clairecheney

I wrote this when I was feeling particularly down and thought I would share it with you all, my cysters. Not strictly a poem but I didn't know where else to post it but here.

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Time stopped.

It can’t be happening, not to me.

Suddenly the room is too warm, the light too bright. I can no longer hear what is being said to me. The whole world has melted away in that one little statement.

Confirmed diagnosis.

Was it me? Was it something I did?

No. It just happens. We don’t know what causes it.

Can I be cured? Can I get rid of this?

No. It will be with you for the rest of your life.

So, here it is. The truth of the matter.

I will always be different. I will always have this. I will always be overweight. I will always need razors for the hair. I will always need pills. I will always be sent for regular blood tests. I will always have these scans and tests that make me feel like a human science experiment.

I’m always going to have this….. this thing I can’t quite bring myself to say.

And when I do say it, it’s stuck in my throat, and when it comes out, leaves my mouth, reaches their ears, my heart breaks a little more.

I may never have another period.

I may never be able to have children.

I may never feel like smiling again.

I am angry. I am hurt. I am falling apart inside.

I told them. I told the doctors, for years I told them. I spelled out my symptoms. They never listened. They dismissed me. They said it was caused by my being overweight.

The weight is a symptom.

They didn’t listen.

I have Polycystic Ovary Syndrome.
I have the weight.
I have the hair.
I have the acne.
I have the missing periods.
I have the skin flaps.
I have the dark patches.
I have the pain.

And I have the knowledge.

And that kills me inside.