Over the last few years, I’ve spoken candidly about my struggle with PCOS aka polycystic ovary syndrome. Today, my friends, is the day I become more candid than ever before.
Before I dive into my personal accounts, I think it’s only fair that I provide the lay of the land for those unfamiliar with the condition. Polycystic ovary syndrome is a hormonal imbalance in which the subject (generally) has a higher level of hormones that are typically associated with men. This includes, but is not limited to, androgens.
One of the common misconceptions is that it’s only a case of high androgens. This is absolutely not the case. There are several hormonal imbalances that can affect a person with PCOS. High levels of cortisol, insulin, and progesterone, among others are also factors that can come into play— because when one hormone is on the blink, it can create a domino effect on the entire endocrine system.
One of the most important things to remember is that the condition affects everyone differently: some gain excess weight while others are hit by the severe hormonal acne truck. Maybe you’ll be lucky enough to have both. The list of PCOS symptoms is long and exhausting to look at.
I wasn’t 100% sure how to approach this essay, because I was concerned it would come off more as a 2,000-word complaint with works cited, and that’s not what I’m trying to accomplish. What I am going to do is tell you the most embarrassing, gross, and unfortunate things I’ve dealt with when it comes to PCOS. If you’re grossed out by women with body hair or talk of heavy periods, feel free to click out now (and also maybe consider seeing a therapist because those are two pretty standard biological facts of life).
I’m going to start with, what I feel, is the least talked about and most “degrading” aspect. Body hair. Specifically, body hair that grows in areas that aren’t considered “normal” for us ladies. As women, we’re regularly chastised for having body hair in the first place. Now to have it grow in places that aren’t even “normal”? We may as well throw ourselves into oncoming traffic, right?
If this whole concept is new to you, I apologize for throwing you into the thick of it but: nipple hair is a thing that women get. It can be a few strands here and there around the areola, or it can grow thick as the Amazon rainforest (until climate change destroys it, then this comparison will be wildly outdated). Personally, I have a good number, but not enough to even call it a grove. I’m not going to count them (mostly because I just had them lasered off so there isn’t much to count), but if I had to guess I’d say maybe 25 singular dark hairs on each boob. I used to be humiliated. I thought I was some freak of nature, and that my mother had perhaps partaken in a torrid affair with Sasquatch back in 1994. She’s in the clear now (mostly). Still suspicious of the amount of leg hair I’m dealing with though.
Anyway, when I also started growing hair on my stomach, I felt like my life was over. “Oh my God, I’ve already gained so much weight since high school. And now I’m going to be mistaken for a wolf pack extra from the Twilight film franchise?” I would have preferred the blow from a hunter’s gun than the blow I took to my self-esteem.
I’ve been blessed with small patches of hair on my neck and chin hairs beyond belief. I used to pluck every single one. The ones on my chin, my neck, my boobs, and my stomach. I would spend over an hour in the bathroom, aggressively tweezing each hair, only to have them show up again within 48 hours. With the extra weight, I already felt unattractive and now that I had discovered I was potentially the spawn of a hairy Pacific Northwest icon, I assumed I was doomed when it came to finding someone to love me.
Something that I was always fairly transparent about online is that I’d never dated, had a boyfriend, or even sent a nude photo. My self-esteem has always been low, but when the weight showed up and the hair started growing, I didn’t even want to go outside. How could I let people see me like this fully clothed, let alone allow someone to see me NAKED? I would cry myself to sleep, absolutely traumatized by the thought of someone looking at my body.
It’s only this year that something in me switched. I still dislike my body. I’m not going to lie to you and say, “I love myself!” For this reason, my telling you to do the same seems hollow. I want you to, I really do, but I can’t in good conscience preach it in this piece. I still feel disgusted when I look in the mirror. Why is my midsection so big? Why does my back have more rolls than a bakery? Man, I could genuinely take flight with these bat wings. I still pick myself apart every single day. I still cringe when I think about someone seeing me completely naked. I need to take an Ativan before I go to my laser appointments. But I’m working on it. I’m working so hard to at least accept myself, and luckily, because of the work I’ve put in, other people’s words don’t affect me as much anymore. There isn’t a doubt in my mind that I’m my own worst critic.
Weight gain and PCOS go together like, as the 1978 classic Grease so eloquently put it, rama lama lama ka dinga da dinga dong.
I’ve been told to do a number of things to lose weight because you “need to lose weight to help your PCOS”. Yeah, okay great. I’ll just eat right and exercise regularly. Bitch, you thought?! Good luck with that. Eating less and being active might help with your caloric goal, but with PCOS you need to focus on the hormonal, metabolic, and inflammatory aspects first. Those are the true driving factors of the initial weight gain. There’s nothing more aggravating than armchair experts who think they know what they’re talking about. Friends and family mean well, but it’s exhausting to hear irrelevant advice over and over when it’s been proven that people with PCOS process things differently. It completely changes a number of your bodily functions. Even a lot of GPs will do this. The thing is, one tactic might work for one person, but be completely useless for another. The number of times I’ve been told to go on Keto is staggering. Did you know that Keto has been called one of the worst diets in existence by nutritional experts? Yeah. It’s essentially the Atkins diet repackaged and revamped to look like something healthier. Sure, if you’re prepared to completely cut out carbs and only eat high-fat foods for the rest of your life, it may work great for you. That’s all well and good, but if you’re willing to say goodbye to real pasta for the rest of your life… I don’t know if I trust your judgment. I’m kidding. Kind of.
I tried Keto for a few months, but felt like I was sick with the flu for 90% of it. I eventually gave up because I was constipated, tired, and missed fruit. Yeah, you can’t eat fruit. How sick and twisted is that?
I’m a big fan of the HealthyPCOS Instagram page. They provide a ton of fantastic information about lesser-known aspects of the condition. A couple of the ones I deal with that I’d like to bring up today are skin tags and acanthosis nigricans.
I always used to think that skin tags were for old people. That was, until I started noticing little ones on my neck and under my arms. “Uh, excuse me? I’m 23!” was my initial thought. Then I looked into it more, and found that despite being less common, those little dudes were yet another symptom of PCOS. At this point, I couldn’t figure out what wasn’t a symptom. Another discovery I made was that some of the areas under my arms looked like they were… bruised. Enter acanthosis nigricans. This is caused by higher levels of insulin and can also be found around the neck and groin. Thus far, on my body, I’ve only noticed it around the armpits, but goddamn I’m still young.
There are SO many more side effects and symptoms I could dive into (not all of which I experience): low sex drive, painful sex, eating disorders, sleep disorders, infertility, poor mental health… but there is only so much time in the day. I’m going to discuss mental health in another post later on, but for now, I’d like to talk about one more thing before leaving you on a positive note.
The day’s last topic: periods. They make us cry, topple over in pain, stain underwear and brand new sheets from Pottery Barn (😡), and, occasionally, help us get out of gym class — but what if they disappeared? We might just throw a party. All of us lucky enough to be born with a uterus know how it is. I got my first period fairly early, in sixth grade, and from there on out, I had incredibly intense and painful cramps at least once per cycle.
I remember when I was around 14 and heading back to the island after a concert in Vancouver, I spent the hour-and-a-half ferry ride curled up in the fetal position, crying on the floor of the boat. Yes, I received a number of strange looks, but I was past the point of caring. Not only were they painful, but they were heavy too.
Then when I turned 19, I noticed the amount of time between my periods were changing. Generally much longer than before. I wouldn’t say my cycle was ever truly consistent, but instead of, say, a 29-day timeframe, I wouldn’t get any sort of period for two months. Then, as I continued to get older, I could go for months without a period at all. I think the longest I went was around six months with no sign of menstruation.
Just last year, I started taking metformin to help with some of the symptoms, and low and behold, mother nature’s gift made a comeback! I was simultaneously relieved and absolutely devastated. Now I’m back to a semi-regular cycle and disgustingly heavy periods.
In conclusion, here are some positive things I have been able to change or do to help myself deal with some of my PCOS symptoms:
- I started taking metformin to lower my blood sugar, help curb cravings, and regulate my period.
- I started getting laser hair removal for my chin, stomach, and areolas. It’s not cheap and it’s a privilege to be able to do this. I recognize that. Some people don’t feel the need to remove their hair, and that’s wonderful. You don’t need to be ashamed of it, but I’m admittedly not that strong.
- I have started talking to boys. Am I scared? Yes. Am I still afraid to meet in person? 100%. I used to chat with guys on dating apps without the intention of meeting up. I thrived on the validation and the idea that they liked what they saw on my profile. Now I’ve begun talking with guys I feel like I can genuinely trust not to judge me or my body. Have I misjudged and had them turn out to be trash or simply break my heart? Oh baby, you know it! Once a raccoon, always a raccoon. At least I haven’t met up with any of them yet.
- After a year of searching, I finally stumbled upon a cleanser and toner that have almost completely cleared up my hormonal acne. I don’t get a kickback from this, but Elemis Superfood Cleansing Wash and Elemis Apricot Toner literally saved my skin.
- And last, but certainly not least, I’ve been honest. Not only with myself, but with the entire internet. Building my self-confidence may look like building vanity to some (I’m so sorry Instagram), but sharing photos I like of myself and receiving positive feedback with people in agreement that, yes, you do actually look good in that photo, has helped immensely. When I share a picture that shows how I actually look and the guy I have a crush on “likes” it? Um, that’s a major dose of serotonin right there. Sure, it’s still relying on other people to validate me, but I’m working on it.
From sharing snippets of my story on Instagram, I’ve received messages and comments from people thanking me for being open and honest about my battle with PCOS. Some have admitted it’s not something they’re comfortable talking about — and that’s exactly why I think discussing stigmatized topics (if you feel at ease enough to do so) is SO important. There are people who never share their stories — and that’s okay! I was ashamed for so long, both about my PCOS and mental health (more on that coming soon), that at one point in my life, I didn’t want anyone to know anything. But as I’ve gotten older (it’s honestly probably because my mental health sucks so bad that I just don’t give a shit anymore), I’ve realized that looking past my own apprehension has made a lot of people feel less alone. Even writing this, I’m not overly confident. I keep thinking about the number of people I know who are going to look at me with the knowledge, somewhere in their brain, that I laser off a pseudo-beard. I’m pretty sure I’ve mentioned the hair situation in an Instagram post before, but this one is going on the blog.
If I can leave you with any last advice, it’s that if you’re comfortable enough to share your struggles — do it. If you’re not, just know that you’re not in it alone, and that your mother didn’t have an impassioned entanglement with Sasquatch nine months before you were born.