There’s a term for this nightmare of a condition that plagues me.
Creates small fires in my belly. Devouring my ovaries in unexpected wild waves.
An internal storm, leaving these lemons sheathed in curved razor blade armor.
They take residence below your abdomen, sitting four and five in a line, just within your hips, slicing into your most sacred space.
Hot and sharp as if they’ve been forged in middle earth.
You try not to move, praying your stillness creates a sanctuary too soft for them to survive.
And yet they burn hotter, grow larger, seemingly with every breath, with each full-body rest.
Endometriosis gives way to polycystic ovarian syndrome.
The doctors prescribe, attempt to remove each lemon turned melon, for fear of cancer, for lack of any other apparent option. Medications counteract, leaving you overwhelmed, afraid to move, fetal and weeping for solace from the hurt, for your former fully functioning self.
You mentally bathe your body in this ancient river water, like a protective shield against these unwanted attacks.
A warrior by circumstance.
You’ve got more living to do in this shell. More stories to gather and tell.
You refuse to be taken out this way.
Let those unable to offer solace, help lift you from this ash, leave altogether in this long, hot wave.
Deep breaths. It’s merely a re-birthing, a shedding of the unnecessary, a test of trust in your spirit body.
This too shall pass, echoes out a long lineage of women who fought and forged these same fiery battles. This too shall pass.