So.
I've been trying to figure out how to tell you about the resolution of my wee box problem for about a week now, and I'm not really coming up with anything. So instead, I'll just tell you in the least grody way possible.
So after the "you're just wiping too hard" incident, I went to my lady parts doctor for a second opinion. His first opinion? "That is the stupidest thing I've ever heard. He is the stupidest urologist ever. What is his name? Dr. Stupid Urology?"
After this spite-filled (but quite true) rant, we got down to business. One exam later, I finally had the answer to a question that has been burning (yes, pun intended) inside me for almost a year:
Vulvodynia.
I have vulvodynia. Which, apparently, is a fancy term for "depressed lady parts."
Long story short, something in my brain short-circuited after that first bladder infection-- apparently, the only bladder-related issue of this entire ordeal-- and caused my lady parts to go all out of whack, simulating a bladder infection, but not actually being one. They are, in short, depressed.
The best way to treat this problem, apparently, is with extremely old-school anti-depressants from the seventies. Because the new anti-depressants are too weenie and smooth-jazz to snap my lady parts out of their funk.
In addition, I am now required to wear only white cotton underthingies, refrain from using fabric softeners and harsh soaps, and keep horse-back riding to a minimum.
Also, I am expected to blow dry my lady parts with a hair dryer, to avoid the harsh contact that apparently comes from use of a clean fluffy towel.
I'm not doing this part. I don't even blow dry my hair.
So far, things have been going quite well. My lady parts seem to be cheering up quite nicely, and I no longer have to worry about my wee box.
I do, however, have to worry about the fact that I just willingly wrote the word "vulvodynia" on my blog, in reference to myself. A blog that my thirteen-year-old cousin reads.
Sorry, Katie!
