I do recall one time mentioning to a friend that I was thinking of trying cloth pads (such as lunapads). When I explained to her what they were after her repeated requests for clarification, she screwed up her face in utter revulsion and declared THAT’S DISGUSTING! I found her response somewhat contradictory considering that she was quite prepared to wash the most vile smelling shit out of her baby’s cloth nappies, but the idea of washing menstrual blood out of cloth pads was to her completely repugnant. I know which one I’d prefer.

Having amused my doctor about the lack of discourse on menstrual blood among my circle of bleeders, he prescribed a three month course of progestin (synthetic progesterone) to help induce a more regular cycle. This was several months before I was diagnosed with PCOS (because I was not overweight it did not occur to him to consider the possibility of PCOS at this time). Within one cycle the progestins kicked in and I was shocked to discover what a normal level of bleeding looked like – I was a bleeding (and scoffing) mother fucker no more.

Every bleeding lady I know likes to joke about how our hormones are like a roller coaster, but this is in fact how the hormones associated with the reproductive cycle ride; they’re meant to ebb and flow. Although I should point out these fluctuations ought not to be any more dramatic than a kiddie roller coaster – so if you feel like you’re on the the big dipper, lady, you’re on the wrong ride.

Progesterone needs to reach a certain level in order to trigger menstruation. My progesterone levels were taking too long to hit their peak, which not only adversely effects bleeding but also produces a prolonged pre-menstrual phase. This discovery was significant for me because it explained why years earlier when I had PMDD, the duration of the PMDD symptoms were sometimes a full 14 days and then some.

With PMDD, depression and other symptoms only occur during the pre-menstrual phase, which should be no longer than 14 days. The fact I was sometimes experiencing symptoms longer than 14 days lead me to question whether I had PMDD and not some other kind of depressive illness. In fact it delayed my seeking professional help because I was unable to determine whether my mental health decline was restricted to the premenstrual period or was more permanent. In the end, after several months of monitoring my mood, I knew I wasn’t in a constant state of depression and figured near enough was good enough.

If I had known about this issue with progesterone back then, I would have sought help for PMDD earlier. It’s amazing to me that even years after recovery, the mysteries of my experience with PMDD are still being revealed.

I’d like to say that the size of my thighs is due to having magnificent quads, a la Tina Turner, but in reality they are two not so subtle fat storage devices that like to get jiggy with it every time I pound the pavement. You know that scene from the Simpson’s episode where Dr Hibbert pokes Homer’s stomach and times with a stop watch how long his blubber takes to stop moving, well…. you know where this is going.

Consequently, despite my otherwise trim frame, my thighs have not seen sunlight since 1989. And ever since my instruments of walking started doing involuntary chicken leg impersonations, my much loved houndstooth mini skirt has not seen the light of day either.

For the thin cyster with thunder thighs, the greatest challenge is to find clothing that can accommodate a small waist and her generously proportioned proportions stealing the lime light below it. In a world where adult clothes appear to be modeled on the physique of pre-pubescent girls, the task of finding nice fitting clothes is a challenge to any woman with hips, let alone women with a body affected by PCOS.

My thighs know all too well the sensation of being squeezed into an unaccommodating pair of jeans and stretching the fabric of a skirt I am determined to make “work” within an inch of its life. One thing my thighs don’t know too well, however, is acceptance.

I try not to lay the finger of blame regarding the animosity I feel towards my thighs at PCOS, but instead direct my frustrations towards a world that would rather my low ride love handles did not exist. Even Dove, who bang on about “real beauty”, still want you to fix up your ungodly thighs with their cellulite firming cream and other body firming lotions. Dove, how am I meant to except myself “as I am”, which you implore me to do, when you imply real beauty knows no cellulite? I say real real beauty knows no beauty products! As Rebecca Traister points out in her article on Dove’s real beauty campaign, all children on God’s earth have cellulite.

The road to acceptance begins, I’ve found, when you realize that your thighs aint ever gonna shrink, just because you love those jeans. Love doesn’t conquer all, after all. You just have to accept the fact that PCOS equals an extra serving in the thighs and the inherent risk that one day while walking down the street some asshole will holla in his best Jerry Lee Lewis voice “there’s a whole lotta shakin’ goin on!” while pointing in the general direction of your thundering thighs.

So, don’t be fakin’. If there is one, and only one upside to all this, apart from the fact that a lil’ extra weight on your thighs does your health no harm (provided this is not accompanied by a lot of extra weight on the torso), if I were to ever become stranded without food and water, I know my PCOS thighs with their extra fat stores will serve me well. In that situation, it’s always the skinny thighed bitches who die first.

Most PCOS blogs seem to be (understandably) dedicated to infertility and pregnancy, so it was refreshing to read Linda’s post on PCOS Today about her decision not to have children. She seems to be an exception to the rule though. While I can sympathize with women who have infertility problems due to PCOS, I understand it’s deeply frustrating and heartbreaking, but I can’t really empathize all that much. For the simple reason being if PCOS has made me infertile I would be GLAD!

I have no interest in having children. Nor do I have any interest in reading about that aspect of someone’s PCOS journey. That’s not to say I don’t applaud the women who do embark on that journey and blog about it, it’s just that it’s so far outside my realm of interests I think it would be disingenuous of me to follow those blogs and comment with faked enthusiasm.

I don’t want children and never have, not once, not even for a millisecond. Now that I am 30, this fact can no longer be dismissed by those around me as some sort of youthful phase or deluded feminist rhetoric. I am serious. I don’t want to have kids and I would like to be able to make that statement without qualification or justification.

But alas..

A woman who does not want to have children is viewed with skepticism and scorn because society assumes that the desire to have children is inherently “natural” to women, and therefore any woman without this desire is abnormal and going against her nature. This is why people always patronize me with “you might change your mind one day”. One day? I’m 30, the days for “one day” are running out. Their response, I reason, is said in order to reassure me, or more likely themselves, that nature will kick in sooner or later and I’ll revert back to what nature intended and want a baby.

It’s not that I don’t have any affection for babies and children, I just don’t want to raise one. It’s an unfortunate curiosity that this fact is such a difficult concept for people to grasp. Folks barely blink an eye if a man does not want to have children, because the desire to breed is not considered to be as inherent to men as it is to women.

Is it too much to ask to have my decision accepted and respected as a legitimate and valid choice?

Apparently.

One mother I know bluntly told me there was something wrong with me because I do not want to have a child. So let me get this straight – there is something wrong with not wanting a child, but nothing wrong with wanting and having children, bitching relentlessly about how horrible it is to have children, and then telling women who do not want children that something is wrong with them?

Confused? I am. There’s a whole lot of hypocrisy going on here it seems, and perhaps some insecurity about how women define themselves as women. For many women it seems, the bulk of what makes up this definition is motherhood. And while there is nothing wrong with that, there is something wrong with assuming that this definition applies to all women. So when a woman like me comes along who shuns motherhood, which implies there is another way to be “a woman”, this challenges those who view motherhood as essential to womanhood. Perhaps it unsettles those women who took the traditional path without a second thought because it demonstrates that motherhood is not inevitable, that there are other options, perhaps options they failed to consider.

But I digress. Rather than acknowledge the self assuredness and self determination of a woman who decides not to have children, she is viewed as less of a woman, she is selfish and “childless”. I resent being labeled selfish and ‘childless’. Calling me childless implies I am without something. Nothing is missing (well maybe there is, but it sure aint a child). The correct term is child free thank you very much (check out this cool childfree blog too).

If PCOS has made me infertile, frankly, that is one thing I can thank it for.