Pain. Pain. More Pain.

I am in pain.

I think maybe if I curl up, tuck my knees in and cocoon myself within my duvet the wrong way up in bed, I'll feel better. It doesn't work, and I'm unwilling to sacrifice the small compromise of typing. I'm curled in my duvet, and the only human thing you'd see were you to walk in this room would be my hands sticking out and clattering away at my keyboard.

My abdomen wants to shake. Wants to shake the rest of everything that is me along with it. There's something desperately wrong with biology when it attempts to churn your insides up quite so thoroughly. I'm lying here in serious pain, and all you can do is read about it. I might lie here in misery for however long, and then I might die. My housemates might eventually realise something wrong after a couple of days of the same CD playing over and over.

They might knock on my door, and when I don't answer, they might realise that it's not locked. And then they'll find me decaying in my duvet, with my laptop having put itself on standby.

I like to think I can rise above this. If I ignore the pain, it'll go away of its own accord.

And it will. Most of the time I'm very quietly pleased with myself for being female, but I could really do without the monthly debilitating torment that seems to come along with the gig. After a particular few weeks of anxiety and terror, I promised I would never ever complain about my period ever ever again. Ever.

But, damnit, I'm in pain.