Endometriosis vs. Tight Yoga Pants: What the f@#* just came out of me?

Gui Zhi, aka Ramuulus Cinnamomi, a constituent of the endometriosis remedy Gu Zhi Fu Ling Wan, and hopefully the savior to my incredible pain bane. Image Source: Maduixa Salvatge


I have! It stings!
it is called “Endometriosis”.
It “stings” more than labor!! and I’ve been through labor 5x!! It really does suck more than labor.
Labor gives me a wash of endorphins and serotonin and dopamine.
Endo, while sounding like a sunglassed speeder on Tattooine, really, just feels like a bayonet with epilepsy wrecking untold havoc on my inside. No gooey, blissed out hormone wash. Pshaw.
Endometriosis is this problem. You have your uterus, and in a regular healthy uterus, the uterine cells grow uterine lining, and shed it down the vaginal hatch onto a totally gross maxi pad every month. Month in, month out, unless you make a baby and your pituitary tells your ovaries to make progesterone & other hormone stew signaling the uterus to keep the precious cargo inside. So the uterine cells chill for 9mos+6–18 mos(breastfeeding) and no period blood gets spilled while you’re in Postpartum MotherMode.
Then there’s the scary word ENDOMETRIOSIS.
Imagine these cool uterine cells, doing their job, building a lining every month, then bleeding it all out if it’s not used. Natural cycle, bleed out toxic stuff, happy body. Like little barnacles, attached to the uterine wall, building then releasing waste, building and releasing waste.
Ok, now imagine some of these cells got dislodged, and somehow appeared, say, on your fucking colon or something where they totally don’t belong, and whistling along, building and dumping, building and dumping, every month, just like all their pals in the uterus.
This uterine cell is given ONE JOB. And it DOES IT. Because it’s a damn good worker.
Except you’re not in my uterus, dude. You’re on my lower intestine. You’re whistling along, happily working, doing your rx’d job, dumping blood and cell vomit… but instead of doing so where there is an “out hole”, it is tragically on top of my internal organs. Causing all the other cells lining all the organs to scream “WHAT THE FUCK!”, inflame to protect themselves, then send a message up to the brain to send down macrophages to eat all that shit and take it to the liver.
What this whole dog and pony show feels like, is a bayonet jab to the lower abdomen through the vagina.
So, every time something passes through the colon, it disturbs all this endometriotic bullshit, and its like, just about the worst pain you could imagine, and not even bathtubs full of baking soda, epsom salt, lavender and fucking roses can mask the holyshitness of the raw pain.
Pregnancy masks this a bit, because the hormone signals don’t cause periods, which means the uterine barnacles chill from their build and blood dump job.
But. Folks. I’m not pregnant, and I’m not breastfeeding. And for the past couple months, those fateful 3 days where it’s bleeding time, I mean. I’m shackled over a toilet in my house somewhere, bellowing gutteral primal noises from within, scratching 666 into the bathroom tile, and my family is frantically calling the Exorcist or simply hiding, like all the intelligent cats do when a sugared toddler is in the house.
So what do you do? Suffer a fate worse than death every month or so when your misplaced uterine cell retards inflame all the wrong neighbors?
Conventional yankee medicine seems to think I need to be severed apart with lasers through a keyhole incision to “cure” it. They drug me up, then thread a little probe through a papercut on my hip with a camera I suspect looks like the navigator from flight of the navigator, only tiny. Doctor $15000/mo Mortgage then says, “hey, since we’ve gone all this way, and you’re already open, and I totes see endo, do you want me to cut it out?” And you, all high on cooljuice, weighs the “fuck, do I want to do this again?”-factor, and while impaired says, “fuck it, get that fucker outta dere dood!!” So in one convenient conventional outpatient appointment, you are given the “CURE”.
Conventional medicine villainry are the only ones allowed to use the word cure. ITS THE CURE! Here, we will cure you of your endometriosis. And hey, while we were there we also CURED you of your childbearing functions. And your hormones, we will cure you of your hormone making organs. We will cure you of your youthful beauty!
You know, because reading through the stories of the petrified endo-sufferers who TLDR’d it and flung themselves through the conventional medical meat machine ended up with laparoscopies that turned into laparostomies that turned to hysterectomies.
Idk, man, humans aren’t iphones — our parts aren’t modular replaceables. I mean, one day they will be, sure, with 3d printed meat scaffolds and human embryonic stem cell cultures n’shit.
But until I have my home 3D tooth printer and a bunch of petri dishes scattered across my sterile living room floor, I opt out of the frankenstein show hosted by a bunch of arrogant “play god” pricks in their medical palace ivory tower. Making their weirdass uterine sacrifices to baphomet or heating their castles with the ashes of dead babies or whatever the fuck.
Don’t take my fucking uterus, bro! That fucked up bit of confused ass flesh is PART of me, and I find my only respect is to rehab that sucker until it quits bleeding out menstural waste into my general body cavity and causing inflammation and hellfire everywhere. I’ve had this condition for as long as I can remember. I’m surprised I birthed any live babies at all. So, thanks, I’ll take it as a blessing and a project. Like all these projects that have been bestowed upon lonely ole yours truly. Cure my husband’s cancer. Cure my body’s endometriosis. Cure my kid’s supraventricular tacchycardia.
Whatever, dude, it’s all the same! At the end of the day, it’s all an easy ass game of “city”.
1. Kill all the criminals (ozone,+),
2. Take out the trash (proteolytic enzymes, detox regulators)
3. Make a beautiful dope ass place to live for many generations to come (yoga and all that physical beautiful body shit).
Dude. #ListOfThingsToBeatIn2016

— Author’s now deleted facebook post, January 9, 2016, 7:59am PST.

And boy am I feeling endometriosis’ ugly wrathy face tonight!

I’m on day 6 of my period, which has, until an hour ago, been a pleasant walk in the park. Low fluid. Low grossness.

And now? Much stabbing. Reduced movement. I can feel rushes and gushes of probably-icky blood clots filling my private lady zone.

Tight Synthetic Yoga Pants Spell Disaster for Endometriosis Sufferers

I don’t know why I vainly insist on wearing tight pants sometimes. It always leads to disaster.

Back in March, I bought a pair of Assets nylon leggings for a conference. It’s the only non-organic synthetic garment I have in my wardrobe. I bought it compulsively. There’s a part of me that crushes on Sara Blakely (CEO of Assets and Spanx) for winning Richard Branson’s Entrepreneur contest in 2005. I was feeling extremely anxious about networking, I was hormonal, self-conscious, and I just wanted to appear “normal” so I could gain rapport with the other attendees. So 3 hours before the conference, I compulsively threw this pair of nylon yoga tights in my shopping cart.

This is always a bad idea. I always perform *way* better when I’m dressed as myself, in my kooky tailored organic spaceship clothes. Not waist cinching, non-breathing torture rubberbands.

Every time in recent memory I’ve had an acute endometriosis attack, I was wearing these stupid nylon pants. These are the kind of pants I make fun of people for. I’m mad at myself for indulging a nonconfident self at the expense of my health. I need to get rid of these stupid things.

Last month, I had an endometriosis spell that kept me bedridden, cringing in unbelievable banshee stigmata martyr pain, an inconsolable and useless mass of blood for 2 whole weeks. The only thing last month that kept me vertical was Dr. Mukunda Karmacharya’s adept acupuncture needling. Plus, I got to proudly wear Depends. My bloodsoaked bathroom floor looked like The Shining.

Couldn’t imagine anyone would be interested in diving through that life-stopping gauntlet of discomfort again. Seriously. I’m never wearing pants again.

The Chinese Know Everything.

Let’s see how we can reverse this tonight, shall we?

  1. 6 pills Gu Zhi Fu Ling Wan. I first heard of this Traditional Chinese Medicine concoction from Zoe Brown’s book The Violet Protocol, about a french doctor’s endometriosis reversal protocol.
  2. 1 ounce Herbal Hemoglobin. Aalfaalfa, Atractlyodis, Astragalus, Sea Minerals, Beet, Cat’s Claw, Saffron, Cinnamon, Ginseng, Kelp, Spinach, Turmeric, Plantain, Sodium Chloride ( sea salt ), Potassium, Pine, Cypress, Cedar, Oligo Syrup, Vinegar, Sorbic Acid.
  3. My thyroid juice recipe
  4. 4 Grapeseed Extract (for inflammation)
  5. 2 Natto-Serra. Enzyme, dissolves nonliving tissue in the body.

And for now, I shall be rummaging through my kitchen, searching for ingredients to quell this helldemon.

20 minutes later…

Better. Much better. I can still feel small whooshes of blood fill my soakpad, but the uterine stabs are nonexistent.

It reminds me how badly I want to learn the art of Chinese medicine. It’s up there on my top 10 things to master before I die. I don’t think I have enough time this half decade to start a dedicated study, but when things quiet down next decade, I will. 5 year goals.

The Body is a Miracle: Full of Surprises. And Blood.

Mere seconds after writing the last paragraph…

WTF, body?

Just after I finished editing mentions of last month’s The Shining episode, and JUST after I had put on a nice, clean, roomy pair of organic cotton pajama pants, I felt an uncontrollable pressure in my uterus.

I ran to the bathroom.

I expelled a baseball-sized grip of uterine tissue. It jiggled like jello out of my body and bounced on the seat of my nice, previously clean pair of organic cotton pajama pants.

Dear doctors of the world, What the bleep is this?

My strange, jiggly, gelatinous emission. Is it uterine tissue? Is it a clot? Is it an alien baby? Will we need to call Mulder?

I love investigating gross body emissions. Poop, blood, barf, you name it. In a previous life, I was probably a crime scene investigator.

This? I will have to call up an obstetrician and find out what on earth this is. Stay tuned.

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