purplesmile's Diaryland Diary ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- bitterness There are days, sometimes, when even I'm embarrassed by my own medical problems. There are times when I want to throw the covers over my head, and deny that C saw me with a mirror, examining my asshole. There are moments when I am mortified to go to the doctor, because I can't explain what's wrong. Here's the amusing thing: I'm progressive and open about sex. I have been known to engage in some deviant sexual behaviors, and be rather proud of it. I am happy to offer my partners any kind of anal play they desire. On their own butts. Not mine. My IBS keeps me pretty sad, tender, sore and exceptionally possessive of my ass. So, I assure you, this excruciatingly painful episode of prolapse is the result of a week's worth of horrid diarrhea, not a pink sock from something kinky. That's right. As far as I can tell, my rectum has started to actually turn itself inside out. Sitting at my desk right now has me fighting tears. Tears that if they came would be made of red Gatorade in my never ending attempts to keep myself hydrated in spite of the record-breaking runs to the bathroom. I should buy stock in PreparationH wipes, because it's all I can touch myself with resulting in mere whimpers rather than blood-curdling screams. I think, if I knew the cause, the why-me, I could probably talk about it. But it's that hideous unknown factor, again, slowing down my life. I feel so broken. All of the time. I hate that I need C to take me to the doctor. I hate that I need to GO to the doctor. I hate that it's normal for me to give my partner updates on my bowel movements. I hate that while making dinner, it's not unusual for me to say something like, "I've had diarrhea 17 times today, and it's starting to have blood in it." Or that, in the middle of a workout, I have to get off the treadmill to race instead for the bathroom. Or that, as I've written just these few paragraphs, I've been to the bathroom four times. I have had times when it's under control. When I've got this demon managed, and can almost refer to my bowel movements as normal, which is relative, because I mean only four or five times a day, and not with excessive bile or blood, not because I've actually managed a formidable, solid piece of shit. Mostly, what I hate, is that I can't go more than 30 minutes without at least contemplating the state of my bowels. That it's even an issue in my life. Mostly people don't think twice about poop. They have to go, they do. That's it. Maybe up to three times a day is normal, but still. It's not every few minutes, and it's not a tearful experience. It doesn't absorb virtually every moment or thought throughout an entire day. And this. This does. 12:18 p.m. - September 27, 2007 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
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