To my Cysters and Cyblings (Ovarian Cyst Care Rant)

 Yep, it's that time again kids! Sit down, shut up and settle in for another edition of Angry Bitch Rant Time. Today's topic: healthcare.

 Ten years ago my Mam took me up to the Queen Elizabeth Hospital with severe abdominal pain. I was squealing, crying and could barely move. I'd never felt anything like it. I was rushed through triage, saw several nurses and doctors, given morphine while waiting for the consultant - and found out that I'm allergic to morphine so no more of that for me! It was a chore just opening my eyes by the time the consultant got there, a nice young doctor who - I shit you not - was the spitting double of Arnold Rimmer; my Mam agreed so it wasn't just the morphine talking. He'd been called down to confirm that, yes, it was appendicitis and, yes, slice her and dice her, get the bastard out. But after a feel of my tummy he stopped and frowned, and asked me if I'd had pain like it before. I said I'd had similar pains a few weeks ago but they'd been on the other side so unless I had two appendices then it probably wasn't that. He frowned again, explaining that (thankfully) they wouldn't be whipping me down to surgery and I'd be kept overnight for more tests.

 As I was only 14 at the time I was taken over to the children's department and once my Mam went home at about 2am a nurse came in to chat to me and give me more painkillers. When I'd washed down the codeine and ibuprofen she asked if I'd had sex recently and immediately I panicked. Firstly, I was only 14 and thought I might get into trouble; secondly, could I be pregnant or have some horrible disease? But the scariest part... I hadn't, I'd been raped a few month beforehand. I didn't have the vocabulary at the time to tell her this so I just said yes and started crying. To her credit, she comforted me, reassured me I wasn't in trouble and she wouldn't tell my Mam, and rushed a pregnancy and sexual health test for me. Thankfully I wasn't but that just raised more questions. It wasn't my appendix, it wasn't pregnancy or and STI, so what could it be? Over the next couple of days I was kept in hospital (not a great way to spend my half term) and given I was on the children's ward I was bored out of my mind and surrounded by screaming kids. I got a lot of reading done but I was scared, in pain and bored while waiting for the results of blood tests and waiting for an ultrasound. 

 They day after my scan my best friend Devon came to see me. The visit did me the world of good, while it didn't stop me being in pain it was easier to forget about it - and she brought me Skittles. So far the painkillers I'd been on weren't taking the pain away but doped me up so much that I didn't care. We were right in the middle of giggling about Doctor Rimmer when another consultant, a white haired, well spoken, older man - late 50s I'd say - and without introducing himself or asking if it was okay, he bluntly said "lift your shirt please, I'm going to feel your stomach". That was uncomfortable enough on his own, not only because he pressed hard and his hands were cold, but because this stranger skipped introducing himself to the 14-year-old girl he wanted to have a feel of. In any other context this would be gross and criminal, but because he's a doctor it was just put down to poor bedside manner. Well, some people put it down to that, I put it down to him being a massive dickhead. After a feel and a frown he explained he'd looked at my scan and all he could find were ovarian cysts. Case closed, please cure me - right? I bloody wish.

 According to Doctor Rude "ovarian cysts shouldn't cause pain, it must be something else." I was discharged after this consultation and put on the waiting list for more outpatient tests for everything from digestive function, kidney function, food allergies. But when they all came back clear they decided they finally had a concrete diagnosis: it was Psychosomatic. 

 Calling it psychosomatic pain was basically a fancy way of telling me that they believed it was all in my head and that I must just be another attention-seeking anxious teenager. Yes, I was (and still am) incredibly anxious. Yes, in later life I was diagnosed with non-epileptic seizure disorder triggered by severe anxiety. The definition of psychosomatic pain is "pain disorders caused by psychological stress or anxiety and is characterized by chronic pain in more than one area and lasts from months to years". I'm not an expert by any means but looking back, if I had disclosed my sexual assault to them then I can see why they'd think it was psychosomatic, but I hadn't. As far as they knew I was pretty happy, if a little skittish, so I must be looking for attention. I would have happily let it go and tried telling myself that they were right, it was all in my head, if the pain didn't keep coming back.

 Every now and then over the past ten years I've experienced the same agonising, stabbing, burning pain. Unable to stand, unable to sit up, unable to move, sweating, shivering, curled up and crying. I've done all the right things, gone to my GP and gotten a referral to gynecology, and been told after most of those scans "yes, you have a sizeable ovarian cyst, it should go away on its own - just put up and shut up". A few years ago I was hospitalised again with suspected appendicitis, though insisted the whole time that I was just taking up a bed that somebody else needed, but they wanted to get to the bottom of it. I was seen by another male consultant who again, had an appalling lack of bedside manner; this time not even bothering to ask for consent or speak to me at all - instead he woke me up by feeling my stomach while I slept. Of course being touched by somebody with such cold hands woke me up and led to tears and panic, while he made a sub-par effort to calm me down and explain who he was and why he was there. He couldn't understand why I was so angry and shouting at him for just "doing his job". In the end I was transferred up to Gyno, crying the whole way out of pain, exhaustion and frustration. Yet again, it showed what I knew was there: a big fat cyst the size of a tangerine.

 I'm writing this now because I'm having a particularly bad time with them at the minute and although I know I probably should seek some sort of medical attention, what's the point? I'll just be told yes, it's cysts again, toughen up and go home. And I'm far from the only one who's experienced this sort of treatment (or lack thereof). So many uterus-having people experience pain with ovarian cysts, and so many other gynecological conditions that leave them in agony, but all they hear from their healthcare provider is "yes, it comes with the territory of having a womb, deal with it". Surgical removal of cysts is only considered when they're extremely large as many do just go away on their own, and I'm sure that others who've gone through the unpleasantness of one bursting... Our doctors need to be doing better. We need more research into non-surgical treatment for ovarian cysts. Yes, small ones are normal, many people will get them at some point, and they do go away on their own. But when you go through years of pain and all you're advised is to tough it out because nothing can be done, we need to find something to do about it.

 My experience is just another case out of many, with sans-uteri medical professionals refusing to believe the pain that we're in because it contradicts what their textbooks say.  There's no two ways about it, just because you have a degree doesn't mean you decide how much pain my body is causing me; and just because you've never experienced it personally doesn't mean that it can't happen. This is my body with its fucked-up ovaries and fucked-up other parts that is screaming out "I'm hurting, please help." So when it comes to gynecology, here's the bottom line:

Doctor Who's Jodie Whittaker: Nude Photos, The Sun and Mail Online (throw them in the sea)

 This is by no means the first time the Fail and the Scum have been misogynistic shits, objectifying and demonising women. And this is by no means the first time, nor will it be the last, that celebrity women have been shamed for nude photographs or scenes in their work, as I've covered before with the 'scandal' around Emma Watson's beautiful pictures in Vanity Fair. They try to portray women's bodies as something dirty, something shameful, but at the same time something that men are entitled to objectify, ogle, and get gratification from.

 I was utterly speechless when Jodie Whittaker was announced as the thirteenth Doctor. I was sitting in the bedroom on my DS, running through Pokemon X again and trying to complete my Pokedex when Paul called me into the living room. I'd lost track of the time and didn't realise the announcement was coming up, so when I saw the video... I couldn't even make words, I just couldn't. I was so, so happy. I can't wait for Whittaker's first episode. And how do these publications mark such a landmark announcement? Well of course by making it all about her body, her appearance, and her value as a sexual object. They same way they mark any achievement by a woman.

 Needless to say I'm absolutely foaming about this. What the genuine fuck? For all the supposed 'paedo hunting' the S*n like to think they do, they are now sexualising not only the idea of nudity to children through this, but an iconic children's television character. And what message does this send to the young women who watch Doctor Who? It tells them to be ashamed of their bodies, ashamed of nudity, and that they only exist for men's gratification - if they meet the unrealistic standards that these media outlets set for them to be measured against.

But think of it this way: during his time as the Doctor, Matt Smith appeared in the BBC adaptation of Christopher Isherwood's autobiography Goodbye to Berlin called 'Christopher and His Kind'. If you haven't seen or read it then I implore you to do so; you'll laugh, you'll cry, you'll beg for more. It chronicle's Isherwood's time (played by Matt Smith) in the heydey of Weimar Berlin's underground gay scene, amidst the rise of the Nazi Party. It's both heartbreaking and heartwarming. During the filming of the sex scenes, the BBC implored director Geoffrey Sax that they had to be careful not to show shots of Smith's bare behind, as they couldn't show the Doctor's arse on telly. Sad, yes, but fair enough. They managed perfectly without doing so, despite the fact Smith has a glorious arse. Starring in not only nude scenes, but gay sex scenes. The tabloids could've had a field day with it but didn't, just a small article here or there. And I'm glad they didn't, it would've been a total violation of Smith's role, trying to slander and scapegoat him for playing an such an iconic role. It would be a betrayal of Isherwood's literary legacy, reducing his life and work to nothing more than a sex scene. So why are they doing the same to Whittaker? 

 Oh yeah, because they're misogynistic pieces of shit who don't believe women exist for any reason other than to be sexualised and objectified. By men. There's is absolutely nothing wrong with nudity, but the way they portray it in the press is sickening. So the next time you see a copy of the Daily Hate Mail or the Scum, do the world a favour and chuck them in the bloody sea along with anybody who reads it.

Street Harassment: A Short But Sweet Insight

So in the past twelve days I have been catcalled or otherwise harassed on the street I live on. Given that it's the main street of Heaton, you can account for more footfall, more people passing through etc, therefore more wankers passing through but in less than a fortnight I'm starting to feel less safe in my own community. I have called Heaton my home for almost five years now and I'm not going to let dickheads make me feel unsafe on my own streets.

The first, believe it or not, was a bloke pushing a pram telling me to get my tits out. Given that his kid was of toddling and talking age I can just imagine their child going back to nursery next week, the staff asking if he enjoyed the holidays and him going "yes...get your tits out!". Some top-notch parenting there.

 The second was last Friday, the day after I'd truly earned my Darwin Award by stabbing myself in the leg while loading the dishwasher. So limping, full of stitches and painkillers, and generally feeling sorry for myself, I had a wander up to Boots for some more dressings and ibuprofen. I stopped in at a few charity shops on the way - notably the Newcastle Dog and Cat Shelter shop on Chillingham Road, awesome prices, nice stuff and they do wonderful work - and I found some lovely bits and pieces, three dresses and a top for a tenner! So feeling nice and perky, I was walking home and I'm stopped by three knobheads in a shitty corsa. The guy in the passenger seat goes with the ever original "oi oi sexy!", and when I tell him to go fuck himself him and his mates thought they'd be big and clever and go "oooOOOoooOohh!" in that patronising way, you know the one I mean. And because these geniuses are stuck at the traffic lights, what's a girl to do? So I went and kicked the bastards car. It was just sat there being all shiny and provocative with three idiots inside! Who could resist!?

 Today was a double-whammy. I was walking home from the shop and some prick thinks he's big and clever and makes kissy noises at me; and when I turn to do a double take he grabs his crotch. Mate, given that your hands looked smaller than Trump's, I wouldn't go comparing them to your dick as a scale, they'll just make you think it's big.

 Then tonight I was out doing some Pokémon hunting, there was a Bayleef at the corner shop! And some bloke going into the chippy asks me "how much?" with one of those sickening eyebrow-wriggles and a smirk you just want to remove from his face with sandpaper.  I was wearing my pimp coat (big, fluffy leopard print one that I love), polka-dot playsuit, over-the-knee-socks, and Docs. But why should it matter what I was wearing? So, unable to think of a witty comeback on the spot and having finished my cigarette, I throw the end at him. Consider it up-cycling - of him, not the tab end. He went from being human garbage to an ash tray with a pulse.

 It might seem like an overreaction but... I don't give a shit. I'm sick of the men who think this behavior is okay. When I told Paul when I got home he said "if I ever thought speaking to lasses like that was okay then my Mam would knock my block off." And so she should! In fact I would love to see a reality TV programme where men have to read out the shitty things they say to women they don't know to their mothers. Then the mothers are given a score out of ten for how well they kick the shit out of their sons. Hey, it's more educational than Keeping up with the Kardashians.

 And for any whiny "ugh, stop complaining and get a life" folk out there, this is my life. And the lived experience of almost every other woman I've ever met ever. And they need to learn to not be shitty.

 So when I was discussing this with my lovely friend Becky at the weekend we came up with a brilliant idea: stickers. Industrial strength stickers. To put on the vehicles or general person of men who think it's big and clever to catcall. Stickers so sticky that they'll have to pay for it to be removed professionally or wreck whatever it was stuck to by peeling it off. It can be their penance and punishment for being so shitty to women. Big, fuck-off sticky stickers that say "I'm a misogynist, do not approach!". Yeah...

So yes, this ended up a little longer than intended but I can't think of another title. And I'm sick of shitty men.

TL,DR: men, stop being shitty.

Not a Bitch to be messed with 😘