Part 10.
On Monday, I played guinea pig for the University Medical Center research team. Another crappy appointment. Me in the stirrups with the docs poking and prodding, fifteen blood draws, and an invasive pelvic ultrasound. The researcher's accompanied my torture with scientific mumbo-jumbo, treating me like a lab specimen, as if I could neither hear nor understand.
On the upside, though, I pumped a fist in the air, ecstatic with relief when my pregnancy test came back negative. Because ovaries aside, I'm NOT the mothering type. And despite having spent my formative years hearing Reverend Wallace inveigh against abortion, I was unsure if I'd want to carry a child to term.
But through the mumbo-jumbo, I gleaned an interesting fact: my cells were still genetically male, carrying both X and Y chromosomes, the 'Y' suppressed by 'epigenetic markers' and "methylation.' But laying their nerdy five-dollar-words aside, the doctors were clueless.
They ended up grossing me out near the end of the session. Excited and anticipating my first period, they longed to see if my eggs and hormone levels would act like those of a normal, fertile woman of twenty-five. So they gave me, I kid you not, special feminine napkins I was to use, store in specimen jars, and return to them.
Ew.
But unlike the nerd-herd, I was not looking forward to seeing Aunt Flo. I'd seen Kelsey go through those visits from hell dozens of times, and it seemed awful. Worse, I don't think Aunt Flo liked me much since I'd often raise Kelsey's ire during her visits. My crime, it seems, was having a Y chromosome.
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After leaving the clinic, I shot across campus to the Women's Center in Aeaea Hall. More poking and prodding, truth be told, albeit the invasions were psychic and not physical. Though, as I said before, I'd been keeping to myself, attending only because of work. Heck, I needed my job and, even though my father's a lawyer and brings home serious cheddar, he's no Charles Koch and I didn't want to burden him.
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But I shocked myself because, for the first time, I spoke.
I owe this to Kelsey. Because after we grabbed lunch on Saturday, she took me shopping and picked out clothes that made me feel, I dunno, feminine? Or at least competent as a dresser. It's odd that, for all my drooling over the female form since puberty, I hadn't paid attention to the finer details of what made ladies look stunning. I'd always assumed it was natural, but Kelsey revealed that it took work. And I was just beginning to learn.
Wax on, Ulysses-son. Wax off.
She even selected a limited supply of simple makeup, like foundation, a subtle rouge, and lip-gloss, which she delivered with admonitions and careful instruction. She didn't want me making the mistakes a typical 15-year-old girl does when first making themselves up, piling it on until they looked like harlots.
Since the only time I'd ever applied makeup was playing a zombie or vampire on Halloween, doing the job for real scared me, but I followed her advice. I gotta hand it to her, I looked good: a marked improvement.
Kelsey's da bomb.
Looking decent gave me the swag I'd lost, so I spoke like a spitfire seeking vengeance, telling the gathered crowd that I wanted to mount the heads of the internet trolls who doxxed me on spikes. This brought sniggers and cheers, people piling on about how pissed they were at their own abusers.
The therapist encouraged me but tried to shift my focus to some soft-minded Oprah crap about me using rage to mask my feelings of vulnerability. You know, drippy hippie nonsense. I was like, "whatever, girl." Because the other women in the group encouraged me, and left the room as the session closed fired-up, psyched big-time.
This is war, I thought. No time for navel-gazing.
"So all aboard, ladies... and we aren't going fishing.
"Just praise the Lord, and pass the ammunition."