and what I’m doing about it
CW: medical trauma, medical fatphobia, medical misogyny and ALL the trauma, really. Just please tread with caution.
To understand where I’m coming from, I’ll go into detail about what is currently “wrong” with me. There really is just one thing but the neglect and gaslighting I’ve been faced with (and I don’t use these terms lightly) have led to more health issues along the way, which I think could have been prevented. In fact, I think this whole situation could have been resolved in 2016, if I had been asked the right questions.
My womb story
Oh, the joy of retelling this story… not. Equally, I think I need to write it all down in chronological order, so I can see the structures and patterns more clearly. Buckle up, it’s a long story and it may even feel familiar. I tend to attract people with similar backgrounds and similar health challenges. As a disclaimer: I am a fat white cis queer disabled woman whose appearance and accent do NOT give away my immigration status in the UK. This is important. I have always been fat, I live in poverty (as per several definitions) but have access to a car, a smartphone, a laptop and the internet. I am what we call “highly educated” with two degrees and have the intellect and mental capacity (usually) to understand laws, rules and regulations.
A brief sermon on privilege
It may seem overboard for you to mention all this. But it is VITALLY important to note and acknowledge these privileges because let me tell you: A whole lot of people who, like me, receive benefits and don’t know where to turn for help do not have these privileges. It immediately gets more taxing when you’re Black. When you’re trans. When you’re more visibly disabled than I am. When you have an accent. When you don’t have the capacity or ability to understand the bullshit that the DWP (Department for Work and Pensions, the UK arseholes responsible for deciding if you’re disabled enough to get more support and how much support you get per area of your life) throws your way. And it’s not just foreigners who don’t see through it all. Don’t let the xenophobia and racism win. Whenever I have the capacity, I actually do a Universal Credit Office Hour on my TikTok account (on one of them…) and time and time again we look things up online together and I give people exact pointers on how to understand things and where to go next for help. The people attending are mostly Brits.
It is also very important to note (almost finished with my sermon now) that having privileges is not a bad thing per se. It doesn’t make you a bad person or your life easy. Privileges are mostly things we didn’t choose or work for. But if you worked for it, it actually means you have benefitted from the systems of oppression perpetuating the divide. Privileges are, instead, things we are born into. Just as most marginalisations. Because of the way Western society is structured. That’s all there is to it. By acknowledging these privileges, we raise awareness and we can help each other erase them. Yes, I think privileges need to be erased. We truly cannot all be free as long as privileges, and therefore systems of oppression, exist.
Getting on with the story
So. Let’s get into it. Starting from the beginning. I got my first period when I was 12. Four days after my 12th birthday to be exact. From the start, my periods were HEAVY and irregular. Still within what we know today to be normal, but back then it was WEIRD. It was the 90s, what can I say. Or the late 1900s as Gen Z seems to think is a good way to describe that part of the last century??? The auDAcity, seriously. Anyway, my periods were super heavy and quite painful after a while, too. Period cramps can be a BITCH.
Off to the gynaecologist I went. A man. Because both my mum and grandma went there. What a mistake. I was 14 at the time. Part of the examination was putting his finger up my anus. Let me tell you right now: This is not normal. And I had not consented to it. Implied consent my arse. Pun seriously not intended. I just didn’t know any better. Great start, hey? I then got a prescription for some natural remedy and it did help for a while. Then it all just came back with a vengeance. Back to the gynaecologist.
This time seeing a woman. Now, when it comes to gynaecology, I don’t think cis men have ANY business in being in that profession. That is my personal opinion and I stand by it. Given the long – racist and misogynistic – history in gynaecological “research” done by, you guessed it, white cis men, I reckon my gut is right about that. Literally anyone with a womb or who’s ever had one? No problem. Trans women? No problem. Cis men? Fuck all the way off and when you’re there, FUCK OFF SOME MORE. (I also want everyone to understand that every time I put things in capitals, I’m mentally doing the millennial zoom on my face. Thought you needed that picture.)
When I went this time, a few months before my 16th birthday, I had a boyfriend. I knew I wanted to have sex. And I thought the whole not liking the feel of condoms thing may come up, so I asked for the pill. What a mistake. Although, to be fair, turns out I am the one who doesn’t actually like the feel of most condoms. Go figure. But also: It’s been a while, they have evolved and these days I don’t think I’d still feel them as much. Obviously also fuck that whole myth that cis men invented. Got on the pill with not a whole lot of knowledge. My gynaecologist was definitely a good one, but she also failed to go through all the possible complications and side effects. The only thing she made sure was that I got a pill that wouldn’t make me gain more weight. 🙄
The joys of a normal cycle and the repercussions
Woah, suddenly my body conformed to what was considered normal. 28 day long cycles, about seven days of bleeding, no weight gain, happy days. Throw some good sex into the mix and I was one happy puppy. For many years. In hindsight, what all those years have done to me and my hormone levels is throw everything out of balance and have me be completely out of touch with my body. I am JUST getting back to my body and I’m 37 now.
First things first, though: Cancer came along and a very loaded question at the age of 26. Do I ever want children? Uhm. I don’t know??? I…guess I want to have the option…? Right, my oncologist went, then we need to shut down the ovaries immediately. Get on it. Oh, okaaayyy…
So I went to a gynaecologist. One I had never seen before because I lived somewhere else now. First thing she said: Well, you need to get off the pill straight away!!! o.O Okay. Off I went. What a mistake. I then went back, so we could “shut them down” and was told I had to wait for my period to hit and then we can get the contraceptive injection done. Well, well, well. Problem was: I had no idea when that was and chemo was basically around the corner, so we couldn’t wait for potentially weeks. Off the pill, my cycle was all over the place; way worse than before.
What a faff. She then called the manufacturer (Pfizer) and confirmed if that would be okay, if she could just do the injection. Yep, no problem. And in it went. Project shutdown ovaries succeeded. I know I keep repeating myself here but: What. A. Mistake. GOSH, that shit was strong and did all kinds of things with me. It was nice that I no longer bled, but no, I knew I had to come off this shit straight after cancer treatment. And I did.
In limbo
Then came the weird time of my life, which I have described in other posts here and elsewhere on the internet. I moved again and had to see yet another gynaecologist. Ugh. They refused to prescribe the pill at first without giving a reason. We got there eventually and I kept taking the pill until I…yep, moved again. Abroad this time. I got my hands on the pill for a while longer but ultimately, I’d stop taking it altogether.
During that in between phase, I suddenly bled for six weeks straight. I was TERRIFIED. What was going ON??? I went to several walk ins, two of which turned me down. One because I was too late and one because they did not have doctors on site… No further comment on that. The latter one sent me to the hospital. A hospital that is connected – part of the same organisation within the NHS – to the one in whose care I am now. Two questions I found incredibly patronising: Am I sexually active and is there a chance I could be pregnant? What the ACTUAL fuck?! I’ve been bleeding for weeks on end and you think I’m fucking??? You don’t think I would know if I had fucked so I could actually get pregnant? Nonsense. Doctors, please start believing your patients and stop asking bullshit questions. It helps nobody and often harms your patients. But who am I? Just a patient who doesn’t know what they’re talking about…
Anyway. We did a load of tests and I was told that I’m the epitome of health. Great. Sooo…why am I bleeding? No idea. Cool, cool. Evokes a lot of trust, cheers. They prescribed tranexamic acid to stop the bleeding. The card machine in the hospital pharmacy wouldn’t take my card – just my luck – but the pharmacist just gave me the medication anyway. Now THAT made my day in the midst of all the bloody misery. The meds stopped the bleeding within just over a week and off I went.
Still on the pill, I had some good sex for a while. Like…seriously good sex. Best quickie of my life, too. Then at some point, it must have been 2017, I started bleeding after sex. Weird. It was just spotting, though, so I didn’t think anything of it. The affair ended and after a few months I decided the pill was no longer it for me. That’s the last time I took it. So with some minor breaks, I had taken the pill for a good 16 years. What a MISTAKE.
The run up to the main event
My periods were as heavy as ever, sometimes painful but nothing life changing. 2017 was when I was building my life up again after losing everything (job, flat, will to live). Everything was FINE. I changed jobs because I was fed up with wasting my talent in customer service and went for a marketing management position. Dream job, dream salary, I lasted all of five months and never went back to corporate. And never fucking will.
What is important about this change is that I was shamed for my mental health issues and blamed for underperforming at something that shouldn’t have been part of my job description in the first place. So as much as I resigned – and should have sued – I was told by HR, off record, that that was of course an option instead of going with what they called a performance improvement plan. Left the next day. The misogyny and plain jealousy from the manchild that was my manager was rampant. Story for another day. The whole situation had left me with a severe dip in my confidence and my mental health would tank after improving massively for the first few weeks.
I was determined to make it as a business owner but my surroundings (my flat mate and my “best friend” – yep, the one I talked about who broke up with me last year) kept telling me no. Shouldn’t you do this? Shouldn’t you do that? Why don’t you…? JUST LEAVE ME THE FUCK ALONE!!! It was so frustrating that nobody would believe in me. To the point I stopped believing in myself. Insert tiny violin.
The money was only flowing out, not in. One by one, the resources just went out of the window. I was terrified. Yet again, I would lose a flat, would be homeless. What I didn’t know then – around mid 2019 – is how bad it was going to get. I applied for Universal Credit and was sure I was going to get it because I had received it for six months before, so surely everything would be fine. It wasn’t. They closed my claim because I hadn’t passed the Habitual Residence Test. Weird because, again, I had passed it before and I hadn’t magically left the country in between. That guy just didn’t like me and I knew it when I sat there answering the dehumanising questions. So I tried to survive on about £100 a month. Doesn’t work, let me tell you.
The big bleed
I got evicted and moved in with a friend until the end of the year. Just before Christmas, I had to move out. For very valid reasons, I still only have all the love for that friend. So I did a shoutout on a Facebook group where I felt like home. It was an interest group and I had met some of the people, made friends. The founder reached out and said I could come live with them and their three kids. I’d have to deal with the difficulty of the youngest, but otherwise they’ll take care of me and make sure I’m safe and fed. I agreed to move in for a while. Again, you guessed it: WHAT. A. MISTAKE!
The good thing that came out of it all was that I got Universal Credit. Easily, too, because in the meantime I had received Settled Status. Shoutout to Brexshit. The bad thing was how utterly unsafe I started to feel. And I couldn’t quite pinpoint why that was until it was “too late” and I was trapped in this emotionally abusive hellhole.
My body knew. My bleeding went all kinds of wrong. It became so heavy and so PAINFUL. I remember both being so bad one night – and I had to stay quiet not to wake anyone up, so I screamed and cried silently – that I thought if THIS is anything like labour, I sure as hell never want kids. Turns out I don’t anyway, but again, that’s a story for another day.
I had no access to doctors or a pharmacy, no access to any kind of support. When I realised what was happening, my only thought was that I needed OUT. The cunt went so far to call the homelessness team, whom I had been in contact with, to tell them she’s gonna throw me out behind my back. Without my consent, they discussed the case with her. My ovaries literally hurt whilst I’m writing this. Wow. Somehow, I had made a German friend, as you do, in that 1,000 people village and he was able to help me. He asked his network and someone in Milton Keynes took me in. Someone about to start her second Saturn Return. NOT pretty.
My bleeding? Stopped for a while but came back with a vengeance when I was due on and eventually stayed with me. I didn’t feel safe. Unknowingly, my new housemate and landlady tried to manipulate me into living according to her rules. I truly believe that’s not what she tried to do, but she did it anyway. Obviously, to a degree you adhere to the rules of the household you’re entering, without question. But that doesn’t mean people can waltz through your boundaries like a plough and mould you to their perfect shape. Her internalised weight stigma, fatphobia, racism and transphobia – whilst believing she had none of these things – were also not the one. In short: Not safe. The bleeding became WILD and continuous.
Hope to escape
My financial situation improved and I was able to buy my landlady’s car in instalments; still paying that off, no shame. I visited friends I used to work with in their brand new restaurant in South West London. Mainly to polish off some free food which I knew was gonna be ace. I then saw their website and sat down to make sure it worked properly. Took a few hours and we had a lot of fun doing it. Good old times, working together. At the end of the night, they asked me if I wanted to manage the restaurant. I said yes. Know what’s coming now? Yep. What a mistake.
I worked there, bleeding and bleeding, for a few months. Very soon, I was able to secure the flat I’ve now lived in for almost two years. It took everything I had. Pleading with the landlord, paying a guarantor service (borderline illegal) to secure it all and borrowing a whole bunch of money off my friends. Where there’s a will, there’s a way, they say. It’s true. I worked myself into the ground. 60 hours a week and then a three hour round trip by car every day because I was still living in Milton Keynes for most of it. When I had moved, it became clear to me that my body is giving up. I could not go on like that. Full time should really not be more than 40 hours. I raised that with the restaurant and they went BALLISTIC. I had done a trial week where we divided it up between the two of us who were front of house and the chef and “owner” (by name only, not by money or any stretch of the imagination what a business owner should be like) and was sat down afterwards. They were very unhappy.
I was still on benefits, so I did the only logical thing: After about one more week after that incident, I never went back. Sent them an email to tell them good riddance. The money they owed me? Took six months to get and multiple threats to take them to court over it. Another reason for leaving was also because they were controlling my money AND my food. I didn’t always get paid on time (or at all) and then the chef told me off for asking for food etc. It was a vile situation. To the point I left his partner a note to contact Women’s Aid. I truly hope she’s getting out. I’m glad I did when I did.
Another escape, complete exhaustion. After years, I started feeling into my body again. Turns out it was utterly exhausted. I thought it was the stress from those work weeks and the abuse over the years, which is definitely part of the problem. But I also realised I was out of breath really quickly. Internalised fatphobia alert: I thought I was just unfit and too fat, no need to see a doctor. Eventually, though, the bleeding became too annoying and I made an appointment. First thing they did was a blood test, Within 24 hours after that, I was in hospital with lifethreateningly low haemoglobin levels and they were declining by the minute. Go me.
Doctors will be doctors, caught up in the system
At every point of contact I made clear I did not want to stay the night, be admitted to a ward. I was ignored, was made to believe the only option was to stay overnight for the blood transfusions. Spoiler alert: You can do this as an outpatient. If you have issues with staying in a hospital, advocate for yourself loudly and use the words “I do not consent”. They HAVE to let you go. They wanted to keep me all weekend. Nope, not happening.
When the transfusions were done and I had firmly established myself as difficult, even more so since refusing tranexamic acid, which felt funny in my right calf and can lead to blood clots, I wanted to go home. I trust my body and was flabbergasted that they didn’t see the connection between my pain and the clotting medication. Took aspirin the next day and the funny feeling fucked off. Funny that, hey? That morning, I wanted to leave. I was ignored by several nurses. So I packed my bag and stood in the corridor, asking again. I kept being ignored and was told they were having their morning meeting and it was confidential. WTAF??? Then don’t fucking hold it in an OPEN CORRIDOR??? I said I wouldn’t listen. A lie, of course. Because I did listen closely on my case and heard them say 1 pm. It must have been around 8 am. No fucking way. No more pleading. Cannula still in my arm, I took my bag and started running out. That did the trick. They urged me back to take it out and sign a waiver. It could have been so much easier for all of us.
A doctor suddenly appeared – after not being available before – telling me they are not holding me against my consent. Uhm, yes, that’s exactly what you’re doing! If they could draw some more blood. Yeah, whatever. And I left. Returned again a week later for an appointment where they wanted to give me an iron IV that turned out to be completely unnecessary. Glad I refused. Was told I was right. No shit, Sherlock, no shit.
What we’re doing about the bleeding? Iron tablets to make sure I don’t need a blood transfusion again. Then came some more tests. A vaginal ultrasound by someone who was very obviously disgusted by me bleeding and had no regard for my dignity by letting me step into my blood that was on the floor. Another appointment for a biopsy of my womb lining. No mention of painkillers or local anaesthetic. So I thought it couldn’t be that bad, right?! They said it would be like a heavy period cramp. We have established earlier I had a lot of those in the past, so I would survive.
Let me tell you this: It is NOT like any kind of cramp I ever had in my life. It feels as if someone goes into your womb with a rusty fork and scratches your womb lining off. Ah, feeling my womb and ovaries again as I’m typing this. Not only was there a cis man present (junior doctor, I think) who told me to COUNT TO TEN (I told him – literally – I wouldn’t fucking count anything and he shut up) and was generally utterly unhelpful and misogynistic, I was then patronisingly told that yes, it can be very uncomfortable and I should take as much time as I need to get dressed again. WHAT? I had screamed and cried and that is what you’re telling me? Needless to say I wanted out of there immediately. But of course I sat there listening to their bullshit suggestions, which mainly contained the coil. The coil? You think I let you INTO my womb EVER again? Fuck you. No foreign objects in my body, thank you.
Definition of gaslighting according to Oxford Languages:
Manipulating someone using psychological methods into questioning their own sanity or powers of reasoning.
The aftermath
I have since learnt/come to terms with what happened to me that day was assault. And I’m in the process of writing A LOT of complaint letters, mostly to that hospital. But let’s continue the womb saga. The next few days were extremely painful and the bleeding was atrocious. I had refused tranexamic acid and was prescribed mefenamic acid instead, which is a painkiller that CAN help with bleeding but can equally lead to anaemia. Nah, I didn’t take it. I’d had enough of anaemia for a while.
We kept an eye on my blood and once my haemoglobin levels were nice and shiny again, I looked at the mefenamic acid, but still didn’t take it. Then – overcome with joy that I can move again and run up some hills – I developed a little rash from my useless knickers and one of my lymphnodes in my groin had swollen. It was PAINFUL. After suffering for a few days and no pain killer doing the trick, I caved and made a GP appointment. Was prescribed some antibiotics that took care of it within those ten days.
But you know what also happened? The bleeding stopped. Completely. It was gone like it had never existed. Somewhere around that time, my liver and kidney blood results came back ever so slightly elevated. When they were still on and above that level a few months later, I was sent to another ultrasound to look at all my organs. Guess what! They “diagnosed” me with a fatty liver! WOAH! I had never heard that!!! #Sarcasm My oncologist, ten years earlier, had already seen that and shrugged. That was his whole reaction. He shrugged. No words to me even. He just told the (junior?) doctor who was there to learn that they were seeing a fatty liver here. Nothing else. But now the doctors of the NHS had discovered I’m fat and that my liver and pancreas are – you won’t believe this – surrounded by fat! Revolutionary.
The pivot to fatphobia
In between all that, I had started taking mefenamic acid because the antibiotics had given me hope. That may be important down the line. The bleeding was reduced but the side effects – especially on my digestive system – were too much. Before the saga around my liver started and before the ultrasound that led to the diagnosis, I had another phone appointment with a GP and mentioned the antibiotics miracle. They ignored me. Said it may be a coincidence and I should still go ahead with further investigations. Literally NOBODY had said I would stop investigations or not go to the fucking ultrasound. All I asked was how that could happen and if we’re on to something. But who am I? Just a patient who knows nothing. I let it go. Didn’t have the energy.
The next few months all I heard was weight management, BMI, lifestyle and fatty liver. Within mere weeks of the “diagnosis” I had a letter in the post suggesting I could take part in some research for non alcoholic fatty liver disease (NAFLD). So now it was a DISEASE and there were FUCKING STUDIES??? When I had been dealing with my out of control bleeding for literal years and now over 18 months in their care and there was NOTHING of the sort? Wow.
My intuition also told me to not go ahead with a hysteroscopy under general anaesthetic that we had – reluctantly – agreed on. My body, too. I had a massive anxiety attack and the ultimate migraine episode the day before and subsequently cancelled, after which they had discharged (!) me, so I had to be referred back to them again. It took another six months to speak to a gynaecologist again after that. I’ve got iron tablets on repeat prescription and my bleeding to contend with. I WAS told to go back to A&E should the bleeding “become” super heavy again and with big clots. Ha! It had never stopped! And I sure as hell won’t go back to A&E.
The exhaustion on all levels
With all that fatphobia going on which even led to me shouting at a GP they were retraumatising me and them reacting with “as I said” and repeating their fatphobia, I also realised a complete lack of energy. I had recently had my bloods taken again, so I knew it wasn’t any type of anaemia. They had also done all the tests for potential illnesses what with my NAFLD and all. Nothing. Healthy as ever. Could have told them, don’t need a blood test to know that I do not, in fact, have diabetes. So if it wasn’t anaemia, what could it be?
Having the first normal conversation with a GP in well over six months, I have now scheduled and actual examination and ECG. That’s good. Almost looking forward to it. But I didn’t want to wait for that for things to get better, so I took several action steps. One: started taking the multivitamins that were lying around from winter. Ha. That did the trick. Not all of it, but my energy levels have improved greatly since then and it’s only been about ten days. My energy levels had been so low that I could barely stay up for eight hours a day. Breathlessness, weakness, fatigue, you name it. I daresay I’m malnourished. Mostly because I had some financial support taken away from me and can’t afford to buy enough food. The vitamins help for the time being.
Two: I KNOW I am going through the perimenopause. Probably have been for years, which is not unheard of, especially not with a history of chemotherapy. I can give you a list of 26 (!) symptoms that point in that direction. So, when finally talking to a gynaecologist again the other week, I thought I’d ask about it. Nope, that cunt of a doctor wasn’t having it. She wouldn’t let me finish sentences, she didn’t care I could barely hear her due to being on her fucking speakerphone, she told me several times we wouldn’t look into perimenopause until we figure out my bleeding. Needs to be done first. So she scheduled another vaginal ultrasound, because my last one was 1.5 years ago. That was supposed to be today. I cancelled.
The rage really came through when I read the letter she had sent to my GP practice. Before the appointment, she had clearly not looked at my file. And if she got some of what is in the letter from said file – because we sure as hell didn’t talk those specifics – then the file also contains misinformation. Relevant information, too. She said I had non Hodgkin’s lymphoma when in reality I had Hodgkin’s lymphoma all those years ago. Believe me, I know. I was there. She also put in writing that she suggested said ultrasound (correct) and then a hysteroscopy after if necessary. No we didn’t. And then she wrote that I was happy about the next steps. I am not. What I said was, and I quote literally: It’s not happening. Referring to the hysteroscopy. Then she put down that I reported “some VMS symptoms”. VMS is a fancy abbreviation for night sweats and hot flushes. That is not what I reported. I said I want to talk about the perimenopause and my million symptoms, without mentioning any. She just assumed. I also don’t even get hot flushes, but hey ho. Just a patient who doesn’t know what is going on in their body. What topped it all off was that she had also suggested (part of what I was supposedly happy about) tranexamic acid in the meantime to bring down the bleeding. She had not mentioned it at all. In the same letter, she says it hasn’t helped before. And she is still asking my GP to prescribe it. WHAT?
That, witches, is negligence and gaslighting. And I am NOT having it. I will be writing a hefty complaint letter and go to town on them. I’m done being abused by doctors. I’m done being put into the fatty corner and the silly woman corner. It’s time to fight and fight I will.
Definition of negligence according to Oxford Languages:
Failure to take proper care over something. OR
[law related] Breach of a duty of care which results in damage.
Trust be gone
In what Substack tells me to already be a 24 minute long nutshell, that’s why I do not trust doctors anymore. At all. I will speak to a GP next week about perimenopause and make sure I get the care I need and deserve. Because most of my symptoms can be helped by HRT and I don’t need a gynae cunt like that one to get my hands on it. Feels weird to be asking for hormones when I’ve been against them for a long while. But for the first time, and after long deliberation, it not only feels like an informed decision, it also feels like it is the exact right course of action right now. Wanna take bets on what the bleeding does once I get into a groove with the hormones? Yeah.
I also still need doctors to be on my case because I am in the middle of my PIP application. My life has gone to shit because of all of this and I really need the financial support to rebuild it. And to pay all bills in full, to be fair. Because right now, I barely have enough to eat, let alone pay for the arbitrarily high energy prices.
Once that’s through, though, I will rely on myself for healing. HRT and PIP combined will bring in the literal safety and strength that I need to get better. And who knows, a year from now I may be my bubbly energetic self again and can take up my work way more regularly. Because the one thing I want long term is no longer rely on anything from the DWP. They’ve been nothing but arseholes in the past few years.
What safety has to do with it all
If you’ve read carefully, you will have read that every time I felt safe, the bleeding became less or simply stopped. And every time I felt unsafe, I bled ferociously. You know by know that I’m a spiritual person and that energy is at the heart of everything I do because it connects us all. I truly believe that once I’ve had a period of safety – mainly financially – that lasts longer than three months, I have a chance of healing this. My bleeding will stop, I may even get to a normal cycle again for a while before the menopause kicks in.
In fact, I KNOW that this will happen. Some medical help along the way? Sure. But what I mainly need is getting all this trauma out of me and then putting a whole lot of care into me. I want to eat all the food again. Vegetables, fruit, cheese! And I want to move! I looove running. So much. I haven’t run in years. I can barely walk at the moment. Those are the things that I need. Not more people prodding about inside of my body looking for something that isn’t there. And suggesting things like burning womb lining and inserting a coil. Don’t get me wrong, I hear for some people, the coil is exactly what they need and I’m happy for them. But it’s not for me. No more. I want to be free of all of the Western medicine bullshit and come back to my body. I have to connect to it more deeply and embody who I am entirely. And that won’t happen in my current state, which is oscillating between fight and flight constantly. Literally every day. I’m tired.
If you have made it this far: THANK YOU. I hope you’re taking very good care of yourself, today and always. And if you feel the urge to help now, you can choose the paid subscription below/where you manage your subscription or you can leave me a tip right here. Thanks again and talk to you next time.
Stay magnificent. Stay witchy.