Say to any woman you know “I’ve got fucking cystitis”, and watch as she exhales sharply, takes a moment to stare into the middle distance, and then turns to face you with the haunted eyes of PTSD before proclaiming solidarity with your current plight.
To celebrate this scourge of vaginas the world over, here is a round up of some of the reasons why cystitis is more vile than even this tattoo:
- Violation of your right to privacy
The first time I got cystitis, I was a teenager with an A-symmetrical haircut and an age appropriate boyfriend. I told my mother of my mysterious eye watering symptoms, and quick-sharp came the reply:
“You’ve lost your virginity, haven’t you”?
I confessed (though elaborating no further), and we were momentarily plunged into that chasm of awkwardness that only a recovering catholic can create.
She then went through the physical articulations as outlined in my opening paragraph, called the GP for an over the phone prescription, and whisked me off for a nightmare game of supermarket sweep: antibiotics; cranberry juice, cranberry tablets, nettle tea, anti-inflammatories and, of course, those sachets (on which more later).
Machine-gunning down her illusion of my virginity, cystitis became the HYMANATOR: and yes motherfucker, it will be back.
- Smug man enabler
“Hey girl, I know you’re in so much pain that you chewed off your own thumbs, but, ha, I heard that boning someone with a MASSIVE DONG causes cystitis. So, well… I can’t pretend I’m not a little #CHUFFED But yeah, get well soon bbz, and if you’re lucky, I can give it to you again, yeah?”
First of all, 100% not true.
Second of all, whoever started this rumour is a cunt.
(My money’s on Dapper Laughs)
- Punishment for having a nice time
You know how in the mid 17th century, everyone in Britain was constantly a bit drunk and fucked up, but then Oliver Cromwell came along and pissed on the party? Well, cystitis is the Oliver Cromwell of the female body:
Thought you’d just say yes to that 6th larger shandy did you? Eating an entire pack of yum yums on a comedown are we? Playing a bit of naughty jigsaw on a school night is it?
Well… CHRISTMAS IS CANCELLED, FUCKWIT! THE ONLY THING IN SANTA’S SACK IS CRANBERRIES!
- Cystitis medicine was sent to test the gag reflex
Ever play ‘ultimatum’ with your mates? Deeply philosophical questions like: would you rather eat a poo that tastes like chocolate, or a chocolate that tastes like poo?
Here’s a real tough one. Would you rather:
– Drink only cystitis medicine for a whole week
– Imbibe 25ml of David Cameron’s spaff
?
See, it’s hard.
A friend of mine was once so disturbed by the thought of having to neck yet another glassful (stirring furiously all the while so that it doesn’t settle into a highly concentrated slurry of trauma), that she mixed a sachet into a petit filous.
She then proceeded to tragically shit on her own childhood with each spoonful of befouled fromage frais.
- Middle aged male doctors
When things get really bad, so bad that the blood in your urine turns it the appetising colour of lucozade, only antibiotics can save you.
After crying at the receptionist in your local medical centre, you manage to grab a hot moment with Dr. IStayedUpLateReWatchingTheWestWing, only to be faced with this:
“Okay, so the thing is, you need to make sure you wipe front to back. Just a little tip, from me to you 😉 “
Oh really?! Coz you know, recently I ran out of sanitary products, so I fashioned a mooncup out of a jobby – what am I like?! Thanks doc!
I once endured a particularly painful consultation in which I was told that my bladder was probably bruised and swollen from all the sex with that enormous knob I’d been having, which culminated in Dr fisting an imaginary bladder, nodding, and repeating “Okay?” for a full 30 seconds.
- It’s quite fucking sore
It starts with a dull ache and an urge to urinate that can never be satisfied.
In full blown form, you limp to the toilet, convinced you are in imminent danger of not only having an accident, but also drowning in a torrent of your own piss the moment your relax your pelvic floor.
You make it, just, and with watering eyes, sit on the porcelain throne. Extreme, overwhelming pain shoots down through your tummy and into your urethra, and after what feels like the length of the Archers omnibus, the tiniest, malevolently orange drop burns its way out of you.
Finally, delirium sets in, and encourages you to do horrible things in a bid to offset the pain. The best example of this I know is a friend who, at 4am and after hours of sobbing in the bathroom, convinced herself that it might be less painful if she were to urinate on those temptingly fluffy towels, rather than into the toilet bowl.
It didn’t work.
Fuck you, Cystitis.
Big Girl Pants 