Personal Story: The Angry Won’t Heal Itself

Personal Story: The Angry Won’t Heal Itself

You have heard the whisperings of girls club even if you’re not a member. As far as I can tell, the one rule that has been established in this Facebook club is that you don’t talk about girls club outside of girls club. We are the yin to Fight Club’s yang. It might be  less physical but probably just as psychotic.

However,  I will boldly breach this rule  to bring up a topic that was trending for a while on girls club because it shouldn’t cause any emotional harm to anyone. The topic was about dryer sheets. Actually, the topic was bathroom-cleaning tips. The secret tip was to use dryer sheets. The rough texture forms a traction that gets  rid of  tough stains and mildew that can develop in nasty-ass bathrooms. Also, the chemicals provide a pleasant smell. This tip was helpful and successful so now I give it to you. Use dryer sheets to clean your bathroom.

I had a few months left at my apartment until I moved into a house. I prepared by avoiding all cleaning until the move. My motto was, “I’ll clean  when I’m moving out.” However, when it was time to throw on the rubber gloves and scrub, my motto changed to, “I’ll probably won’t get my deposit back anyway, why bother?” I wanted the apartment to look not sparkling clean but respectful clean. I did have those amazing dryer sheets to help me speed through some of the grime. And those dryer sheets with their rough texture and good-smelling chemicals is my curse as much as they are the reason for my girls-club breach.

I have to begin this by saying that being active is in my blood. I can only  justify it  by being raised by two athletic and competitive parents. It would be an exaggeration to say they threw volleyballs or basketballs into my soft little hands as soon as I came flying out of the womb. It would not be an exaggeration to say they used to throw me into a swimming pool with no floaties when I was six-months old to impress their friends. I don’t know if  it was a talent for swimming or a talent for not dying. However, no one could argue that  it was a talent and evidence of athletic prowess. I guess.

Due to this  assault of sports and competition that followed me throughout my life, I run, a lot. I feel out-of-sorts and tense if a day goes by, and I don’t run. I am irritable and cranky if two days go by without running. The longer I go without physical activity the more twitchy I become. I know this sounds crazy to anyone that doesn’t run regularly. However, I know it  sounds completely normal for the serious runners out there and that might make  runners crazy as hell.

It had been a couple of days since I had a good run and I was getting twitchy as hell. Also,  it was the last day to get the last few things left out of the apartment. On top of that, I had to work until 5 p.m., and it would be dark when I left work. I was determined to run, but I didn’t want to run  on foreign sidewalks in my new neighborhood in the evening. I imagined boogie men coming  out from the dark similar to the wiggly skeletons in Castlevania.  I decided I would pack some running clothes, head to the apartment after work, change and  run on familiar and safe sidewalks around 5 p.m. Then I could gather the remaining stuff and head over to my new house.

My plan did not take into account one important variable; the post-work shit. It didn’t even cross my mind while I enjoyed a yerba mate latte an hour  before work was over. It didn’t cross my mind until I was sitting on the toilet holding in the post-work shit and looking around for something that I could  wipe with since there was no toilet paper.  I knew I couldn’t hold it while I ran.  Anybody that runs knows that a good jog can act like a trigger for the healthiest of shits. Many times I took off for a run only to have to walk the agonizing mile back home pretending that I wasn’t about to shit myself. I remember one time walking by Rojo and the only thought I had was, “please don’t shit here in front of all these people. Please don’t shit here in front of all these people.”

So yeah. I was going to have to shit if I wanted to run, and actually, like any healthy shit, I didn’t have a choice because it was happening regardless of toilet paper or not. As I sat on the toilet, my eyes jumped desperately around the room to find anything I could  use to wipe. I wasn’t going to run 5 miles with swamp ass.

My desperate eyes finally landed on a leftover dryer sheet sitting on the edge of the tub. It even looked un-used. I know the rough texture and chemicals that helped make bathrooms sparkle might not be the best for your private areas so I didn’t wipe aggressively. I dabbed here. I dabbed there. Who knows, I might have dabbed here again. And then I ran the five miles. Within hours I forgot all about the dryer-sheet wipe. But my vagina never did.

Sunday evening, I realized that my vagina had been trying to tell me something. It was something so important I had to announce it to my boyfriend.

“I don’t think I can have sex tonight. I think my vagina is angry.”


“I think I pissed it off.”

I have been blessed with not having infections in this area  just like I have been blessed with invincible bones.  However, even with all my glorious unbroken bones, nothing could take away the fact that  I had an angry, fiery, itchy crotch. I trudged over to CVS and bought Monistat for the first time while acting reposed  as possible in front of the young bright-eyed man behind the cash register.

However, the rage kept on for a couple of days and I felt worse. I was fatigued and I had a constant headache. Then I noticed my pee was no longer pee. It was a cloudy bright green concoction that was similar to the liquid I  drank at  an all-night, energy-drink liquor party, where me and my friends stayed up to sunrise but lost all memories after 2 in the morning. That color equals a fun time in a cup but not too much fun coming out of my body.

I went to the doctor.

And yes I had some infections in that general crotch area that required antibiotics.

I read a list of things to do to avoid infections and one certain rule  was to avoid using dryer sheets IN THE DRYER with your underwear. No where does it say to avoid wiping with a dryer sheet because that is just a matter of fact.

I thought about searching the internet for stories similar to mine.

“Have you gotten infections due to wiping with a dryer sheet?”

And then I realized I wouldn’t find them because  nobody else is that retarded. So here I am sharing my story in case some young retarded lady out there finds herself with an angry crotch after being so bold as to wipe with a dryer sheet and run five miles. Go to the doctor because you need antibiotics. The angry is not going away by itself.

Brooke McCarley