This is?

Call me May. Some years ago – never mind how long precisely – having little or no money in my purse, and nothing particular to interest me in my somewhat pathetic ‘career’, I thought I would get married and see the parenty part of the world.

So far, it’s been a bit of a failure. I have PCOS, I have only one ovary, I have adenomyosis, fibroids, and endometriosis (trifecta!). I have had my insides scraped out and poked over innumerable times, I have been bullied into ovulating by means chemical, I have refused to respond to same means. I have been pregnant (seven times, so far), but never for longer than a few weeks. Through all this, my beloved childhood-sweetheart-now-spouse, the angelic H, has hung around, making me tea and mopping my fevered brow. Luckily, his below-stairs is, as far as we know, in fine working order, so I get to be the Main Attraction round here.

Whenever I find myself growing grim about the mouth; whenever it is a damp, drizzly November in my soul; whenever I find myself involuntarily pausing before coffin warehouses, and bringing up the rear of every funeral I meet; and especially whenever my hypos get such an upper hand of me, that it requires a strong moral principle to prevent me from deliberately stepping into the street, and methodically knocking people’s hats off – then, I account it high time to get to my blog as soon as I can. This is my substitute for pistol and ball. With a philosophical flourish Cato throws himself upon his sword; I quietly take to the internet. There is nothing surprising in this. If they but knew it, almost all men in their degree, some time or other, cherish very nearly the same feelings towards talking about themselves as me.

In other words, expect foul language.

You can speak to me privately at not_exactly at hotmail dot com (I’m sure you’re all bright enough to work that one out (unless you’re a spam-bot and that’s rather the point).

Here is the the unabridged edition, with all the gory, dreary details.