Chris Evans: The Collection (Imagines and Short Stories)

The Sweeter Life

In honor of Endometriosis Awareness Month, I wanted to write a short story about a character who is experiencing a bad flare-up. I'm going to be real. I have endo, so I wanted to write something that I know well. I have had the type of day(s) written about in this story. It's painful. It's maddening. It's frustrating. And because I'm angry at my body for being fucked up and the future with this disease seems so uncertain, I cry. This is part of the reason why I've never really dated and I'm not gonna lie that this is a bit of projection about what I want my future partner to do. Fellow endo warriors, please know that I see you, believe you, and understand you. Here we go with The Sweeter Life!

The moment my eyelids flutter open I know that today is going to be one of those shitty days. The pain shooting through my back and lower abdomen is like I'm being stabbed from the outside and inside of my body. My stomach rises into my throat and I'm compelled to walk a few steps to the bathroom. It's a struggle to rouse myself from the comfort of my mattress. I push against my pillows and resort to grabbing the edge of my headboard. Sweat beads my forehead and my teeth grind together as I get to my feet. I may be groggy, but I still have the energy to think please make it to the toilet! Please! I don't want to have to clean up my puke or watch Buttons eat it again out of the corner of my eye. I'm calm as my stomach relieves itself of a lack of solid content. My throat burns as most of what's coming up is bile and stomach acid. I blindly press my fingers against the flush button and fall backward toward the bathroom door. I take a few deep inhales and exhales. That coupled with the sensation in my throat causes me to have a coughing fit. I no longer feel the need to heave over the porcelain throne, but the demon that is endometriosis continues to possess my lumbar spine and outside of my uterus. No matter how many times a day I'm wracked with this pain, the urge to scream is always stuck in my vocal cords. It will stick until I allow a gasp of relief to escape my mouth.

When I'm in my apartment or any other public space, I try my best to hold my tongue. Compared to the office I previously worked at, my apartment is far more private and security is not a question. However, as the walls are thin, my neighbors hear everything. The last time I yelled out in agony from pain, my neighbors called the cops. Flushed with embarrassment, I answered the door and explained that I had a painful medical condition and my body was overwhelmed by a bad flare-up. I held the door for support as they asked me questions and patronized me for not going to the hospital. Like everybody else, they didn't get it. I had been to hospitals before in that amount of pain. Nobody understood that going to the hospital meant further dismissal or no real help at all. Some doctors, even with my diagnosis, sent me home stating that it was only my anxiety. I couldn't really be in the kind of pain that mirrored labor pains. Others were well aware of my circumstances and due to the shortcomings of research in their field were kind enough to give me painkillers-- which only used when I couldn't take another sick day. Ultimately, my last sick day was my last day working full-time.

Once they left, I was face down on the floor in the fetal position weeping. I've lived with this disease since I was a teenager, but no matter what I eat, the amount of pot I smoke, the soothing CBD salves I massage into my skin, and how much it burns to push my heating pad against the affected areas, it hasn't gotten any easier to deal with. The thing that people don't get is that not only does endometriosis come with the stabbing knife of physical pain but soul-crushing emotional and mental strain. You live in fear of your body because you know it's capable of torture. You live in fear that no one will support you or even listen. You live in fear that no one will love you because you cannot give them penetrative sex or perhaps even children. The edge the disease has me constantly standing on-- questioning if I should jump and accept surrender or step back and remember the disease doesn't define me -- is only put at ease by smoking my Indica. I didn't have to choose between defeat and strength. I could exist, knowing it's okay to be furious. It's okay to be afraid. Just as long as in my high I recall that I'm incrediby strong,  supported, deeply loved no matter what I couldn't provide in physical intimacy, and uncertain if I could have kids, but I'd only worry about that ledge once it comes into my life.