by Xenia Taiga
He tells me to use a tampon or have sex, but I want neither. I want nothing to do with those things down there.
It’s like a knife. Twirling circus animals treading where they should not be. Lions and alligators and coyotes. Sharp teeth, cold like marble. Cold like wet rocks that cut your feet in the deep waters where you should not be swimming.
At one point he tells me to have a baby. I remind him that I’m not married. He asks for my age and I tell him. He’s stumped. He leans back in his chair and takes off his glasses, looking through me. I look at the posters behind him. Pictures of a uterus: this is what a normal uterus looks like and this is what an abnormal uterus looks like. And another one with the question: When was the last time you had a Pap Smear?
Finally he says, It’s nice to meet someone with traditional values.
I don’t know what to say so I say, Thank you.
It’s like a large anchor resting on the ovaries. Heavy paper weights turn into repeated stabs of lightening. Stretching and pulling like a rope whose purpose is to hold a boat tight but can’t. Waves turn into thunderous tsunamis, unfurling, unapologetic and destructive.
At one point, he calls them my bits and bobs.
It’s like squealing eels and sticking wet fingertips into electrical sockets five times over. It’s like the guillotine blade that beheads. Razor blades scraping eternally inside.
The blood that drips turning into thick clots.
Red, black, burgundy, purple. The never-ending sunrise.
It’s a screaming terror that begs you to bend into fetal position forever like a fish out of water. It’s like the eye socket melted and hardened into a thousand cysts, pulsating into deep migraines, begging for babies to be made.
He tells me it’s hormonal. There’re pills and shots that I could take, but I don’t want that either. There’re also birth control pills, he says. They don’t work, I tell him. He smiles and asks me how long I was on them. I tell him and he pushes his lips together like I already know the answer, like I already should know why they didn’t work.
He tells me the same thing that the websites say: there’s no cure. Tells me again about having a baby but stops mid-sentence, asks me if I have a boyfriend.
Universal darkness. Excruciating like a thousand exploding stars, dying for your touch.
I like the term he uses, bits and bobs. It has a dissociative feel to it.
I leave the doctor’s office, avoiding everyone’s faces. My mother told me before to have a drink. A drink will make everything better and if you’re lucky will make you forget.
I want to forget.
I walk down to a pub. It’s dark and crowded. There are many men. I don’t know where to sit or where to go. I’m standing in the doorway, scanning. A man sitting at a table next to me taps my shoulder.
Are you lost? he asks.
I stare at him.
He tells me his name is Bob. I sit down and order me a drink.