i spent five years at the mercy of {multiple} reproductive diseases.
i spent constant time in pain.
i grew hair in places your boyfriends do.
i saw every doctor.
i spent my life’s savings, saved it up and spent it again.
i had five surgeries in 3 years.
i learned i couldn’t bear children.
i had dysplasia.
i had cancer.
i had chemo.
i had dysplasia {again}.
i had cancer {again}.
i had chemo {again}.
i had lupron {many times}.
i can’t tell you how many times, at 30, i’ve been through menopause. chemically induced.
i’ve vomited. i’ve fought my way through treatments while still working and keeping clients and smiling and saying, ‘i’m fine, i’ll be okay.’

ten days after i turned 30, i had a hysterectomy. every possibility i held off at 24 because i wanted to live some first is no longer an option for me, and i’m menopausal, and i’m depressed and i walk around on edge all of the time.

my biggest forays out of the house? three hour therapy sessions. yay?

chronic pain, disease, medications, this life, has fucked me up. i’m angry. i can’t relate.

my so-called friends telling me that my depression is bringing them down is fucking annoying. oh really? i should get out and go to the mall you say? the last time i did that, i ended up having an anxiety attack that put me in a puddle on the floor, but okay…even though my therapist whom i tell everything to said to keep my things that irritate me to a minimum as i adjust to my meds and adapt to this new trauma, i’ll tell her that you, a 29 year old person who has never had any reproductive issues or psychiatric/medical training disagrees and thinks i should go where there’s a thousand rude people.

i want to crawl into my hole and hold my flip-off fingers out. scream “FUCK OFF FUCK OFF FUCK OFF!”

nerve damage. depression. pain. menopause. anxiety.

i didn’t sign up for this. i didn’t sign up for this barrage, or everyone’s opinions, or judgements, or looks.

i just had a surgery that drastically changed the landscape of my life for forever. i started Hormone Replacement Therapy. i’m angry. i’m hurting. i’m depressed.

can i have a fucking minute to deal with these things? can i have a fucking day where you just don’t fucking bother me if i don’t answer your email or your text or your call or your knock? i am 7 weeks post-hysterectomy/appendectomy/oopherectomy/salpingectomy/removal of adhesions…can i have a minute to figure some shit out?? why are you so surprised that i’m angry? that i’m moody? that i’m different? YES. i’m different. hello? would you be okay with me if i came out of the past years, these treatments, these surgeries, and was the same person??

i am Angie. i am 30. i am still in Los{t} Angeles.