Dear Uterus,

These letters used to be funny.  I’d write them to you a few times a year, when I had a particularly bad period, and all my friends would get a kick out of Motley the Weird Feminist writing letters to her uterus as though she were trying to resolve an ongoing issue with a somewhat deranged and out of control roommate who was, simultaneously, completely intimate and totally unavailable for in-person discourse.

They are not funny anymore.  You have gone from a vaguely anthropomorphized internal organ who wore the costume of a fractious roommate to an active threat to my health, my quality of life, and perhaps (though this is a long odds shot) my life itself.  You have also become the sole focus of my rage at the process I am going through to try and get you the fuck out of my life, just as I would evict or extract any other influence so obviously painful, toxic, and unabatedly harmful.

I can’t scream at the CRNs, ARNPs, regular old RNs, MDs, MAs, PAs of MDs, or any other person with a chunk of alphabet stuck behind their name, because exhibiting the slightest emotion gets me another speech about being “high strung” and making “rash decisions” and sets back my quest to get you the hell out of my life and my body.  I am too young not to want you, you see, and too childless.  Undoubtedly, no matter what pain I am in, or how long my resolve has held thus far, I will wake up one day and go “CHILDREN! YES! WHAT A BRILLIANT IDEA! WHY DID NO ONE EVER TELL ME I COULD HAVE THOSE?!?” And then, if I don’t have YOU, magical Uterus, I will not be able to give birth to these creatures that apparently I will develop this sudden burning and irrevocable need for.  My own life will mean nothing if I don’t have you, Uterus, to make me a whole and complete woman by permitting me to pass along the genetic code that is so bad that it makes the self same medical professionals incredulous when I relate my medical history.

And so, Uterus, because you are part of a larger system that has become obviously and thoroughly out of balance, the same system that controls my hormone levels and emotional balance, I must remain calm and rational and utterly dispassionate in the face of a completely external system that is determined that I am, still and always, too young and too flighty to make decisions about what I do and do not want to do with my life.  You understand, I think, why I might want a scapegoat on this one.  So I will aim all the rage I cannot express to them at you, because you cannot deny me anything more than you already have, you cannot fuck me any harder than you are already doing, and I cannot declare war on you any more thoroughly than I have already done.

Bring it, fucker.  Because I am, and I will continue to do so.  If I have to be a cold, totally disconnected, totally implacable stone wall to get you gone, then that’s what I will be.  I will not keep paying the cost to keep you.  So fucking bring it, and we will see who wins.