And some of them are not even tasty. And they are not even drugs, either.
They are hormones.
I speak not of sex-change supplements, Hormone Replacement Therapy, or even anabolic steroids. No--for even the evils of all those drugs cannot compare to the torment that has befallen me. Through some fault of my own, I have become the victim of a horrendous misunderstanding.
I have been fitted with an instrument of torture known as the Mirena Coil. This device, although apparently suitable for preventing pregnancy without the need for smelly uncomfortable things like condoms, has one un-redeeming feature that can only be overlooked at one's peril...
It contains *pregnancy* hormones.
How did I miss this? How could I not have realised, when they said, 'progesterone' in my pre-surgery assessment, that that is the very name of the very hormone that made me VERY ILL AND UNPLEASANT for, oh, about 8 months at a stretch, twice in the last 4 years. How did that word, with its horrible connotations and sinister implications, just fly right past me and not even set off a single alarm?
'P' is for 'progesterone.' 'P' is for 'pregnancy.'
'P' is for 'pillock.'
I'm honestly forced to go down the road of blaming myself for this mess; and mess it is. I am tired, sore, itchy, my legs have begun swelling periodically, my body temperature's all over the place, and my skin looks like it did when I was 17 (that's not young and smooth, that's covered in acne and oily patches, in case you're wondering). I have no patience and less control over when I burst into tears, and my ever-present anxiety is continually threatening to upgrade itself to a full-blown panic attack. I can't stop eating, I'm putting on weight--not entirely unexpected, that second bit, when you take into account the first bit--and I'm actually slightly constipated.
And my left breast hurts. Just the left one. So instead of thinking it's hormone-related, I jump straight to OMG-what-if-it's-cancer.
And then I DO have a panic attack.
FFS. Even I think this is all getting old. If it keeps hurting, I'll just chop it off and feed it to my cat. It's not like I need it for anything. I'm not planning on having any more kids, after all, and nobody wants to have sex when they're under the influence of prego-hormone.
ROFL. That is a blatant lie. The *worst* thing about being pregnant, is the constant desire to have sex, juxtaposed with the sickening realisation that nobody wants to even touch you, ever, because you look like a cow and you act like a hungry crocodile.
But maybe. Just maybe. Maybe this time, since I'm not actually shaped like a balloon, and my moodswings are presumably not going to get any worse than they are right now (as opposed to in actual pregnancy, when they start off as scary and progress to terrifying in about a month) maybe, just maybe, I'll actually have *more* sex, due to the wonders of this unique implement. I'll have to hope for that, and be thankful for silver linings--silver linings like, for example, the fact that you can't get pregnant if your body thinks you already are.
Cunning. Cunning, and wretched.
Oh, Mirena Coil. Why do you torment me so?