And So It Goes

I mentioned it a long time ago, but there was a time in my life in which a ghost pain made even the insertion of the smallest tampon serious pain. I went to doctors, they had no idea. Finally, I went to my doctor, who is also, coincidentally, probably the best gynecologist ever. What she found was disturbing but easily fixable: the most resilient yeast infection ever. Gross, right? I'm sorry I don't censor myself on this blog but I don't :/ Anyway, she made it go away after a week and I thought I would be all better! But no, no. That teensy, easily treatable infection left something much harder to fix in its wake. Dyspareunia.

Which means that it's up to my to fix it now. I have to find a way to convince my brain that the cause of the pain is gone and that it doesn't have to shut up my lady region and refuse to let anything pass. I honestly never consciously think about it. I guess it's just a response my body developed after months of painful penetration. And now it just won't let anything in. It's going to be a slow process to be sure but at least it's in my hands now and it's something I can fix.

In other news, my loneliness has taken a backseat to make room for the absurd amounts of homework that this semester has brought in and which I'm procrastinating right now. I don't know when I'm going to work on teaching my body how to properly behave if I'm lugging around hundred pound books all the time. And in between those two tasks, I also have to write my book. Really. I've written it and re-written portions, entire drafts. I've filled up notebooks with brain-storming and have built up this perfect book in my head that beginning to actually writing seems daunting. I'll just stick to reading Homer thank you very much.

But seriously, the drafts and outlines and ideas I've been culminating ever since I decided I hated my last production have created a really great 'in theory' book. Now, I have to actually type the words and make it something real. Something tangible. Something I can send off to the agents of the literary world and something that will garner me batches of rejection on a weekly basis but also, hopefully, for the first time, maybe a letter that shows some interest. Maybe someone will ask to look at my manuscript. And even if they reject it, at least I'll know that it's on the merit of my work [or lack thereof] and not on my inability to write a query letter more interesting than late-night infomercials. MAYBE, and this is probably asking too much, but someone could accept it. See the potential in my draft and in me and take a chance. I don't need it to be a New York Times' Bestseller or anything. I just have a story. And I know that I'm not going to be able to stop thinking about it until I make something I'm proud of and until I make something I know someone else was proud of, too.