In December I was diagnosed with an endocrine disorder called PCOS. Apparently, it’s very common. One in ten women have PCOS, yet no one talks about it. I think part of the reason it isn’t talked about is that there’s no space for those conversations. But then I think about multiple times in the past month that I could have brought it up, yet I didn’t.
There’s space for it but maybe not courage.
Why does it take courage? I feel like PCOS has “embarrassing” symptoms. Excess hair growth, excess weight carried around the stomach, hard to lose weight, difficult to become pregnant, unbalanced hormones. Not the types of things that you tend to bring up without a hint of awkwardness. Yet, I have some friends where I won’t hesitate to talk about these things because I’m not embarrassed to talk about it with people who know me. People who I feel safe with. Part of me just doesn’t want to explain it to people when I’m just starting to understand it myself. But if I don’t explain it then who will? And how will people become aware of how prevalent this disease is?
Here’s how I felt about it in December:
Last Monday I went to the doctor and they told me I have PCOS. Right now I feel fine about the diagnosis. Yesterday I was pretty weepy about it. I will probably never have a baby. never be pregnant. Part of me says “you’re being dramatic.” But the other part wants space to mourn the loss. I want someone to cry with me. To sit in the pain with me. I don’t want to hear “It’s going to be okay” “you can always adopt” “lots of women with PCOS still get pregnant” “At least it’s not (insert another disease that is perceived as worse).” I really wanted to get a dignosis for all these issues I’ve been having. Now I want to be something else. Something curable, not just treatable.
Now I feel apathetic towards it. I’ve had my time to grieve and process. I’ve read the research and gotten books out of the library. I’ve watched the YouTube videos and read the blogs. Maybe apathetic isn’t the right word. I think I’ve accepted it. I’ve accepted that people say “when you have kids” rather than “if you can have kids.” I’ve accepted that I will be sugar free for the rest of my life. I’ve accepted it.
I feel like I had no right to grieve because it’s really not that bad in comparison to other struggles people are going through. I’m doubting whether I should even post this blog. Writing out has helped me process things, which is good. I don’t want people’s judgment of me. I feel like I’ll be judged because I feel like I was being dramatic. Yes, there are some crapy syptoms, but there are worse things.
See, I always assign a value to things. I have no right to grieve when someone else’s loss is greater than mine. I have no right to complain about treatment when there is a treatment available. It could be worse. People who have it worse or love someone who has it worse will judge you for complaining. You have no right. This is the mean girl talking.
Comparison is the thief of all joy.
Comparison is also the thief of connection. Rather than comparing myself to others why can’t I say “this is what I’m going through and this is how I’m processing it” I’m not ranking it in comparison to what you’re going through. By hurting about my thing I’m not devaluing the hurt you feel about your thing. Let’s sit in the pain together rather than trying to find the silver lining. Let’s connect and support rather than compare and assign rank.
Leaving Room for Grace 