing chores was considered the minimum and in no way made up for my infraction.

Knowing it would only make things worse, I opened my mouth anyway.
“I cleaned the house! And Pops mess in the kitchen! I’m sorry I forgot! I try so hard, so hard! But it’s never enough! Nothing is ever enough!”
I was becoming hysterical. I took a step closer to her, reaching out for her arms. I gripped her shoulders and shook her, yelling, “What do I have to do for you to love me?!”


———/———/———/———/———/———


The contents of my nightstand went tumbling, my yeti clanking to the floor. I startled awake, heart pounding. It was a dream. I hadn’t shaken my mother. There would be no consequences. My partner stirred behind me, “What is going on?!”
“Nightmare.” I said. They reached for me and placed a hand on my back. “I’m sorry.”

I tried to steady my breathing but my heart rate kept skipping over itself in spite of my attempts to slow things down. The last few moments of the dream played over and over and over in my mind. I tried to focus on Lee stroking my back. Tried to connect with the feeling of their hand moving slowly up and down my spine. But I couldn’t slow anything down. Not my breath, not my racing heart. I sat up, hoping that would help me fill my lungs.

Lee was talking to me, trying to help me slow my breath, reminding me to take one when it would catch. Without warning the numb shock of waking suddenly wore off. I felt pain tingle from my chest to my fingertips and my eyes filled with tears.

Why won’t you love me. What do I have to do to be loved? Why isn’t it ever enough? I can’t change who I am. I wish I could. I just want you to love me.

Unable to speak, I laid back down with my head on Lee’s chest, sobbing lightly, trying to stop.

Lee kept reminding me to breathe, rubbing my back, helping me slow down so the tears wouldn’t become all-out panic. It helped. Eventually the sobs quieted enough that I could hear Lee’s heartbeat against my cheek. “Can I ask what brought this on?”
My tears fell faster at the question and I choked back a sob. “The nightmare. I was acting it out and hit my nightstand…. I don’t think I can talk about it right now.” My voice broke again.

Our big dog hopped onto the bed to provide moral support and cuddles. Our distress always distresses her. It’s both comforting and annoying, but definitely effective in grounding. She lays her heavy head onto your body and pants her hot breath into your face, pawing at you if you fail to pet her in response.

I was able to get up and eat and do a few things. But any time my mind was unoccupied even briefly that question flashed, triggering tears all over again.


“What do I have to do to make you love me?”

Some dreams…

CW: contains descriptions of medical procedures and the traumatic impact they have.

Some dreams you hope will never come true. I hope I don’t jinx myself when I say that the pain is finally starting to ease. As it does, I find myself preoccupied with the emotional pain it caused.

I woke at 4am Friday morning with severe pain in my lower right pelvis. In my dreams the pain had grown so severe I had to go to the hospital. My dreams were full of images with invasive and traumatizing exams. When I woke I was panicking, unable to determine if the physical pain I felt was real or caused by nightmares. I woke Lee, sobbing and nearly incoherent. They helped me to calm down enough to get back to sleep for a little bit longer.

When my alarm went off at 7:15 I knew the pain was not imagined. It was very real. I have to be on the phone all day for work and there was no way I could grit my teeth through this kind of pain. I called out for the first time since starting this job. We had to go pick up my paycheck and that small series of movements amplified things so much that we went straight from there to the Emergency Room. Gratefully one that was quiet with little or natural lighting. I enlisted Lee’s help to help me advocate for myself. I couldn’t face this alone. I couldn’t do any invasive procedures alone.

Lee never left my side. They helped me ask for a female Dr and when none were available they pulled the male Dr aside and asked him to be more gentle and patient with me. I was able to share with every nurse/medical professional I encountered that I am a sexual trauma survivor and therefore the pain itself is triggering to me, much more the diagnosis of it. A series of tests were ordered. I was given pain and nausea medication. The pain medication triggered an adrenaline rush and small panic attack which Lee and my nurse talked me through.

I had several tests, including a CT scan with contrast. I’d had one many years ago and thought I was familiar with the warm rush that comes with the dye but it turns out my body responds with panic to that, too. I managed to hold my breath for the necessary span of time and released it with many tears after it was over, thankfully quickly. With Lee’s help we put off the most invasive test until the results were back from all the others, deeming a transvaginal ultrasound necessary for diagnosis of suspected ovarian cyst. They told me I could put it off to another day. But I was calmer and in less pain with morphine in my system so I decided it would be best to go ahead with the test.

The Radiology tech was at my door sooner than I anticipated. Lee was allowed to come with me. They had another female nurse act as a chaperone. The tech explained to me in detail the sequence of events and gave me full permission to stop her at any time. I declined the offer to insert the wand myself. That is not an option for me. I told her I probably wouldn’t stop her but I might cry or panic or both. They all reassured me that however I reacted would be okay. The nurse chaperone offered me warm blankets and draped their heavy weight over me as I prepared to lie back for the procedure.

I was breathless. I held onto Lee for dear life. As the procedure began she stood at my head, holding my hand and stroking my hair away. They were right. It was exactly painful… there was a lot of pressure. And with the pressure came flashbacks. I felt like a little girl again, looking at the ceiling and wondering what the hell was going on and when would this be over? I gasped for air, not realizing I’d been holding my breath. I opened my eyes and saw Lees face, their eyes opening wide when they came in contact with mine. They spoke soothing words, reassuring me that I was okay, saying my name and trying to keep me present and breathing. When I started to hyperventilate as the pressure and pain intensified, Lee moved my mask off my nose and the nurse said I could take it off. Lee unhooked it from my ear and squeezed my hand while my breath started to level off. As the radiology tech finished, tears started to fall. It felt like it always does when I have flashbacks and panic attacks. I sobbed.

The table lowered and the tech stepped away from my body. I couldn’t move or lower my legs for what felt like several minutes. Lee moved to the end of the table and helped me sit up. I was shaking and crying. The radiology tech and the nurse asked if I needed water and told me to take my time, they waited in the hall while I composed myself with Lee. I was worried I was taking up a room someone else needed, but they reassured me. Lee held me, told me I did great and helped me to calm down. I didn’t want to draw attention to myself on the way back to the ER room.

I made it. I did it. I have to do it again. I need to get my first pap smear. My white blood cell count was slightly elevated but that could be due to infection caused by the cyst. It’s hard to know but it would be nice to have a more concrete diagnosis. Lee has assured me they will be with me through it all. I couldn’t imagine a more supportive and understanding partner. I’m so grateful.

Recounting the story has made me aware of the sharp pains continuing to plague my lower right side. I don’t know whether I want to be in my body or not. I mostly want to check the fuck out and not feel anything anymore. But my niece and her partner are here. They are fun and vibrant and full of life and I’m already missing out by being confined to the couch at their insistence. but being present makes me more aware of the pain and I have no poker face. NSAID’s don’t do much. Being high helps a little bit. It’s just a waiting game now…. waiting for the pain to taper off. Waiting for the body memories and panic it brings to ease.

Updates and processing.

I fell in love during the pandemic quarantine. When it looked like my work was going to close for 2 weeks, I packed up my cats and a bag of clothes and hunkered down in the mountains of East Tennessee with my new lover in their new home. There were endless projects to keep us occupied. Two weeks turned into 2 and a half months. By the end of it, I’d basically moved in and we didn’t want to kill each other. In fact, the opposite. When the rest of the world was in chaos we were blissfully happy. So I decided not to go back to my stressful job to an apartment I couldn’t afford in a pandemic and I moved in properly.

The person I’m with understands trauma on a molecular level. Grey is a survivor of trauma in countless heartbreaking arenas. They’ve worked hard to manage the PTSD and it’s related symptoms. So when I’m triggered or checked out, Grey sees me like no one ever has. They know intuitively how to bring me back or give me space and time to let it pass. Grey helped me recognize in the middle of quarantine that I was getting depressed and encouraged me to talk to my doctor about a meds adjustment. It made a world of difference.

I’ve continued therapy via telehealth each week. This therapuetic relationship has been the most successful I’ve ever had. And the longest lasting as a result. I’ve been seeing her for nearly a year. Last week I reached out to her for the first time outside of our regular appointment. I was on day 2 of a severe dissociative episode. I’d been triggered earlier in the week after having sex. Body memories tend to make me check out pretty quickly.

I recognized this week that for the past couple of years I’ve had similar dissociative episodes but didn’t recognize them as such. Usually it meant I spent the day in bed or on the couch, binging one TV series or another and not eating much of anything til 9pm when I’d order out or go to the grocery store for something easy. These episodes didn’t often register as much more than an off day, shrouded in guilt for being “lazy.” I was in long-distance-relationships or friendships where I could conceal dissociation behind text messages with false enthusiasm.

Now I’m living every day with someone well-versed in the language and recognition of trauma and its symptoms. I recognize how disconnected I am because I see how much effort they go to get in touch with me. It’s like having a mirror held up and I see myself more clearly. And, for the first time I have someone to help me in person, in real-time when I feel most helpless. I have someone reminding me to eat, drink water, encouraging me to sleep when I can and giving me space and time to let the trauma work its way out. I’ve had someone physically there when the nightmares wake me up breathless.

Furthermore, I have my very own therapy dog in the form of a 15+ year old coyote-carolina dog. I swear he can smell my tears. Whenever I cry he shows up out of nowhere. The other day during therapy I started to get teary eyed and he got out of his cozy crate bed and came to me on the opposite end of the house, offering me his soft head and kind brown eyes for calming-pets and consolation.

I’m happy. Trauma still shows up. But it’s never felt safer for it to do so. The shame-train spiral rides are fewer and further between because my love has taught me how to tuck and roll off of it. We are building beauty. Together.

Doing the work

I have therapy every week now. Twice a week, technically. I’m doing neuro-feedback therapy and talk therapy. Both are supposedly effective in re-wiring the neuro-pathways of my brain, creating safety.

Therapy was hard today. I feel intense desperation for something to stop this pain. For some kind of tool, resource, magic wand SOMETHING to protect myself, to protect the people I am with from myself, from the trauma, from re-experiencing it and re-traumatizing myself and traumatizing them to the point that I am in danger of rejection.

This pain will not kill me. It will not cause permanent damage to feel it. I am allowed to let it move through me.

I don’t know where the triggers are. Some of them are hidden from me. Despite my best efforts to listen to my body, to calm my nervous system and create safety for myself, sometimes my brain just… panics. There is no formula. There is no trick or technique to find and map every trigger and carefully sidestep it. There is only love… and vulnerability. My body has to learn that she is safe… experientially.

I sincerely hate learning the hard way. But in this case there is no other way to learn.

Relentless Pain

TW: Description of body memories and self-harm. Please read with caution. 

I’m making a lot of progress in therapy. I know I am. I’m finding my voice and learning to use it and telling my story and recovering from shame. It’s hard work but good work, so it hasn’t felt too hard.

But, doing the work means that shit gets stirred up. A few weeks ago I unearthed the root of yet another reason I believe the abuse was my fault. It’s a “stuck point” I feel protective of. I’ve had bouts of grief since then. Anger, sadness, numbness.

A couple of days ago, I started having severe body memories. Pelvic pain that, in moments, feels like I’m being torn apart from the inside. I’ve had these before, I’ve written about them before. I don’t remember them ever lasting as long as they did this time. In the last few months when I’ve had body memories, I’ve made up my mind to change my posture to them. It used to be that I would suffer silently, alone, feeling shame, trying to figure out what I did to trigger them, to cause the pain. I’d berate myself, like my body was trying to get attention and I hated myself for it. These days, it’s not as easy to withdraw. I could say I want to be alone and my girlfriend would give me space, but I don’t actually want to be alone. I also don’t know how to get what I need in these circumstances.

Body memories are not like a panic attack. Distraction doesn’t help. There’s no such thing as being distracted from that level of pain, there is only being present with it, trying to breath through it, consciously trying to relax my body to reduce the amount of pain that I feel. I was curling in on myself so severely that I gave myself charlie horses in my legs. Every few minutes I had to remind myself to relax my jaw, unclench my fists, stop digging my nails into my palms. Even now, just writing about it I have to drop my shoulders and take some deep breaths.

The pain didn’t ease up. I took a bath and it didn’t get better. Every time I moved or walked, I felt it clenching. For over 6 hours… And then my body lubricates itself as though I’m aroused, though I definitely am not. That’s something I find most disturbing, though I know it’s protective. Writing about it I feel twinges I wish I didn’t.

The pain was relentless. I was desperate for relief. I’d taken ibuprofen, but that didn’t help. I started pinching my wrist. And then scratching it. For the first time in many years I engaged in a form of self-harm. It distracted me from THAT pain. It made me focus on a much sharper, more controlled pain. And I was able to fall asleep shortly thereafter. I woke up without body memories. Relieved.

I had therapy today. I was afraid to talk about this. Afraid to tell the therapist what I’d done. I don’t know what protocols dictate. I wasn’t sure if I’d be immediately shipped off to some kind of institution. but I wasn’t… she met me with compassion… we sat on the floor together while I talked. And when I started to feel the body memories, I started to panic and cry.. she was just there with me. I was severely dissociated after. She asked me questions and helped me ground myself after.

I came home and tried to go on a walk. I got halfway to the park before I got too cold and turned around for home and my warm blanket and my kitties and just some self-nurturing and creature comforts. And that’s where I’ve been all afternoon. On the couch, under a blanket. And now… I’m just so tired…. I’m so tired of feeling.