OH SIGH

You know how sometimes bad things come in multiples? It’s as if, cosmically, a person is not allowed to simply suffer one injustice at a time because that would be too easy (and the universe hates easy). Or maybe it’s the opposite and the universe is trying to do us all a favor and put all the bad stuff together so that we can, in fact, enjoy moments of peace and joy in our lives? Either way the end result comes off rather unfair.

Such is my life. Along with my vulvodynia, which is sufficiently taxing my relationship (if you know what I mean), I have been suffering for quite some time from something else. People who like to give out scientific names to things would probably liken it to Intermittent Explosive Disorder, or IED. I rather like that acronym because it’s the same as that for an Improvised Explosive Device which is known for causing unspeakable destruction to anyone or anything that should happen to trigger it.

According to Wikipedia, an IED is a roadside bomb often used in acts of terrorism or guerrilla warfare. This bomb - like Intermittent Explosive Disorder – detonates on impact, obliterating everything around it leaving pain, sadness and confusion in its wake.  Those whose lives have been affected by an IED are forced to rebuild what has been destroyed (if possible) and often need significant amounts of counseling to cope with the aftermath.

Of course I have not been actually diagnosed with this terrible thing, but in the age of internet-self-diagnosis, I know that’s just gotta be what’s wrong with me.  Sometimes they are more like really (really) scary anxiety attacks that involve me pulling out my own hair, and sometimes they involve throwing ladles at across the room. One results in holes in the wall. (Note to self: old plaster is not stronger than a metal ladle.)Both involve screaming, tears and often balling up on the floor, hyperventilating. Neither make me feel like anything less than a crazy lady.

Before anyone sends their concerned comments flinging off in my direction, let me just remind you that I am fully aware that none of this is normal and that I am already seeing a therapist, taking my medication and looking for any possibly related health issues. In fact, I am convinced that it’s not something so stupidly incomplex as IED. Nothing is that simple and humans are like oceans. We give off superficial indications of what is really going on inside of us but doctors simply cannot dissect us deeply enough yet.  There is no microscope that has been built that can break down the complex chemical processes that make us think and feel certain ways. It would have to be magnified ten million times before the ten percent of our brain that we use could even begin to comprehend it.

Needless to say it’s nothing I understand. I am trying to. I have conjectures. There are triggers which are like little clues to the mystery. I am pushing for blood tests to rule out anything that just can’t be fixed with an antidepressant. I am proceeding cautiously and getting second opinions and doing my research. I’m going Nancy Drew on this shit, y’all.

But it’s frustrating. In case you can’t figure that out, this sucks. It’s bad enough that I can’t have sex. My body is rejecting something that naturally makes us feel emotionally better? What a cold cruel world. And don’t think I haven’t let the idea of a correlation between the two pass my constantly whirring mind. No sex = crazy rage episodes? Or crazy rage episodes = no sex? Which one would make the other better if I could just get it fixed? Either way my body seems to be seriously pissed about something.

And so there’s that.

The good news? C’mon, there is always good news, right? The good news is that it’s Friday. For two days, I am not going to think about either one of these things. TGMotherfuckinIF y’all.