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:

Street Harassment: the Next Generation (aka Here We Go A-Fucking-Gain)

 Yes it’s that time again folks. Grab a blanket, some snacks and a glass of something strong because it’s that time again… Angrybitch Rant Time! You could say I have it down to an “art”. I’m sorry, that was dreadful, but that’s my only pun for today because this is a pretty serious rant. I’m somewhere between total rage, dumbfoundedness and exasperated; it’s pretty much a stop the world I want to get off sort of situation. I can’t remember which friend shared this picture but it jogged my memory and got me thinking about the topic.


 This is sadly very relevant for me today. Walking back from Asda and I'm confronted by three such creatures with penises, one of them informing me that his mate “wants a sucky-sucky". Of course, like any occasion when you experience street harassment (the fact that so many of you know this feeling personally is also saddening for me) I simultaneously wanted to vomit, punch said person in the face, blow up at them, or drag them by the ear and make them tell their mother what they’d just said to me. But there was something very different about this time around.

 This wasn't a fully grown adult specimen. Three of them must have been about twelve. Twelve. T-w-e-l-v-e. At the most - 12. Normally I'm quite sharp on the comebacks to cat-calling but I was just so stunned, I was more or less speechless. Well, I did tell him that he can sucky-sucky it himself because I can guarantee that nobody else ever will. It was all I could think to say. It seems like a tiny, insignificant thing; an interaction that lasted less than ten seconds (I could’ve said literally that to him but a) only just thought of it now and b) I’d probably give him a complex, it’d be too cruel). But it really got to me, mostly the fact that he is a child, meaning children are still growing up to think this is an appropriate/acceptable thing to say to a total stranger. And it really saddens me, especially when I think about the young girls who are growing up alongside boys like this and will be no doubt exposed to this harassment personally and more frequently.


This is not "boys will be boys" or "kids being kids", it's sexual harassment. It’s not just lads trying to look cool in front of their mates, testing out provoking behavior to push the boundaries and see what they can get away with. It’s a crime, plain and simple. They're not making this up as a new ‘thing’, this isn’t a trend like Snapchat and fidget spinners. It’s learned behaviour.

 “Oh but I always tell my boy to respect women, I don’t know where he’s getting it from!”. Hmm, let’s see… We have women in media, objectified in everything from Certain Tabloids That Will Not Be Named to videogames, to sporting events and yogurt adverts. We have this hegemonic view of beauty standards that all women, whether they fit into this conventional beauty box or not, we’re all held up to this scale that somehow ranks and measures our worth as an overall human being. It’s shit being a woman at times, genuinely.

 And probably the factor that has the most impact on the development of these views. It’s their schoolmates, cousins, community leaders, neighbours, and of course their families. It's easy enough to say "oh, little Tommy's just pushing the boundaries, seeing what adult behaviour he can get away with before being told off" - WELL OF COURSE HE IS CAROL because every time Big Tommy takes him out to the match with his grown-up mates he sees them doing exactly the same thing; hearing how they talk about women, learning how they value women - and let me tell you, they don’t hold us up very highly. We always hear how men totally respect women, like their Mam, their Gran, their sister… But guess what? This attitude isn’t extended to us women they don’t know, firstly because as strangers we’re seen as just...objects really, and secondly because they knew if their said that to their Nan or aunty then she’d clip him round the ear, and his Dad - or any male figure he respects - will reprimand him, tell him we don’t talk that way to women. Yet he’ll be seeing that same male figure gawking at a stranger’s cleavage, or hear him wolf-whistle at a woman walking down the street, or talking about how fit the lady who works at the local pub is.

 It’s not just Little Tommy that’s learning this behaviour either, it’s Little Carol too. Say one day Big Tommy takes her to the match with them, just one time so he can spend some “quality time with his little girl” or “take her of your hands for the day - as a treat to you Carol!”. She is going to be taking in the same things that her brother/assorted male relative is, but what’s worse is that she won’t be seeing it as something that is all in good fun. She’ll be seeing it is something to expect when she grows up. And don’t tell me that Big Tommy will be on his best behaviour in front of his Princess. This time last year a bloke shouted from across the road at me “oi oi love, get your tits out!” WHILE PUSHING HIS DAUGHTER IN HER BUGGY. Some men are just scum like that. Women group up exposed to street harassment thanks to the men in our communities and honestly, a lot of you are probably sound lads but for those with kids/young relatives who do do the occasional cheeky once-over of a woman you don’t know in public: those kids are seeing it from an adult man they probably respect or at least are learning from. So don’t teach them this shit.

 And going back to the old chestnut of the women they’re related to that they respect, how would you feel knowing that your son had said this to a girl or woman that is somebody else’s Mam/sister/cousin/Gran etc? Or if your female relative was the one who was propositioned in the street by a stranger? You’d want to knock the bastard’s teeth out wouldn’t you. A lot of people say they don’t want to pass bad habits onto the kids in their lives, so why keep passing on this one? Why keep teaching that it’s acceptable to say these things and acceptable to have them said to you? Yes, some may be teaching them unintentionally but like kids do with walking, talking and using things like spoons and iPads; they learn by watching you do them. Street harassment and cat-calling aren’t a bad habit though, it’s gender-based sexual harassment; it’s a criminal offence, and really if you do these things you should be thrown in the sea. Simple as.


 So yeah, this was my experience of being propositioned by a child. I still feel sick to my stomach and this feeling will pass, but as I get older it’s harder to shake when all it does is remind me of the fact that there are kids growing up with this learned behaviour and there are kids who are yet to become women who grow up knowing that they will experience harassment like this. Like I’ve mentioned in previous posts I have three amazing nieces, ranging in ages from six months to almost six, and if any of them were to go through this then I don’t care how old or of what gender the harasser is then I am more than happy to kick the shit out of that person.

 And to anybody who’s read through this and thought “I cat-call women all the time and they don’t say things like this. Just take the compliment and shut up.” Firstly, you’re a piece of shit and you need to stop. Secondly, take a moment to think about the kids in your life, especially young girls, and think about a stranger telling them how good her legs would look with their head between them (genuine thing that a white van man once said to me). Because if you keep doing what you’re doing, saying what you’re saying, then you’re feeding into that culture, keeping it going, and creating a society where she will have something like that said to her by a stranger. Think about that and do better than it, you fucking arsehole.

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 😘