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When I was diagnosed at age sixteen, after having one period in the eighth grade and then never again till a medically induced one my junior year of high school - my uterine lining measured in centimeters because it was so thick, my mother turned to me in the car. She was upset. Literal tears in her eyes. And she told me her friend had PCOS, but was still able to have kids. That this was still a possibility for me if I did injections and fertility treatments, etc. My mom had never asked me if I wanted kids, she just assumed.
My first conversation about PCOS with my new endocrine/OBGYN was about weight management and how that could improve my fertility when I eventually wanted kids. It wasn't asked what my goals were for my health or if I wanted kids, just assumed.
I was a hormonal, depressed mess. I hated my body. My body dysmorphia was so bad that I cloistered myself away from so much. I wore hoodies and jeans in the 90Ā°F, 80% humidity summers. This was considered fine. I was given metformin and birth control pills and told this was all that could be done. That PCOS wouldn't affect my life until I wanted to be pregnant. I wasn't asked if I wanted to be pregnant, just assumed.
I don't know how many PCOS groups I joined on my early 20s hoping to find community and commonality for body dysmorphia and symptom management, only to be bombarded with fertility treatments and tips and 'inspirational conception' anecdotes. They never asked if I was attempting to conceive, just assumed.
It's a problem. It's been a problem. And thank god I learned to speak up and find medical professionals that would help me with *MY* goals. I shouldn't have had to, someone should have recognized the needs of that sixteen y.o. and protected her, but I can only hope the conversation changes as awareness increases.
the oldest reblogs for this post that i can find are from january 2nd of 2013. this can has been getting kicked around tumblr for almost 13Ā½ years now
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Peeling off the broken breastplate of a stoic knight who only fights and never speaks, just to realize thereās nothing in there. Not metaphoricallyāthe armor is literally empty. It doesnāt appear to affect him. If the armor stays mostly in the shape of a knight, he just gets back up to keep fighting. But with the chest plate off he just sits there, equally impervious to curiosity as I reach up into the cavity where his body mightāve gone. Stubbornly, no answers are found anywhere in there.
So I forge him a new breastplate and on the inside, because I know he has plenty of room, I put a little pocket. Not big enough to hold anything functional of course. Just a little extra piece to see what heāll do with it.
He comes back next time with some grievous injury to his nothing, presumably from the massive shredded gash across his thigh plates. He sits and waits. I fix it for him. He is still nothing in there. I decide to add a drawing on the inside, of the type of beast I imagine could rend metal into scraps with a single blow. He puts it back on. He no longer moves as if he is injured.
Over time the interior of the knight becomes decorated with whatever odds and ends I could think to attach to the inside of a guy whoās got room to carry it. What really gets me is that he never removes any of it. Never requests a change. Not even when I installed a curtain rod for a small tapestry, or a bud vase to carry roses for his beloved, or an accordion folder for letters. He didnāt say a word for any of the many, many drawings of mythical beasts that now fight forever inside of his shell.
There are plenty of other forges. Iām not entirely sure why he keeps coming back here anyway. Weāre pretty popular, but he could get his armor fixed a lot quicker (and with fewer ridiculous modifications) literally anywhere else. I asked him if I could get a look at his nothing again. He flipped up his visor and nodded his head so I could take a look. It was the same as it had been, filled with drawings and trinkets and weird little fixtures Iād put in there. I asked if he was annoyed by it, or liked it, or felt anything at all, but he literally only ever says nothing, so Iām not sure why I asked.
Thereās not much room left in his nothing now. When he comes back for repairs Iāve had to fix my own foolish additions. Some of these pieces are intricate and irritating to repair, but I fix them anyway. It feels wrong to take any of it away from him now, even though Iāve been rudely encroaching on his nothingness to the point where itās barely even there. How he squeezes his nothing back into a body so full, Iāll never understand. But itās a game to me now, finding a spot not yet filled and putting something there. A dark part of me wonders if he ever gets filled up completely, if whatever sorcery holds the nothing-knight together may break, and it will all clatter unceremoniously to the floor.
When he hands me his breastplate yet again, it is so shockingly disfigured that I wonder if being made of nothing has somehow kept him alive. No ordinary knight could sustain such injuries. So I fix it. And he waits, unmoving, in a quiet corner of the forge. Itās like heās watching, even though I know the reading glasses I put inside his helmet were just for fun. Iām careful to put it all back exactly the way it was when he last left. Thereās no room to add more this time.
He examines the breastplate, and pauses before putting it back on, like heās looking for something. Is he worried about the fit? But it suits him just as it always did. He calmly points to a little space, about an inch, between a miniature shelf and one of many pockets. Thereās nothing there. I ask him whatās wrong, and again he points. Itās the most emotion Iāve ever seen from him, and itās barely anything at all. I take it to mean he wants something there.
I spend some time engraving a little snail in the gap. He watches, as much as nothing can watch. When Iām finished he holds the breastplate, but he doesnāt put it on right away. I ask him if somethingās still wrong. He says nothing, and puts it on. I tell him I canāt add anything else. Even if he could ask, thereās no room left.
Next time he comes back, thereās nothing wrong with his armorāhe lets me check to make sure. I ask him what heās doing here. Out from one of many pockets, he retrieves a tiny rusted knife. Itās in miserable condition, barely worth saving. I tell him I could make him a nice new one, but Iāll fix it if he likes. He puts it away and reaches around to find something else, a needle and thread. Better condition, but Iām not a sewist and I tell him as much. He puts them away. He then retrieves a little twisted piece of wax paper. I open it. Itās candy. I ask if I can eat it. He says nothing. I eat it. Itās flavored with cinnamon. Iām surprised he let me take it.
He keeps bringing me candy now. His armor is the most laborious to repair out of every client my forge serves, but itās my own fault so I canāt complain. Sometimes he keeps me company while I work. I wonder if he is trying to tell me something when he hands me mints. I wonder again at the lemon lozenges. He stares at me when I eat, as much as nothing can stare.
One day he brings me a little jar of honey. I thank him, I tell him Iāll save it for dinner. He watches me work, he puts his repaired armor back on, and he stays. My shift passes slowly, and when I finally pack up to leave itās dark outside. He follows me out of the forge. I ask him where heās going. He points to the jar in my hand. I ask him if he wants to watch me eat it. He says nothing, but the nothing-knight clearly wants something, so I open the lid and dunk my finger in the honey. I try not to get any on my chin. He stands there, inches away, watching me try to consume this jar of honey without a utensil. It tastes like clovers. About half the jar is left when Iāve finally had enough of pretending to be a bear, but he doesnāt move to leave.
I ask if heās going to follow me home. He says nothing. I tell him he can if he wants to. Again, nothing. I start walking, and he follows at my side. I know heās not going to say anything ever, so I fill the silence. I tell him Iām grateful for the sweets, I tell him about how his various components are made, I tell him Iāve never met anyone made of nothing before. I tell him itās a rare opportunity for a smith to work so much on the inside of something. He says nothing. I tell him again how much I like the candy.
It occurs to me that maybe filling me with sugar is as close as he can get to filling someone elseās empty armor with trinkets. Iām not sure if thatās really why he does it. I tell him I donāt have room to be filled with anything on the inside, not like him. Iām not a container for much besides food. He offers me another piece of candy. Maybe he likes containing something, the way I like to feel full. Maybe itās nothing at all.
ā
I didnāt edit this even a little bit. Thanks for reading!
William Peter Blatty: OMG did you guys hear
Poe: what?
Blatty: the society of st. pius X has schismed from the mother church!
Blatty: this could be the biggest interdoctrinal ecumenitestimal since the integral convergence of the helgrimite blasphemy at the diet of dendronal in 1536!!
Poe:
King:
Lovecraft:
Koontz:
Barker:
Blatty: this is like when the blessed council of garbanza rectified the confluence of the discalced silurians in 1232!
Poe:
King:
Koontz:
Lovecraft:
Barker:
Blatty: c'mon it's so obvious!
Blatty: it's like a one to one correlation!
Poe:
King:
Koontz:
Lovecraft:
Barker:
Blatty: i don't know how you can't see the parallels
Blatty: this is just like during the Third Reconciliation of the Last of the Meketrex Supplicants, when many Shubs and Zulls knew what it was to be roasted in the depths of a Sloar that day, I can tell you!
Blatty: don't act so confused
Blatty: you all should have learned about that in CCD
Society of st pius x: anyway you're not even our real pope
sospx: it's not like we even have to listen to you
sospx: you're not the boss of us
sospx: hey pope leo does this bug you
sospx: we're not touching youuu ha ha
sospx: so anyway you're not the boss of us
sospx: you can't tell us what to do
sospx: i mean ha ha like what are you even going to do
sospx: like excommunicate us or something ha ha
Pope Leo: yeah, you're excommunicated
sospx: [surprised pikachu face]
sospx: y
sospx: you can't do that!
sospx: the last pope would NEVER have done that!!
Pope Leo: yeah i ain't da last pope
Pope Leo: i'm from Chicago
Pope Leo: see these society of st pius x jabronis wanna play hardball?
Pope Leo: i just ask myself, what would Gandalf do
Pope Leo: would he just let the necromancer secretly regain his orc-hold strength at dol Guldur after the downfall of nĆŗmenor?
Pope Leo: and i thought
Pope Leo: no he wouldn't!
JRR Tolkien: finally! someone who understands my work!
sospx: no fair!! no fair!!
sospx: we shouldn't have to listen to the pope to be catholic!
sospx: that's not how it works!
Pope Leo: eyyy who here's got da papal infallibility?
sospx: [mumbles]
Pope Leo: what's dat? speak up
sospx: you
Pope Leo: you're damn right it's me
Pope Leo: you're all schismed now
Pope Leo: an if you wanna come back, you gotta write "i am very very sorry for rejecting Vatican II" a hundred million times
Pope Leo: IN INK
sospx: nooooo we can't not be mad about Vatican ii
sospx: you don't understanddddd
sospx: we really hate jewsss
Pope Leo: ey then you can all get fucked
Pope Leo: i'm da Chicago pope!
Pope Leo: that's right
Pope Leo: i'm the Chicago pope
Pope Leo: i don't care who's toes i step on
Pope Leo: i'm gonna make a lotta enemies
Pope Leo: like when theoden of rohan lead the rohirrim at the battle of the pelennor fields to save minas tiri
Pope Leo: yeah it's just like dat
Blatty: enemies? who could possibly hate my beloved Chicago pope?!
[meanwhile]
Peter Thiel: [sweating like a baked ham, eyes ping ponging] the Chicago pope is in league with the gay trans catboy jews of the Chinese communist party and the space mutants , in conjunction with the RAND corporation, to elect greta Thunberg as Chicago antichrist
Dan Simmons: sounds legit
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i donāt think you understand i totally thought we were gonna die locked up in this castle but this fucking genius was like āim going to invent a way for humans to flyā. shout out to my dad heās a real one fr
LMAOOO this dude told me to be careful as he affixed the wings to my backā¦..dad no offense but you just invented flying and we have to go high enough to avoid the kingās archers. soo
i donāt understand why but heās coming closer. he is not supposed to stray from his path, lest the sun fall from the sky. why does he look so anguished to see me?
i pray to him just in case. i am grateful he tried. my palms are red and cracked from where they touched divinity. the ground does not look any closer than it was
i have not seen my father since we took flightā¦i hope he escaped. i hope he will not witness this. i wish i could tell him how joyful these wings made me before the wax melted
please please please i have no coin for the ferryman if i am to die now i will never reach the realm of hades please turn me into a bird any bird or a bug or something anything please please pleasepleaseplease
Daedalus who once, in great jealousy, killed his nephew by pushing him out a window and calling it an accident, loses his son by falling, by an accident.
Athena saved the nephew by turning him into a bird. She does not save Icarus.
We think of Icarus as a boy who died for flying too high, but in many ways he was a boy who died because of his father. His father was the reason they had to flee. His father granted a child flight and expected him not to fly.
What kind of father does not anticipate his son's excitement and delight? What kind of father builds a test of obedience (even unintentionally) in which the cost of disobedience is death?
They say Daedalus wept. He wept and dragged his wings to Cumae and built a temple to Apollo. He hangs those wings in that temple and vows to never fly again.
Apollo is, in many ways, a god of justice. He drives off evil and offers support to the innocent and helpless. Music and song and prophecy, yes, but he also protects the flock and herd. He loves the creation of cities. [src]
Of course he would reach for Icarus.
(And, if Apollo and Helios are the same (as some claim; same source), then Phaethon is also his son. Phaethon who Helios let take the chariot despite his misgivings. Phaethon who was murdered by Zeus for his inexperience.
Icarus, another boy dying for his father's folly, for a father entrusting something too dangerous to someone without experience.
Of course he would reach for Icarus.)
But he fails.
Later, Iapyx, Icarus' brother, will become a favorite of Apollo. Apollo is said to love him deeply, gifting him with prophecy, music, and healing. So gifted, Iapyx chooses to be a healer.
But I wonder, in this world in which Apollo reached, what came first? The gifts or the love? Did Apollo give such a bounty of gifts to Iapyx (when even his sons usually only had one or two) because he loved him? Or did he give the gifts first as an almost apology to Icarus? Or even in recognition of the temple Daedalus built and tears he wept?
With the gift of music, Iapyx might sing himself into favor with a future ruler. He'd never be trapped like Icarus had been.
With the gift of healing, Iapyx might keep himself alive if hurt.
With the gift of prophecy, Iapyx might never end up somewhere no one could reach to stop him from falling.
Did Apollo watch over Iapyx, protecting Icarus' brother as apology or penance, and fall for him that way? Did the love come later?
As is made clear upon reading Cheryl Harris and Alison Alexander's work on twentieth-century fandom, high cultureās response to fandom has changed little over the last century. The media, they note, ā[seems] well-invested in the idea of fandom as highly stigmatized, marked by ādanger, abnormality, and sillinessā in which fans engage in āsecret livesā without much purpose.ā Fantasy is constituted as a failed reality that can only fulfill the subject when transported, in its entirety, into the prior and privileged realm of the real. As a result, the editors of Byronās fan letters are unconvinced when the women themselves claim that their attraction for Byron is not sexual per se and thus insist upon their anonymity. Along with past critics, they have assumed that such gestures are meant to be mere hooks to catch the poet, and that the women want to have sex with him. Their assumption is based wholly on the notion that only in the real world can we ādo sex.ā But, if as Butler reminds us, āfantasy constitutes a dimension of the real,ā then these women perform sex not only in the writing of their letters to Byron but also in the very act of fantasizing.
ā Ghislaine McDayter, Byromania and the birth of celebrity culture (2009)
Yet, the women who write to Byron repeatedly make it clear that they are interested in some āotherā sort of relationship with him. Many speak of their fantasies of befriending his ex-lovers and his future wife, and if, as was sometimes the case, Byron did make a sexual advance on these women, he was often spurned. The ānotoriousā courtesan was particularly adept at putting Byron in his place, remarking curtly that although she had written in praise of Byron previously, she had merely āalluded to your understanding and common sense, not to your āāā which I conceived to be entirely out of the question.ā Byron, if not his critics, was to learn that, far from his admirers wishing to extend their sexual fantasies into the ārealā world, his figure seemed to serve a complex function in the operations of these womenās desire. He acted as a space or a setting for their fantasies.
pixelskylines
stormborns
