I Can't Wipe My A$$...

After my failed attempt at HRT, I was lost. I spent months researching and testing supplements, convinced menopause was the root of everything going wrong. I tried creatine for better brain function — which only made my restless leg syndrome worse. I added B vitamins, fish oil, collagen, biotin, vitamin K… if the internet suggested it, I tried it. But nothing helped. In fact, I was getting worse.

My joints began stiffening; slowly at first. It started with my left elbow — I self‑diagnosed it as tennis elbow. Then my feet began aching far beyond my usual bunion and neuroma pain. Next came my hips. Then my shoulders. And finally, my spine. The pain and stiffness were unpredictable: some days only one or two areas; other days it was everywhere. I felt fine if I stayed still, but the moment I moved, my body screamed. I was suddenly moving like I was 100+ years old. Once I got going, things eased up — but if I moved too much or stopped moving at all, the pain snapped right back. I was confused, frustrated, and felt betrayed by my own body. And the fatigue...oh my hell. I couldn't get through the day without taking at least one nap.

Houston, we have a big fucking problem. One morning I sat on the toilet and couldn’t turn my spine enough to wipe my ass. That’s when the real fear hit. My stomach clenched (and not because of my morning constitutional), my whole body tingled, sweat beaded on my skin, and my mind raced. All I could think was: “What the hell is wrong with my body!”

For three years I’d been telling anyone who would listen that the Dark Days + COVID had “broken” my body. It turns out, I wasn’t wrong. A close friend recommended a nearby clinic that blends eastern and western medicine. They don’t take insurance — you pay out of pocket, get a superbill, and deal with insurance yourself — but I didn’t care. I was desperate for answers.

I got in as soon as possible, armed with a long list of symptoms, past test results, and a bag full of supplements. The doctor spent almost two hours with me: reviewing my intake forms, combing through my test history, asking detailed questions, and examining every supplement I was taking. She asked me to stop all supplements — including my depression/anxiety medication — so we could run extensive bloodwork without anything interfering. Words like autoimmune disorders, Lupus, arthritis, and specialist floated through the air. My brain shut down, partly from fear, partly from relief. Fear of what I was hearing, but relief that someone was finally listening. I scheduled fasting bloodwork for two weeks later and a follow‑up appointment for the results five weeks out.

Next, I returned to my PCP to get a lower dose prescription so I could taper off the depression/anxiety medication. When she asked why, I explained that it hadn’t helped any of my symptoms and that I now had new — and worsening — ones. She offered to run bloodwork, and I told her another doctor was already doing an extensive panel and referring me to an autoimmune specialist. Her response: “Catina, it’s just menopause.”

Now, I’m an Irish Aries. It takes a while for me to boil, but once I do, it’s best to step back and stay quiet. This was the second time she had dismissed me: “You’re just depressed.” “It’s just menopause.” That word — just. How dare you minimize anything as a doctor. Every human experiences injury, disease, depression, and pain differently. My uncle took his own life because he was “just” depressed.

Dismiss me once, shame on you. Dismiss me twice, shame on me — and fuck you.

If you’re still reading and quietly hoping I won’t go back to my PCP, rest assured: she won’t get a third chance. I’ll happily continue with my new powerhouse team of women healers — yes, healers, because that’s their goal. I'll share more about the team later, but at the moment I’m going to do my new yoga therapy, meditation sessions, and drink my home‑distilled water. Because I’m determined to get better, dammit.