I have it all. I really do, and I’m not just saying that to make myself feel better.
I’m lucky enough to attend a university that is happy to have me. Since my freshman year, I have only been doing what I love, which is writing and reading and meeting brand new people and trying brand new things.
I have an incredible job as a resident advisor, and I’m lucky enough that I’m not always The Broke College Kid.
Most importantly, I have an incredible support system full of incredible, independent women, my family, and my favorite boy in the world: my boyfriend.
When I say I am extraordinary lucky, I mean it. I wake up grateful for what I have, for what is given to me and for all that I’ve worked for.
I am twenty-years-old, living my dreams out, and making everyone around me proud.
So why do I feel like my life sucks so bad?
It’s a hell of a word, but it’s my worst nightmare.
For those not familiar, Nexaplanon is a popular form of birth control, and it’s what most colleges give to young women.
It’s quick, it’s easy, and you never have to remember it.
How could there be any downsides to that?
The downsides are endless.
I had the parasite in my arm for five months. Almost overnight, it changed me completely.
I went from the happiest girl in the room to constantly crying. I was quick to anger, and to my horror, I was fine with hurting those around me with my words. I became apathetic to all, and that frightened me enough to get it removed.
So why am I still complaining?
Because it’s still ruining my life.
It’s been two and a half weeks since I’ve had it removed, and a week since my anxiety began. Terrifying, nonstop anxiety.
I refuse to let myself feel this way, as I’ve never experienced such horrible panic before.
Tonight, I went to the Urgent Care two miles from my campus. I was terrified, lost, and my chest felt heavy, like my heart had been replaced by five pounds of pure iron.
I have several inklings on what’s happening to my body, but my most pragmatic guess is the chemicals in my body are off balance. I will go bravely into any clinic and ask for what I need.
On Monday, I plan to have my blood drawn and tested for B12 deficiency, hypothyroidism, and a lack of any other chemicals that may have disappeared after their five month hiatus.
This is not a cry for help.
This is me, pissed, that I marched into a Women’s Health Center, told them my genetic history, and was given the worst option for birth control.
I am still healing from this. It’s estimated to get out of one’s system in three weeks, and that hormones should be back up and running after a regular cycle.
I am not holding my breath.
This is a promise that I will be actively fighting against this attack on my body and livelihood. I refuse to be passive about this sickness.