Gezellig af.

Some people are positing that gezellig is the new hygge. I must object, because while I do agree that hygge has been replaced, the newer, shinier version is me.

IT’S ME.

Am I sitting on my newly decorated patio? I am. Is it adorned with twinkle lights and decorative fake trees? Of course it is — don’t be stupid. Am I curled up in a cushiony papasan while sipping sauv blanc and listening to Motown? You bet your ass I am. Oh, and did I mention the sandalwood incense?

I had surgery last week to remove a (very large) fibroid from inside my uterus. It didn’t work, because the fibroid wasn’t actually in there. The nasty thing is actually embedded in the wall. So, we had a swing and a miss. Myomectomy fail. But! It was the least invasive option to try first. It was the right thing to do. However, despite the pesky fibroid not having been removed, I’ve still had to rest for several days, recuperating from a surgery no one could tell had happened, that didn’t really serve much of a purpose since it didn’t work.

The feelings have been ebbing and flowing (FLOWING! MENSTRUAL HUMOR!).

For the record, without going into all the details, I wound up on the table because my periods have been out of control forever. I was unaware that my ridiculously heavy periods were abnormal. I mean, I thought my menstrual cycle was quirky and less than pleasant, but I figured there were plenty of other women going through the same thing and not complaining about it. My periods last, on average, 10–13 days. To consider using products other than super overnight anything from start to finish was completely irrational. I had to use both a pad and a tampon simultaneously, and I had to switch both out roughly every 2–3 hours. Something in this entire equation got worse, believe it or not, for me to consider that it was bad enough to seek medical attention.

I should have outlined this entry somehow. So, not only did I have an unsuccessful procedure last Thursday, but then my period started two days ago and is still raging a war in my underwear. It’s not better. It’s mocking me. And I’m sad this evening.

Why is it that I feel like I should apologize for all of this? Writing about it feels unbecoming. I feel, as a woman, I should just pretend everything is fine and live a life that never has or will involve anything bleedy or crampy. I feel like someone reading this is thinking this right now. To you, while I know I shouldn’t apologize, I will say I’m sorry. To all of my friends shaking their fists in the air, wanting to curse and hug me at the same time, I know. I get it. You’re right.

In the future, I’m going to write about how apologizing too much for things that don’t require apologies somehow lessen the times I say I’m sorry when it’s exactly what I should be saying at that moment. Note to self.

My reproductive system has been the only thing I’ve been thinking about for the better portion of a week. It’s dictated all of my decisions. I’ve run the gamut from feeling totally indifferent to questioning all that is who I am as a woman to just wanting to eat Riesens all the time.

I tried creating this calming environment on my balcony to allow myself to heal, gently. I think it goes beyond my uterus. It’s going to take a while. In the meantime, I will finish drinking my wine and listening to this freaking fantastic song that just showed up on Pandora.

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