Do me a favor; think of something you hate to do. Now think of yourself doing it each day, every day for the next seven years. Go ahead; I’m actually giving you some time to think about it. When you’re through thinking, answer the following question. How unpleasant was that thought?

This was my unfortunate reality. I had spent seven miserable, nerve-racking, anxiety-filled years lamenting in a job I hated. A general congratulations to all those saying how can you hate your job, obviously you found the one you love, kudos to you. But as for me, my career was nothing short of disastrous. I don’t think there is yet a word, bold enough, that when said, brings across with force and might the degree of hate I had for my career. Eating kale or swimming with sharks are way better options than spending another day lamenting in my career. Every day before I headed to my wretched job or before I began my hectic twelve to sixteen hours shift, I had the displeasure of trying to lower my blood pressure and heart rate. I had more panic attacks in one week than most persons do in one year. The only thing that gave me peace was clocking out.

In the country where I live, my job title is equivalent to trash. There is no respect concerning my profession. I am used to being spat on, hit, scratched, cursed, being called very creative names I will not repeat. From being belittled daily and made to feel insignificant and incompetent by clients, their families, and supervisors to being expected to perform miracles with little to no resources. And, of course, if anything went awry, it was always my fault, even when it had nothing to do with my job. I always found that to be ridiculous. There is, however, one aspect of my job I genuinely loved; counseling. Building a rapport is the easiest thing for me to do. I love having one-to-one conversations with individuals and would even spend hours after my shift had ended to continue the conversation. I met persons with the same struggles and others with struggles I would never wish on anyone else. But whether I had experienced their struggles or not, I was able to be relatable to all. Unfortunately, the cons outweighed the pros. It was too much stress, mistreatment, and unfairness presented daily for me to remain. I did the best that I could and gave it my all (God as my witness), but it wasn’t seen as good enough. Each time I wanted to quit, I remembered everyone’s high hopes for the preacher/deacon’s kid. I was fearful of not living up to people’s expectations, peoples’ high hopes, dreams, and aspirations of what they wanted me to be, their idea of success. So I reluctantly stayed.

For each workday, every week of every year for seven years, I endured this. I already had other issues dealing with and was already mentally tired. I felt nothing when I slept, so I ensured I slept as often as I could. I had no one to talk to and there were no answers from the “Great God”. If I had screamed, no one would have heard, and I already knew no one would have cared. People say a lot of foolishness like, “If you ever need someone to talk to, I am always here.” But, when you do talk, you end up on the receiving end of discouraging words like, “I’ve been through much worse or you’re too young to know what depression is and the infamous she is always seeking attention.” A chuckle here and there, or after you poured out your soul, their response is one word, like “okay”. It’s not easy for someone to take off all their armor and expose themselves bare in hopes of getting helped and be disregarded. The tendency to lose all hope in people is very high; so I kept everything to myself. What was the point of seeking help when there evidently was no help to get? If these so called people of God, who say they discern and prophesy, couldn’t even discern when I was about to attempt suicide a few years back, neither could they discern the self-harming and the risky behaviors; then why should I believe when they foolishly say I am here if you need me? It was all lies and I saw them as nothing more than nicely dressed liars.

I had reached another breaking point, and rather than attempting suicide like the last time (please read my first post), I begged God to take my life. I believed I was doing a justifiable thing. The Lord giveth and taketh away, right? If he was the one to do it, I was sure that he would have pardoned me of sin. But of course, he did not.

Doomed to an unhappy, unfulfilling life, I drifted deeper and deeper into depression, and unbeknownst to everyone, I stepped out of the church. I didn’t want to hear what I thought were lies of a loving forging God who comes down to assist here and there. I grew to hate the preaching, the songs and resented all the smiling people. So I stopped attending church, and of course, no one noticed, sorry I meant discerned it 😏. I later got an opportunity to leave the country to work in another. It was the same job offered, but it came with two benefits. I would be thousands of miles away from everyone, and I would be making a lot more. It meant I would finally be able to pay off all debts and loans and quit my career forever. For the first time in years, I saw a glimpse of hope. When I arrived in the land I would be calling home for the next few years: I was a little nervous and anxious to get started. After a few months of settling in, I rented an apartment and lived by myself. It was new to me but very much needed. I learned all things me: what I liked and disliked, what I could do, and what I thought I could not do; I mastered them quickly. I made ”work friends” and wasn’t as aloof. Became involved in different groups and took a hold on leadership roles. Surprisingly it was all manageable, easy even. I never dreamed that there would come a day that I would not have panic attacks before starting a shift. Life here was amazing, a breath of fresh air, and I was in what I assumed was a relationship.

Let’s call him Mr. X. I was not in love with him but did take a liking to him. He possessed quite a few qualities I admired. He made it clear that he had no qualms with the things I hated about myself and that for me sealed the deal. No one before had accepted me for me, now here comes this guy who right off the bat said it’s all okay. Here was my big chance, a probability of someone loving me. Why would I not like him? For the sake of confidentiality, I won’t be too detailed. Though whatever we had, relationship or whatever you want to call it was on and off, the time we spent together was, I guess, fun. I had changed aspects of myself to suit his liking, all in a desperate attempt to keep him. But, after a few years, he, with a call, decided for both of us to part ways. Any ‘break up’ is hard enough, but when you invested far more than the other party, it hurts a whole lot more. If you know me, you know very well that I give 110% in everything I have an interest in and will spare absolutely nothing. From an all-expense-paid trip, expensive gifts, my time, my energy, and my mind (what was left of it). All was given freely only to be trashed effortlessly. I had placed the little hope I had left in a man, only for it to be gone in mere seconds via a call. At first, I was okay with it. But after a while, it began to sink in. It was hard to function each day, having work, people to interact with, etc. I realized that depression for me was fast becoming easily triggered. Anything would throw me right back to square one, and I found myself using old coping mechanisms. I slept as much as I could, contemplated cutting again, then my focus undoubtedly went to thoughts of suicide. I had relapsed much farther than the previous. This time I went as far as creating a written and video will. I prayed, not to ask, but to tell God to ensure that I would be dead by the morning. I took a bath, put on one of my finest nightgowns, and went to sleep on the couch, thinking that once my flesh began to rot and the stench of death brought neighbors to investigate, they would easily find my body without roaming too far into the apartment. I was certain that because I was so sincere with the Lord that he would grant my crazy request. When I awoke the following morning, I was pissed.

Why would this loving God they preached about, leave me here to suffer another day, another month, another year? What quality of life am I expected to have? One moment I am happy and the next, driven into a deep depression. One day I would have hope, and the next begging God to take my life. I did not want to live; I couldn’t bear any more hurt and just wanted it to all be over. But instead of circumstances improving, it quickly got worse.

Chapter six, in steps Mr. Y; an affair with a married man.

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It’s most women’s dream to become mothers, having their houses filled with chunky uncoordinated mini likenesses of themselves. The sounds of laughter and coos echoing throughout the house and the wanting to experience all their first moments in life, cameras locked in hand, ready to capture it all. Then there are women like me, members of the PCOS crew, whose realities may never be like the above described. But what is PCOS? The acronym stands for Polycystic Ovary Syndrome. It’s a fancy term that means hormonal disorder. Sounds pretty basic, right? Well, there are some upsetting parts to this condition. One complication of having PCOS is infertility. The risk of developing endometrial cancer and diabetes are there too, but damn, infertility is on a pedestal by itself, well, at least to me it is. That’s like taking your whole womanhood away. Telling a 28-year old that having children may not be in the cards for her is very discouraging. I have tried different medications to no avail, so my other options are adoption or procedures like In Vitro Fertilization (IVF). Though still discouraging to hear, my thought, however, is this. Miracles are still happening. If Sarah could give birth to Isaac in her old age, how hard could it be for God to make a young woman pregnant? So why not just trust God?

I usually hear you are very hairy for a girl. Uhm can you pronounce this for me; say the word HUR SUH TI ZM. Hirsutism is the excessive abnormal growth of hairs that is a result of high levels of male hormones. The culprit, excess androgen. It causes women to, let’s say, compete with men in the ”who is hairier Olympics.” And to add more problems as if there wasn’t already enough, excessive weight gain is another major headache. The rapid gaining and losing and gaining even more, is beyond unreal. I could exercise vigorously, maintain a healthy diet, avoid all my trigger foods and still be as big as a house. Some days are a little better than others; some days, I look a few pounds lighter and can fit into my jeans with ease, but then there are those lousy days where those same jeans can’t past my fat thighs. Forget about pulling it up to my waist; my tummy and hips have disputes with my pants. My pants would rather stay and mingle with my thighs than be buttoned near my hips and bulging tummy. They have a terrible relationship with each other, and I need to stop the two of them from arguing. It does not pair well with women already battling low self-esteem. Appearance is important, especially in this 21st century. I can’t tell you how many times I have to buy a whole new set of clothes simply because they can no longer fit. It is very expensive! those struggling with PCOS, I understand your frustration please know you are not alone.

This post is to shed light on the challenges faced by women with PCOS. So, if you should see a female who is overweight or gets emotional when you mention anything child-related, consider the following; She may have PCOS and is doing all she can to lose the excess weight. She is frustrated after having miscarriages, stillbirths, or not being able to conceive at all. To the women with PCOS, you are strong, you are beautiful, you are enough!