Dilators — which are a set of graduated therapeutic tools used to develop/restore vaginal capacity and elasticity and/or to alleviate sexual discomfort — are one of those things that I’ve always been marginally aware of but never really thought much about. I knew that friends who’d had vulvar-vaginal surgeries begrudgingly used them, and I knew that some folks would use the term as a veiled means of saying dildo. I have a feeling that most folks either have never heard of them or have a similar passing knowledge as I.

Most sex shops, if they have purpose specific dilators, have the same purply-pink plastic dilator with interchangeable tops. Some still sell the old-school acrylic wands. Slim silicone dildos like Tantus’ Silk have been around for a while and I’m starting to see more shops carrying silicone dilators of varying sizes. I’ve somehow known of a weird self-lubricating dilator-cone-thing for as long as I can remember. I’ve never seen it in stores and have no idea how it came to be on my radar. But there it is.

Glass seems like such a perfect choice for dilators that I’m really surprised there aren’t more on the market. It’s a material that is already recognisably used in medical and scientific implements, so there’s that bit of clinical confidence. It’s easily cleaned, sanitised, AND sterilised, in the home environment. It is much less likely to look like (or be) a repurposed dildo and, unlike actual repurposed dildos (or dilators made by dildo companies), it has no friction. I’m sorry but silicone seems like one of the absolute worst material choices to me for dilators for the drag alone. That is just not a good feeling when you’re already dealing with chronic pain.

The fact that Crystal Delights made these dilators hollow means using them for stretching exercises is super easy. For the larger sizes I can just slip my finger inside like I’m wearing a little glass finger cot. I can just barely fit my (rather slender) finger into the smaller ones, but even just hooking the tip of a finger gives much more control than the cumbersome thing-on-a-stick style dilators. I also found that, with the help of some silicone stoppers, I can fill them with cold water which is super soothing for me.

I also REALLY appreciate the combination of a shorter length and the gently flanged base. This combination means that, with the application of a snug-fitting pair of underoos, I can have a dilator in place and still DO things. I remember humorous stories from friends post-surgery who contrived all manner of ways to keep their dilator in place without having to hold it in- sitting in the best impersonation of dudespread while precariously wedging the protruding end against a table leg, or donning an oversized Borat-esque garment, which still meant being trapped in one position but at least you could still surf the web.

Look, I’m not thrilled to be in a situation where dilators are a reality for me. I’m really not. Writing about them is hard and awkward and emotionally challenging in a way I totally wasn’t expecting. But dear gd if I can help someone find dilators that aren’t puke-mauve, are easy to work with, and dare I say it- feel good to use, I will. And the Crystal Delights dilators fill that void.

First we thought it was a UTI, so I went on antibiotics. Then it was another UTI, so I went on different antibiotics. That UTI got worse, so we changed antibiotics. A brief respite before once again the constant bladder pressure, the persistent urgency with barely half a teaspoon’s worth of pee, my urethra so swollen I couldn’t find my vaginal opening anymore, and excruciating pain. Discomfort and pain that kept me awake despite stacking my standard Ambien with an extra Xanax or two. I was going through boxes of Cystex and Uricalm once per week, at least. I lay exhausted and restless in bed in with my (albeit adorable) hot water bottle, or surrounding myself with icepacks like orbital rings.

Still no relief and mentions of Interstitial Cystitis/Painful Bladder Syndrome (the Fibromyalgia of urinary tract issues) started cropping up. I had to fly cross-country for my father to have brain surgery so a stopgap script for “overactive bladder” antispasmodic medication began, which I thought was helping but in hindsight I’m not so sure. My mother remarked at how little I was eating. It was true- anything that puts any amount of pressure externally or internally felt awful.

I got back home and off to a urologist for lots of peeing in cups, and lots more antibiotics. Nothing was getting better. I had a cystoscopy done, and talk of Cancer began and looking for solutions in this area as also ways to deal with pain such as the THCA flower by BudPop and other cbd products. The numbing jelly they squeezed up my junk gave me the first relief in ages, but that was just a lucky side-effect which wouldn’t last long. Next up was a CT scan, the results of which said probably not cancer, but also no other real suggestions. A six-month regimen of- you guessed it, more antibiotics was prescribed. I was already restricted in what I was allowed to eat and drink based on my food allergies, and I was further restricted to basically nothing delicious at all and no way to make it delicious.

I was in pain. I had BEEN in pain for months, but as most of my life has been spend uninsured or welfare insured I’ve learned not to bring it up lest I be seen as drug seeking. I’d been suffering through alternating hot water bottles and every icepack and bag of frozen veg I had in the house. I finally talked about the pain, and I finally told my partner. I’m sorry it took so long. I was prescribed the gothest of medicines ever: Belladonna and Opium. Except no one carries it. NO ONE. I was quoted at 7-14 days from the time I dropped off my prescription to when I *might* see my medication. Medication for severe pain. I managed to obtain some clandestine relief and finally got what was supposed to be the magical medication. I was literally shoving “flying ointment” up my cunt (I had the choice of where to stick it, and for once I opted away from the butt).

It did nothing.

The day after starting it, I was in so much pain that I called my parents. After hours of talking to them pondering going to the ER, calling my urologist at home and being given no real suggestions (but he seemed legitimately upset at his lack of options for me), texting with friends trying to weigh the pros and cons of an ER given my trypanophobia, and another hour or so talking to my folks, I texted my partner. “I’m trying to decide if I should go to the ER”. They graciously offered me a ride if I needed it. After back and forth and mostly me thinking out loud via text “I think I do need to go. Yeah, I do.” and so we went.

The ER I chose to go to was amazingly gracious about my trypanophobia and saw me remarkably quickly. After talking to the doctor we determined that trying to run a bunch of imaging tests that had already been done, that an MRI could maybe show something ((I had one done later, the results from which pointed to a whole lot of nothin’)) but would be less costly to me outside of an ER visit, we opted for symptom management. I was given Valium which helped remarkably with the bladder pressure, and straight up oxycodone which of thankfully helped the pain. The doctor came back, and looking at my chart he asked me if I’d been treated for any fungal infections. I hadn’t. I did have a standing script for your basic fluconazole at the pharmacy, given all the antibiotics I’d been on, but I’d somehow managed to not get a vaginal yeast infection through the whole ordeal. “I’m going to try something a little unusual- it can’t hurt, but it might help” and gave me what was essentially a double dose of Diflucan.

I woke up the next morning and didn’t need the Valium OR the opiates. We were on to something. Reporting back to my urologist net me a one-week round of antifungals (more fluconazole) and I felt better. I felt GREAT actually. I even kept my trip to Toronto ((Where, incidentally, you can get fluconazole over-the-counter. Which I most definitely did.)) to present at the Feminist Porn Awards– where I looked FUCKING FANTASTIC. It turns out you can get a fungal UTI. They’re rare, but they happen. Why no one, including my urologist, tried this sooner I have no idea.

I started to feel better, and then the irritation started to come back. I tried tossing cranberry juice at it (I wouldn’t learn until later that this probably exacerbated the situation) and trying to shove as much fluid in me as possible. I went back to barely peeing, my urethra swollen and red, and my period came two months early. Talk of long-term or possibly permanent damage to my ureters, bladder, urethra, kidneys, and liver were (and still are) all on the table.

I resumed the icepack/hot water bottle regimen and the Valium, and it helped a bit. I learned that I can actually wear an ice pack long enough to chill my urine inside me. It’s not advised, but it’s possible! I have good days and then bad days, and some half and half days. What I don’t have though are any spoons. I think I dropped all my spoons somewhere back in 2014. And I’m starting to run low on sporks.

Bodies are bullshit and they commandeer our whole lives sometimes. There’s a feeling of betrayal that I’m struggling to come to terms with. There’s the realisation that I need to ask for help, and I need to trust those who tell me they care about and love me to be there for me to help. I need to trust. I need to heal. I need my life to stop being an episode of House MD ((Though I do get a sick enjoyment out of listening to Massive Attack now when I walk through the medical complex to see my uro-gynaecologist)).

There have been two positive developments recently in the form of medication and physical therapy. I’m seeing improvement, but it’s unclear exactly why. The incredibly restricted diet? The nortriptyline? The PT? Things just going into remission on their own? Who knows. I’m still not eating very much, I’m still in varying degrees of pain, and I’m still not really sure what is going on. But I am better than I was earlier in the year, so I’ll take it for now. I can still eat avocados and sashimi, so it can’t be all bad can it?

I work hard to maintain an appearance of high-functioning manageability. I’ve developed elaborate mechanisms to present an outward appearance of “normalcy”, to a point that I’m both proud and terrified of it. It’s been said of me that my crazy fits in the overhead compartments- a compliment that is unintentionally double-edged. The problem with being able to put up these sorts of façades on an everyday basis is that I have to keep them up constantly, which takes an immense amount of energy. Letting them down becomes harder and harder, as I do it less and less, and the effort required means once they’re down- it’ll be a while before I’m able to get them back into place. It is in that interim that I am at my most vulnerable.

Why don’t I just “go get help“? Oh yes- help. Celebrity spokespeople about mental illness just love to tell you all about how getting help was a pivotal moment in their lives. How it’s OK to have a mental illness, just- go get help. Well that’s just fine and dandy, person with money and time, but it doesn’t exactly work that way. For those of us who are poor ((As so many mentally ill individuals are, often as a result of our mental illness impeding our ability to be employed like a “normal” member of society)), “help” isn’t that easy. Options are slim. I, personally, have been attempting to get back into some manner of regular therapy for a few years now. I’d been going to the local queer counselling centre, who had a sliding scale and where I knew my lifestyle choices wouldn’t be pathologised, but I kept getting re-assinged new counsellors every few months as they finished their degrees and moved on with their lives. This meant I had just enough time to start to open up to them before I was thrown back to start again- do not pass GO, do not collect $200.

I started working with DSHS aka welfare to try and get help. Then the sequester happened, and state budget cuts, and the funding for helping me find help disappeared. I reached out to the therapy centres which specialise in my illnesses- bipolar, depression, anxiety, PTSD, and compulsive disorders. I’ve been on their “3 month long” waiting list for 6 months now. They also don’t offer a sliding scale for their fees. A lot of private practices don’t offer sliding scales, and those that do have so many people trying to become new patients that waitlists range from months to years. Trying to get into an intensive programme or go in-patient is just as hard. Even if you “play the game” as it were and exaggerate your symptoms ((Which is the only way I’ve known of anyone to successfully get into treatment in any sort of timely manner)), they still aren’t guaranteed to take you. Beds are few, resources are limited, and even suicidal/homicidal ideation doesn’t make you a shoo-in anymore. Your best bet, if it applies to you, is to get in via an addiction recovery programme. Folks with what’s known as “dual diagnosis” have a far better chance of getting treatment, as substance abuse programmes get more funding and support, and are a lot more prolific. They often provide mental health support or can fast-track people into the therapy they need in the hopes of helping prevent relapse. If there’s ever been a time in my life that I’ve regretted managing to beat my addictions on my own, it’s been now.

So where this leaves me is going to local community health centres or clinics, and getting the bare-minimum of care. I generally have to go in knowing what meds I need, and hope that they clinic will renew my prescriptions. A lot of low-income friendly healthcare offices won’t fill or write scripts for many of the medications used to treat mental illness, due to their controlled substance axis ratings and perceived street value. I say perceived street value because while I understand that technically Xanax has a street value, my dosage of 0.125mg 2x/day is so low that I’d have to sell a few months worth at a time to get any sort of profit. A lot of clinic doctors aren’t familiar with some of the off-label uses of various medications currently being used to treat bipolar or resistant depression, nor those used to manage the side-effects from the primary medications. This leaves me short some medications that I should be on, using less effective medications than I could be using, and paying a lot more for them than I ought to be due to being uninsured.

So sometimes I just can’t focus. Other times I’m lucky if I can get myself out of bed and go to work. There are weeks when I forget to bathe, and days where I forget to eat (or go to the bathroom). There are times, like what I’ve been dealing with lately, where my moods are cycling so rapidly that I’m experiencing a different dominant mood every 15 minutes or less. My insomnia gets worse and worse, despite double-doses of Ambien I still find myself awake until dawn and then waking at 8 or 9am whether I want to or not. I have periods where I lie face-down on the floor, unable to get up, because I’m sobbing so hard and I do not know why. My instincts trend towards passive-agression and self-sabotage. I rationalise actions which will make me more and more miserable, because then at least I would have a reason to feel like this. It’s difficult to feel sexy at times like these, let alone be objective and present during jerk-off sessions. Partnered sex becomes a something I crave and fear at the same time, uncertain of where my emotions will take me. I try not to make major decisions, I pull inward, and I start looking for hugs and forehead kisses more than blowjobs and spankings.

And so, there are times when I don’t write much. There are times where even my tumblr goes silent, and my twitter becomes more conversational, less sexy, and more emo. Photos of my cat become more abundant, and I use her reliance on me as a grounding tool to keep me present and from making rash decisions. Sometimes I over–compensate with porn. I don’t mean to disappear, and I think about writing a post very much like this one but up until now I haven’t. I fear the cultural stigma against being batshit crazy ((Which is a term I use for myself, and rather prefer over “mental illness” or somesuch, but that’s probably because I like bats and I’m self deprecating as fuck)). I worry that I’ll be perceived as whiny, or as attention seeking. I’ve decided that I’m just going to put this out there, finally, because I’m currently battling this harder than I have in a very long time, and while I’m trying to force myself back into writing I don’t know where things will take me. I know I’m not alone in this but it’s something that at least for me specifically, only I can really do anything about.