When I was in 8th grade, I started having migraines. They were the worst, most earth shattering
symptoms for an 8th grader with minimal life experience facing pain
in the form of a brother tackling her to the ground, getting stuck in a tree,
or falling during a figure skating lesson.
I remember distinctly
being in a figure skating lesson and my eyes starting to go blurry. I thought to myself, “I am going blind, I am
losing my eyesight…” I grabbed the edge of the skating arena and led myself by
feeling to the exit door. My skating
instructor asked me what was wrong and I told her, “I can’t see!”
Through my blurred vision, I stumbled my way to the bathroom
to see what was wrong. In the midst of
bumbling my way, I started to feel a queasy, uneasy feeling in the pit of my
stomach. At the last moment possible, I
found my way to the toilet and threw up several times.
After throwing up, my head started to throb and pound as if
there was something inside of me that was trying to push and force its way
out. I could hardly stand up because the
pain was so excruciating. I stared into
the mirror, looking to see if my eyes at least still appeared normal or to see
if they had started to fall from my face and leave me in a perpetual state of
blindness.
Thankfully, my mother appeared in the bathroom to find out
what was the matter. I told her, “I
think that I am going blind!” And I
started to cry out of fear…what was happening to me?
My mother led me to the car, where I laid in the back
moaning and twisting, trying to exit my body so that I could escape the excruciating
attack upon my body. It was as if there
was a full on assault to my body.
When I got home, I crawled into bed, asking my mom to make
sure that it was dark. I shut my eyes
and tried to sleep to escape the pain.
Sleep would not come. I writhed
in pain for about an hour before my body calmed enough to let myself slip into
a deep, restorative sleep.
The first migraine was the most traumatizing because I
literally thought that I was going blind.
I thought that I was not going to be able to see ever again. I had many weird thoughts running through my
brain. However, after the first one, I
was prepared. I knew what to expect. Every month, my body declared war on my soul
and myself and I experienced the same symptoms.
Month after month after month. At
least I knew that I wasn’t going blind.
At least I knew that I needed to find a bucket and put it next to my bed,
turn off all the lights, and count down the minutes of writhing pain until I
could slip into sleep.
Exactly one year after the migraines started, they
stopped. My body changed as well. I became a woman. I was no longer a little girl. Curves came to my hips and I
felt different. However, all my friends
complained about the cramping and the PMS. I didn’t experience any of that. I was the only one of my friends who
experienced severe migraines and then nothing.
It was strange. Inexplicable. Until I went to my gynecologist and she told
me exactly what was going on and why.
There was a lot of comfort in knowing why. There was a lot of comfort in knowing the
name PCOS. Polycystic Ovary
Syndrome. I turned the words around in
my mouth and in my brain, trying to become accustomed to the label that defined
what was wrong with me and why I wasn’t fitting into the box of what it means
to be a female.
It was comforting for the first 4 years or so. I did what I was told, took my birth control
and tried to move on with my life. After
4 years of that, it became uncomfortable again.
PCOS became unwanted in my life and became my nemesis. My enemy.
I wanted a different answer, I wanted a different
solution. Surely there was one. Surely I could redefine this issue in my
life.
So in my mind, I began rejecting PCOS and what it had been
doing to my body, to my mind, and to my femininity. I didn't want it anymore.
I found people with different stories. My first boyfriend’s mother had PCOS and she
had 4 boys. Four. Not one, not two, four. I was astounded. Everything that I had heard up to that point
was that you probably would not be able to have children.
My thinking began to change as I sought out a different answer to my questions about my health and what defined me as a woman. This was the beginning of the end of PCOS in my life and it started with my belief and my thinking. I began to reject the label. PCOS was not going to define me. A disease was not going to be the definition of who I was.
