Tag: chronic pelvic pain

A warm mug of hot cocoa with marshmallows sits near soft twinkle lights, with a snowy winter view outside the window. Text reads “When My Body Got Quiet,” conveying comfort and calm after a long season of pain.

When My Body Got Quiet

January 26, 2026 / Sandi

But my brain didn’t trust the silence yet

Content note: mention of blood as a trauma trigger (non-graphic)

Part 12 — When My Body Got Quiet, My Brain Didn’t

I thought that once surgery was over, everything would be better.

I thought relief would feel like freedom.

I thought I’d wake up one morning and my body would finally be… normal.

But that isn’t what happened.

Not exactly.

Because my body got quieter.

But my brain didn’t.

✨The Weird Thing About Feeling Better

After the hysterectomy, I realized something almost immediately:

The pain I had been living with for years was gone — or at least, dramatically reduced.

And instead of feeling instantly joyful, I felt…confused.

Like my body had been screaming for so long that when it finally stopped, the silence didn’t feel peaceful at first.

It felt unfamiliar.

It felt like standing in a room after a fire alarm shuts off — ears ringing, heart racing, waiting for the next blast of noise.

My body was calmer.

But my nervous system was still bracing.

🧠 I Kept Flinching Anyway

I kept expecting pain to catch me off guard.

I’d shift my weight… and wait.

I’d stand up… and wait.

I’d laugh too hard… and wait.

I’d wake up in the morning… and wait.

I kept doing the math I’d done for years:

How long can I sit before it hurts?

How far can I walk before I pay for it?

How much energy do I have before my body turns against me?

How many hours until I’m curled up again?

Even when the pain wasn’t there like it used to be…the fear of it still was.

My brain didn’t trust relief.

Not yet.

And I didn’t have a name for it at first, but I do now: C-PTSD or Chronic Post Traumatic Stress Disorder

Even after surgery helped my body, my nervous system stayed on alert. I braced. I flinched. And sometimes I fell apart emotionally at the sight or smell of blood — like my body couldn’t tell the difference between “now” and all the years I spent bleeding and being told it was normal.

It wasn’t weakness.

It was my body remembering.

🖤 The Truth: I Was Still In Survival Mode

I didn’t realize how much trauma my body had stored until the pain stopped being the main emergency.

Because once the constant bleeding and pelvic pain calmed down, a new reality bubbled up underneath it:

I had been surviving.

For years.

I had been dismissed, gaslit, minimized, and made to feel like I was exaggerating my own suffering.

I had learned to speak carefully.

To downplay.

To brace for disappointment.

To expect rejection.

I didn’t just lose trust in doctors.

I lost trust in my own body.

So even when my uterus was finally gone…the survival programming didn’t just disappear with it.

It clung.

🌊 The Aftershocks

Healing is supposed to feel like a straight line in the right direction.

But for me, it didn’t.

It felt more like waves.

Some days I felt lighter.

Some days I felt angry.

Some days I felt grief I couldn’t name.

Some days my body felt calm, but my muscles stayed clenched anyway.

Because pain had been my normal for so long that my body had built a whole personality around it:

shoulders always tight

jaw clenched

pelvic floor guarded

breath shallow

nervous system stuck on high alert

It wasn’t just pain.

It was conditioning.

🌱 Learning a New Kind of Healing

Eventually, I started to understand something important:

Relief isn’t always the finish line.

Sometimes relief is just the moment you finally have space to start healing in other ways.

My surgery removed a massive source of physical suffering.

But it didn’t erase the years of damage caused by being ignored.

It didn’t erase the fear.

It didn’t erase the grief.

It didn’t erase the way my body learned to tense first and ask questions later.

So I started trying to heal differently.

Not by pushing.

Not by proving.

Not by pretending I was magically fixed.

But by listening.

By learning what safety felt like again.

By letting my body be cautious… and gently showing it that it didn’t have to fight so hard anymore.

When the Shoe Never Dropped

January 19, 2026 / Sandi

Part 11 — Learning to live without bracing for pain

Content note: post-surgical recovery, chronic pain history, grief, anger, medical trauma(non-graphic)

There’s a strange thing nobody tells you about finally getting help.

Sometimes the hardest part isn’t the pain.

It’s the silence after.

✨Waiting for the Other Shoe to Drop

The first couple days after surgery, I kept waiting for the moment where the real pain would show up.

Because it had to, right?

A major operation doesn’t just feel like a mild inconvenience. There was no way this was going to be easier than the pain I lived with before. No way.

So I waited for the “shoe to drop.”I waited for the moment where my body would remind me that healing still hurts. That I didn’t get to escape pain that easily.

But that moment never came.

Never.

🔥 The Weirdest Part? The Shots Were Worse

There was soreness, sure. Tenderness. A body trying to recover.

But the thing that irritated me the most during recovery wasn’t the surgery at all.

It was the daily blood thinning shot I had to give myself.

Those little injections annoyed me far more than anything happening at my surgical site. And that realization stopped me in my tracks.

If that was the thing pushing me toward grumpiness, then it meant something profound: my baseline for pain had been so high for so long that even post-surgical healing felt gentler than the life I’d been living before.

The closest I came to an “oh fuck this hurts” moment was… honestly kind of ridiculous.

I sneezed.

While sitting on the toilet.

With absolutely no way to brace my abdomen.

That one was HORRIBLE.

For a split second, I was convinced I’d popped a stitch. I yelled for my wife (then girlfriend), panicking, and had her check to make sure I wasn’t bleeding.

Everything was fine — but the fact that that was the worst moment?

That’s when a quiet realization began to settle in:

If this was the worst of it…then what I had been living with before was truly unimaginable.

🌊 The Shock of “Better”

I kept getting reminded to take my pain meds.

Not because I was being brave.

But because I just… didn’t feel desperate for them.

My wife looked at me at one point and said something I’ll never forget:

“You just had major surgery. You should be feeling worse than this.”

And she wasn’t wrong.

She was shocked.

But I wasn’t.

Because the truth was… post-surgery pain wasn’t even half of what I’d been living with.

And that thought didn’t just bring relief.

It cracked open something deeper.

🖤 Grief Isn’t Always Sad

The grief didn’t come all at once.

It didn’t show up as a dramatic breakdown or a movie moment.

It showed up as anger.

Lots of anger.

I was angry because I was right.

I was angry because the hysterectomy did give me my life back.

I was angry at all the doctors who dismissed me, minimized me, and made me feel like I was just weak or dramatic or “too sensitive.”

I was angry at the procedures I was pushed into — the ones that were supposed to help, but only made my case more complex.

And I was angry at my body.

Angry that I didn’t have a “normal” body.

Even after surgery, my body is still complicated. I still have fibromyalgia. I still have arthritis. I still have pain.

But I was angry that my body turned against me for so long in a way that stole entire years of my life.

And then there was the grief that surprised me most.

I never really wanted children.

But I still grieved that the choice was taken away — not by preference, not by timing… but by survival.

By necessity.

It was the option being gone that hurt, even more than the option itself.

🌱 Learning to Live Without Bracing

The truth is… I didn’t know how to exist without pain being the loudest voice in the room.

For so long, my entire life was built around survival:

managing symptoms

preparing for the next flare

fighting to be believed

holding myself together in public

collapsing in private

Pain wasn’t just something I experienced.

It became part of my personality.

My schedule.

My nervous system.

My identity.

So when it finally got quieter, it wasn’t instantly peaceful.

It was unfamiliar.

It was disorienting.

It was like my body didn’t know what to do with a life that didn’t revolve around suffering.

I kept waiting for punishment.

I kept waiting for the other shoe.

But it never dropped.

And slowly, the quiet started to feel like something else:

A beginning.

Adenomyosis: The Pain I Carried for 24 Years

Snow-covered evergreen trees silhouetted against a soft winter dawn sky, centered over a gently blurred background, symbolizing waking up to a new beginning after surgery.

The Moment My After Began

December 18, 2025 / Sandi

Part 10 — The Days Before, The Day Of, and The Moment After

Content Note: surgical anxiety, medical trauma, reproductive health

There’s a strange kind of countdown that happens before major surgery — a slow drip of days where hope and terror sit in the same room, staring at each other.

I thought the week before my hysterectomy would feel peaceful.

Relieved.

Certain.

Instead, it felt like standing on a cliff edge with the wind shifting every few seconds.

The Lead-Up: Hope, Fear, and Every “What If”

My biggest fear wasn’t the surgery itself.

It was that it would be cancelled.

Bad weather, a paperwork mistake, a cruel cosmic joke — I imagined every scenario where the universe might yank it away. After decades of dismissal, having real help lined up felt almost too fragile to trust.

But beneath that fear was another one, quieter and sharper:

“What if the pain doesn’t go away?”

“What if my uterus wasn’t the whole problem?”

Holding those questions was like holding my breath for days.

And then came the moments that made everything real.

The call from the clinic about pre-op procedures.

The checklist.

The instructions.

The confirmation that yes, this was happening.

But the moment that hit deepest was picking up my partner — my then-girlfriend, now wife — from the train station. She insisted on being there with me. Seeing her step off that train felt like the universe saying:

“You don’t have to do this alone.”

A couple nights before surgery, something beautiful happened — tender, intimate, and full of trust. I won’t write it explicitly here, but it was a moment that made me feel fully loved, fully wanted, and fully held in my body for maybe the first time in years. We watched fireworks through my bedroom window, shared something soft and close, and for a few hours I let myself stop being afraid.

The following night she made me my “last meal” before fasting — peanut butter and jelly and a few simple things she knew I loved. It wasn’t fancy. It didn’t have to be. It was love in its purest form: small, thoughtful, grounding.

🚗 The Drive to the Hospital

My best friend drove us.

My partner sat in the back, rubbing my shoulders to keep me anchored.

About ten minutes away, I started sinking lower and lower into the seat — like my body was trying to hide from what was coming. 🤣

My bestie kept talking to distract me.My partner kept touching my shoulders softly.I kept sinking.

By the time we pulled into the parking lot, I was a puddle of nerves and used facial tissue.

🏥 The Day of Surgery: Fear, Kindness, and That Last Moment

Inside, everyone was incredibly kind.The staff could tell I was scared — mostly because I was openly crying the entire time. I let my best friend and my partner answer most of the questions because I was shaking too hard to think straight.

When the surgeon came in to the operating room. The same one who had held my fear so gently days earlier.

She asked, “Are you ready?”

I burst into tears.

“I’m so scared,” I said — or maybe sobbed.

She came around behind me where I was lying on the table, bent down, stroked my face gently, and said:

“I’ve got you. I won’t let anything happen to you.”

That was the last thing I remember.

Being held.

Being reassured.

Being believed.

If there’s a way to fall asleep feeling safe, that was it.

🌄 Waking Up: The Beginning of My After

Waking up from surgery felt like blinking through fog. I could barely stay conscious. I remember being wheeled outside into the sunlight, my best friend pulling the car around, and my wife holding my hand, telling me everything went beautifully.

I remember pharmacy bags.

I remember laughing that I was too tired to walk and then promptly falling asleep with my head on the dining room table when we got home.

They wrapped me in a blanket, propped a pillow under my cheek, and let me rest right there. I was comfy. 😂

I don’t remember talking to my doctor afterward — it’s all haze and fragments — but I remember the feeling:

A strange, quiet lightness.

The pain was there, but it wasn’t the same pain. Not that grinding, consuming ache that had shaped my life for decades. This was surgical pain — sharp, clear, temporary.

I actually had to be reminded to take my pain meds.

My wife looked at me wide-eyed and said:

“I never realized how much pain you were in daily until now. You had major surgery — you should be feeling worse than this.”

And that’s when it hit me.

I had lived in so much pain for so long that even post-surgery pain was easier.

Lighter.

More merciful.

🌱 The Shift Into the After

I didn’t wake up healed in every way.

But I woke up different.

I woke up with a future that didn’t feel like something to endure.

And maybe that’s what healing really is:

Not the absence of pain, but the presence of possibility.

When the Shoe Never Dropped-Part 11

The Appointment That Changed Everything

December 15, 2025 / Sandi

Part 9 — The Appointment That Changed Everything

Content Note: medical trauma, medical dismissal, mention of hysterectomy (non-graphic)

There are days that divide your life into before and after.

For years, I lived in the before — where pain was normal, bleeding was normal, dismissal was normal, and survival was the only thing my body seemed capable of.

But this day was different.

It didn’t start with hope.

It started with fear.

I was terrified this would be just another appointment where my pain was questioned, not a moment where a doctor finally believed me.

🌫️ Walking Into a Clinic Full of Ghosts

My partner did something no one else ever had:

She didn’t tell me to “push through.”

They didn’t suggest I was overreacting.

They didn’t minimize a single thing I’d endured.

They researched instead — reviews, credentials, malpractice records, red flags, success stories — all the parts of the medical maze I was too exhausted and traumatized to navigate myself. When they finally looked up from the screen, they said:

“This place feels different. I think we should try.”

Try mattered.

It wasn’t a promise of answers — just a promise that I wouldn’t face another disappointment alone.

So I went.

But walking into that clinic felt like stepping back onto a battlefield I barely survived the first time. The antiseptic smell yanked me into memories I hated. The waiting room chairs whispered the hours I’d spent rocking through pain while being ignored. Every closed door felt like another verdict:

You’re wrong about your own body.

❤️ The Moment I Couldn’t Pretend Anymore

I wish I could say I marched in bravely.

I didn’t.

My voice shook. My heart pounded. I was less afraid of my symptoms than I was of the humiliation that might come next. After years of medical gaslighting, dismissal felt more dangerous than the pain itself.

Because if this doctor didn’t believe me, I knew I wouldn’t have the strength to try again.

🔍 The First Time a Doctor Finally Believed Me

When the door opened and the doctor walked in, I braced myself — armor on, shoulders tense, ready for the impact of disbelief.

But something unexpected happened:

She listened.

Not politely.

Not impatiently.

Not waiting for her turn to invalidate me.

She listened with curiosity, not suspicion. She had already reviewed the mountain of medical records I sent — every test, note, ER visit, dismissal, and contradictory opinion. She didn’t need to poke and prod or order another scan to stall the inevitable.

After I finished speaking, she looked directly at me and said:

“I believe you.”

Three words, and the air in the room changed.

For decades, my pain had been screaming into the void — and no one cared.

Until now.

🌼 The Twist I Didn’t Expect

Then came the part that shattered me:

“Your case is too complex for me. I don’t think I could perform the surgery properly.”

A lifetime of neglect had turned my body into a medical Rubik’s Cube no one wanted to solve. Thickened uterine walls. Complications from past decisions. A puzzle built by indifference.

For a moment, hope dangled — and then snapped.

But before I shattered, she continued:

“I know someone who specializes in cases like yours. I’m sending your file to her today.”

It felt like being handed a key to a locked door I wasn’t allowed to open yet — but at least the door existed.

🌸 The Doctor Who Finally Saw Me

When I met the specialist, she didn’t start with charts or jargon. She said:

“Tell me what’s been going on — in your own words.”

I told her everything. All of it. Every year of pain, every ER visit, every month lost to bleeding, every dismissed plea for help.

She listened, reviewed my records, and then said the sentence that cracked something wide open in me:

“You’re not living — you’re just surviving.”

Then:

“I can get you in for a hysterectomy in about a week and a half.”

I didn’t feel victory.

I felt grief.

Grief for the teenage girl who thought bleeding for months was normal.

Grief for the woman who rocked alone waiting for clots the size of hands.

Grief for every ER visit that ended in nothing but shame.

Grief for the years stolen by a condition that could have been treated sooner — if anyone, anyone at all, had listened.

I cried — not from fear of surgery, but from the weight of finally being believed. When I hugged her, it wasn’t gratitude for the solution. It was gratitude for the validation I had been denied my entire life.

🌱 The Shift

That day didn’t cure me.

But it did something more important:

It proved I wasn’t dramatic.

I wasn’t broken.

I wasn’t imagining things.

My pain had always been real.

The system was the lie.

Being believed shouldn’t feel like a miracle, but it did—and it changed everything the moment a doctor finally believed me instead of dismissing me.

And for the first time, the future didn’t look like something I had to endure.

It looked like something I might actually get to live.

This wasn’t the day I got every answer.

It was the day I stopped questioning myself.

It was the day belief replaced blame.

It was the day a door finally opened —and I stepped into the after.

A dark, muddy forest road disappearing into fog, symbolizing the lonely and painful journey of surviving adenomyosis without medical support. — Sometimes the path forward wasn’t clear — but stopping felt more dangerous than continuing.

When Surviving Became Easier Than Asking for Help

December 8, 2025 / Sandi

Part 7 — When Surviving Became Easier Than Seeking Help

For most of my life, pain was the enemy.

Then one day, it wasn’t.

It became the routine.

The predictable.

The part of my life I understood better than my own reflection.

After years of bleeding, medical gaslighting, and procedures that promised relief but delivered trauma, something inside me shifted. Not loudly. Not dramatically.

Quietly.

Like a light that burned out without anyone noticing.

I didn’t stop hurting.

I stopped fighting.

The Slow Erosion of Belief

People imagine giving up as a single moment — a slammed door, a tearful breakdown, a declaration of defeat.

But giving up doesn’t arrive in a burst.

It creeps in through:

The appointment you cancel because you “don’t have the energy”

The symptom you ignore because you’ve explained it a hundred times

The voice in your head whispering, No one will believe you anyway

Giving up wasn’t a choice I made once.

It was a thousand tiny moments where I stopped believing I was worth the trouble.

I wasn’t weak.

I was wounded.

Pain Became Predictable. Hope Didn’t.

My uterus was still a battlefield — but now it was a managed battlefield.

After the ablation failed, the only thing keeping the bleeding at bay was a combination of Nexplanon and progesterone. They didn’t heal anything. They didn’t fix anything. They simply kept the floodgates closed.

My uterus felt heavy, like it was holding its breath — waiting.

I lived with a constant, simmering fear:

If the progesterone ever stopped, my body would unleash hell.

Sometimes insurance took its sweet time approving refills. I’d call the pharmacy, pacing, checking my phone for any missed messages, watching the clock. My pain would ramp up like a warning siren:

Tick.

Tock.

Your uterus is getting ready.

If that pill didn’t arrive soon, I knew what awaited me:

Another ER trip no one would take seriously.

Another round of people shrugging at the trauma inside my body.

When the refill finally got approved — sometimes at the last second — I could almost feel my uterus sigh in relief. The pain would back down, not disappear, but return to my new “normal.”

A normal built out of fear.

A normal where survival wasn’t a life —it was a strategy.

Life Didn’t Stop — I Just Did

From the outside, I probably looked fine.

I laughed.

I worked.

I existed.

But that wasn’t living. That was surviving.

I wasn’t making choices — I was avoiding disaster. My days were dictated by insurance authorizations, pharmacy hours, and dosage schedules. My worth was measured in whether a refill came on time.

I didn’t dare hope for more.

Hope was dangerous.

Hope meant opening the door to more disappointment — another doctor, another dismissal, another scar I didn’t have room for.

Pain was terrible.

But hope hurt worse.

Looking Back Now

I didn’t understand it then, but I was grieving:

The body I should have had

The future I deserved

The belief that doctors help the wounded

Survival wasn’t resilience.

But sometimes surrender isn’t the end.

Sometimes it’s what keeps you alive long enough for the story to change.

I didn’t know it yet — but mine was about to.

Frost crystals on a car window at night with a dark road ahead, symbolizing sudden uterine pain and the terrifying drive to the ER. — The morning my uterus went into labor without a baby. This road carried me to the ER while I screamed that it felt like my spine was being ripped out.

Adenomyosis Made My Body Go Into Labor

December 1, 2025 / Sandi

⭐ Part 5 — When My Body Went Into Labor and the Doctors Called It “Normal”

⚠️ Trigger Warning:

This chapter describes severe pelvic pain, passing blood clots, and medical dismissal. If you have a history of reproductive trauma, proceed gently.

There are moments in my adenomyosis journey that still don’t feel real — not even now. Moments that should have been red flags.

Moments where medical professionals should have stopped, looked at me, and said:

“This isn’t normal. Something is wrong.”

Instead, I heard the same sentence I’d been force-fed for years:

“Everything looks fine.”

This was the turning point — the moment my condition stopped being an inconvenience and became something terrifying. Something my body had no business going through.

🌑 The Morning My Body Went Into Labor Without a Baby

It happened early — between 6 and 7 AM. I remember the cold more than anything. I grabbed a winter coat on the way out the door. I didn’t know it then, but I was heading toward one of the worst experiences of my life.

One moment I was asleep. The next, I was screaming.

The pain didn’t build — it detonated. It felt like someone was ripping my spine out of my back. Not cramping. Not discomfort. Not “bad period pain.”

Terror.

I’ve lived through injuries, chronic illness, and physical labor on a farm. I know pain. I recognize it. I respect it.

But this?

This was something else.

🚗 No Way to Get There Except to Call for Help

By then:

My dad’s dementia meant he couldn’t drive

My mom didn’t have a license

An ambulance bill felt like another trauma I couldn’t afford

So I called my best friend — who lived 20 miles away — and she rushed over without hesitation.

In the car, I couldn’t sit upright. I curled forward, rocking, gasping, saying the same words over and over:

“It feels like my spine is ripping out. Something’s wrong.”

That should have been enough for any medical professional to sound an alarm.

🕒 Hours in the ER Lobby, in Agony

But like so many medical encounters in my story, I was left to suffer in silence.

Hours passed before anyone saw me. At some point, my body shifted — a deep internal pressure, a sensation I recognized and knew I needed a bathroom now.

I staggered to the bathroom and passed a clot.

Not the biggest I’d ever passed — but big enough that my uterus had gone into full labor-like contractions just to get it out.

And then—

The pain disappeared.

Instantly.

My body had fought a war, expelled the enemy, and shut itself down. I was exhausted and felt numb inside.

🛏️ “Everything Looks Normal.” No, It Didn’t.

When I finally got a room, I told the doctor everything. They ran tests. I was so drained I fell asleep for hours.

When he returned, his explanation was casual — dismissive, even:

“Everything looks normal. Your uterus probably just had contractions to get rid of some stuck fluff.”

Stuck fluff.

My body had mimicked labor. I had screamed myself awake in agony. I had passed a clot that took my breath away.

And it was reduced to fluff — like lint in a dryer.

🔁 It Happened Again. And Again.

After that day, my uterus did this two more times:

Contractions.

Debilitating pain.

A massive clot.

Relief.

Silence.

And I didn’t go back to the ER.

Not because it wasn’t serious — but because I had been taught something dangerous:

Seeking help was pointless.

Medical gaslighting doesn’t just make you question your symptoms.

It makes you question whether you deserve care at all.

💛 Looking Back Now

What happened wasn’t normal.

It was:

A sign of severe adenomyosis

A sign of retained clots

A sign my uterus was collapsing under years of untreated damage

A direct consequence of medical neglect, the IUD trauma, and the dismissals that followed

I should have had imaging. I should have had treatment. I should have been believed.

But instead, my uterus went into labor —and the medical system shrugged.

This wasn’t the end of my story. But it was the moment I realized something devastating:

Sometimes, the system meant to care for you becomes the thing you must survive.