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It was difficult for me to imagine a day when the cloud would ease up to a sprinkle or give way to sunshine.

So while my friends took the party bus to the bars downtown, I lay in my bed and tried to watch TV to distract myself.

Despite my woes, I never thought to ask my friends if they continually left the gynecologist's office in tears, or felt sick at the thought of wearing a tampon.

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Was I supposed to be OK with the fact that my vagina hurt 98% of the time?

And was I supposed to just be OK with the fact that they didn't have a fucking cure for it?

I shied away from virtually every guy that showed me attention to avoid the inevitable disappointment on his end. Due to my increasing lack of intimacy, my relationship with my boyfriend was disintegrating before my eyes.

I didn't want to be alone with a guy in any capacity. I tried to push aside my hesitation and ignore how terrible I felt, but ultimately the pain of penetration was overwhelming. "I don't understand what's wrong with you," he said. I made an appointment with my gynecologist later that week, who diagnosed me with probable endometriosis, meaning I'd need laparoscopic surgery; the doctor would slice me open at the belly button to remove any lesions and cysts from my ovaries and uterus. I felt like I had nothing to offer him physically, and as each painful day passed, he grew more and more impatient.

Lying on my back with my legs in stirrups, I could feel my body starting to shake.

I'd been poked and prodded in places only your gynecologist is allowed to visit so many times that day, and the spot I stared at on the ceiling was beginning to look like a pear.

And the big guns was Mayo Clinic in Rochester, Minn. On a particularly painful day less than a week later, I decided to take a chance and make the call.

I had first heard about Mayo through my best friend. I'm not sure I had ever felt so desperate in my life.

I focused harder on it to try to distract myself from the discomfort. The doctor wheeled over to me on her wheel-y doctor stool and, moving on to the next phase of torture, informed me she was about to to poke my vagina with a Q-tip. She did, gently, and all of a sudden my vagina burst into flames. She took her hand away from my vagina and took her gloves off. ""We don't know."----Being told that your vagina doesn't work properly is a scary feeling.

I mean, not literally, but it might as well've been. Then she turned to look at me."Well, there's something going on here. Your inner muscles clench up at the slightest touch and cause some pretty extreme pain from the looks of it.""Wait, what? Part of being a human is that your genitals are supposed to do all of their regular genitalia stuff. I first discovered my Vagina Problems on my very first visit to the gynecologist at age 13.

All I knew was that every time he touched me, all I could think about was the inevitable pain followed by sheer disappointment.