(WARNING: This post contains girl talk. If you get squeamish, don’t read. You’ve been warned! 🙂 )
My monthlies have been up shit creek my whole life.
Since the age of 11, they have been totally unpredictable, painful, and a total pain in the arse.
“You’re a woman now” my mum told me when the curse came for the first time; “you’ve got forty-odd years of this”.
I cried for about a week, I thought my life was over. I would never again wear my white pedal-pushers(early noughties, Donnay jumper, Tammy sandals, I looked the tits. Well I thought I did) and I would never EVER swim again. EVER.
Periods. The curse. The crimson tide. Whatever you want to call it, its a fact of life, and its there, every day, turning members of the sisterhood into emotional angry crazy bitches on a regular basis. (Think The Walking Dead is scary? Try Soft Play full of premenstrual mums. Far FAR scarier)
A diagnosis of Polycystic Ovary Syndrome at a young age confirmed my lady parts weren’t working as they should. The doctor I saw at the time just gave me a prescription for the Pill and sent me on my merry non ovulating way.
Whilst its common, may I just say – I hate that term. Yes, it may be common, but it accounts for so many things and causes so many emotional and physical symptoms, to an individual it can be crippling. To a teenage me, when everyone else was skinny, clear skinned and looking amazing and I was a fat, spotty grease-ball, it knocked my confidence badly.
Acne was a huge issue from age 15 up to last year, age 30. I tried just about every lotion and potion going and nothing worked. Having a baby and going hormone free seemed to fix it but I think I just grew out of it in the end.
I wish I’d grown out of the puppy fat, that never went.
Trying for a baby was a nightmare, that took three years and a lot of drugs, according to doctors I don’t ovulate but we got lucky(excuse the unintentional pun) and we had one lucky egg.
For me, the most noticeable and bloody annoying part of PCOS?
My bikini line starts at my eyebrows and ends at my toes. I’m hairier than my husband and that’s not a fact I’m proud of.
The mancub took my socks off the other day, pointed at my toes and shouted “oh mummy, wow, SPIDER”.
Dammit, no tarantula there son, just ridiculous hobbit-like hairy toes. Awkward.
PCOS is something I’m not completely well educated in, but I believe it is something to do with insulin resistance and some sort of hormone imbalance.
Whatever it is, I am Teen Wolf’s doppelganger and it’s not cool.
I’m too embarrassed for waxing and I’m not ashamed to admit I’m ashamed. The thought of going into a salon and having someone ripping the hair out of my body fills me with dread.
So, shaving it is then. Hubbo always comments and says its like a Gorilla has been shaved in the bath after I’ve been in. Cheers babe.
The last time I was waxed I was brave enough to let the nice(hmmm questionable) lady to wax my arm pits. She seemed nice enough, I felt comfortable.
When I took my t-shirt off she gasped. She fucking gasped.
“I’ve never seen so much hair there, I may have to trim it first” she said.
Oh, the shame.
I joke and say that it looks like I have Bob Marley in a headlock, but its not that long.
Armpit dreadlocks are a thing right? I could totally rock that shit.