Marco. Polo.

I have endometriosis.

What that looks like is a ghost. You cannot see anything.

There is no sore to pick. No wound to bandage. No scar to prove anything.

This is what it feels like:

The slowest cold slice of a very long sword.

I feel each cell divided.

Something deep and unknown is being cut open.

I feel myself dividing and I do not know what will become of me.

This is also what it feels like:

FUCK YOU

I HATE THIS

THIS HURTS SO MUCH

WHAT WILL HAPPEN TO ME

Then, a calm. A cry. A hurt. A betrayal.

Endometriosis is a ghost disease. I cannot see it, but I can feel it occupying me. It’s a vague sense of mystery and confusion. I cannot hear what it is trying to tell me. It’s a language I have not learned.

Dear Endometriosis,

What are you trying to tell me?

Love, s

I am creating this blog in the hopes of learning the language of endometriosis. This is a dialogue—one part of the cell shouting across the chasm to the other. Somewhere, there is truth.

Marco.