Poor you, not me

<diary entry>

May the Fourth (Be With You) 2017

Don’t “poor me”- me, please

I’m not poor, I have endometriosis.

Yes my uterus aches like it’s been scratched by a group of rabid cats, as I head to teach a Yoga class,

Walking as my legs wobble slightly because I am close to overdose on cannabinoid oil – fret not, it’s legal,

Struggling to maintain eye-contact with my boyfriend that drove me here, trying to follow a conversation to prove myself I can focus before my class show up,

Feeling angry, frustrated at my body, furious at my boyfriend for allowing me to do this, disgusted at myself for blaming others, elated when not a single person shows up,

Back at home, having lost money, faith, energy and grinding my teeth as I take my Yoga clothes off.

Puzzled look at boyfriend after he asks me to take the laundry off the rack… doesn’t he know it hurts like pissy-ass psycho-felines attacking my womb? Doesn’t he see my eyes screaming for a horizontal position?

But seriously, don’t ask how I’m doing and respond with a “poor you”. It doesn’t help. I could have done with a “Bravo”, a “damn girl”, even an WTF emoji. Poor you is for those needing pity.

I don’t want pity. I want a break, effective medical treatment, an luminous sign pointing to the exit.

Mostly I want you to get it. To put yourself in my place for a day. To experience the pity words, the worried “friends” telling you what you are doing wrong, the dozens of suggestions pushing mindfulness your way like it’s some sort or strong-painkiller or high-tech surgery. To feel how your heart drowns in self-hatred when your boyfriend fails to hide his exhausted face when you can’t walk the dogs, cook or tidy up. Be you for 10 days of non-stop bleeding for no reason, be you when hormones fill your head with thoughts of ending it all.

“Poor you”, maybe, because YOU’re frustrated and don’t know how to help me. But not poor me. I’m a (grumpy-ass) warrior that needs to lie down now.