Writing about my health became funny pretty quickly. If I couldn’t laugh about it, I should give up now, right?

This wasn’t my first option for writing a memoir. I also considered my career in beauty as a topic, and it does make an appearance in the backdrop. However, for all my frustrations with the industry, I was never left feeling so pained, so in pain, and so horribly helpless as I was in regards to my health.

An interesting recurrence in the narrative is the male presence. While I consider myself a strong-willed feminist, I didn’t want to disregard the importance of my male supporters through the struggle. My mother was there, as most mothers are, when I needed her. I could not be more grateful to her for the care she took of me, even as an adult. However, whether a function of being friends with a lot of athletic girls who never had more than a little cramping, or of befriending women at work who were well past menopause, I didn’t end up bemoaning my condition around many women. My older brother heard quite a bit from me, and as a product of 1990’s post-feminist university culture, he sympathized, and even sent me a knit-covered hot water bottle. A close friend of mine acted a confidante in this as well, despite his being a cis male. He had his own health concerns, and was supportive through every tear-stained tirade against modern medicine. It’s easy to disregard men when it comes to discussions about period pain. I myself am of the opinion that they will never understand. The empathy, however, was staggering. The men around me who I love and trust were remarkably kind in face of my pain and vulnerability, and many showed me a caring side I foolishly considered impossible.

Some things you can’t write, like the true scope of devastation that health issues can wreak upon your life. Or the kindness you see in friends and loved ones. And the ridiculousness of a OBGYN angry about her Sephora shopping experience. Life is too funny not to laugh.