I must stop taking out my stress on my cooch

WARNING:  There is about to me waaaayyyy too much information shared here right now.  It all involves my cooch and the traumatic week it had.  If you do not wish to read any further, please pass on this post and check me out next time.

Remember you have been warned.

So last week I'm in the bathroom.  Allow me to set the scene.  Public school.  Cheap-ass toilet paper.  I'm in a hurry and, after peeing, go to wipe to find that it feels LIKE RAZOR BLADES on my cooch.  I tend to wipe in a forceful, eratic manner.  Yes,  I'm a little tense.  I also want to get in and out quickly.  I do not care for the cooch as much as I need to.  But this was bad.  So I kinda thought at first that maybe I just wiped too hard, but it kept hurting all day, all night and all day the next day.  WTF?  Now I'm getting worried.  So i ask fabulous husband to check it out.  (I had looked with a mirror and found nothing to help me figure out what was going on earlier that day.)  So he takes a peek and sees nothing unusual.  That's good, I think.  At this point it's hurting when I pee and also when I sit down - not the whole time just when I move into a new postion.  I have to admit I was a bit worried.  The next day it seems a little better and by Saturday night, it was much better.  Well things take a turn for worse on Sunday.  I look in the mirror (my cooch mirror, ya know) and see an area that seems inflamed.  The pain had become quite localized too and seemed to be coming from this red, inflamed area.  So I ask fabulous husband to check me out again.  This time he finds (remember I WARNED YOU) some discharge that seemed sort of consistent with maybe a yeast infection...after apologizing profusely that I made him look at that, I am somewhat relieved because I know how to cure a yeast infection even though I haven't had many in the past.  So I go to the store, buy the one-day stuff and have a hell-of-a-laugh-your-ass-off time in the bathroom at Greveys where we go to watch our Bills games.  I was in there for no less than 15 minutes.  Who knew you had to lay down?  Not that I did, but still getting that thing in was rather difficult without being on my back.  Seriously, it was at least a foot long - why?  And there were people waiting for the stall!  Oh my.  Anyway, immediately upon insertion it now feels as if my cooch IS ON FIRE.  Oh my word.  It was bad.  Really?  I thought the whole thing was going to burn off.  It didn't take long for me to realize I may have made a mistake.  So i read the instructions and find that it is not uncommon for burning to take place.  That's why it's suggested that one do the treatment at BEDTIME so that it doesn't all run out and burn the cooch.  Great.  But at least it was a normal reaction so I wasn't that worried. 

Next day, not only do I have goopy crap oozing out of me but I take out the mirror and what do I find?  A blister.

That's right.

My life flashed before my eyes.  I obviously had contracted herpes and will be divorcing fabulous husband (since he OBVIOUSLY gave it to me, right?)...I immediately go to the what-did-we-do-in-emergency-situations-like-this-before internet and look up "vaginal blister".  That's right.  It's in my google history.  Uh huh.  With great relief I find that they can be caused by a zillion other things.  In fact yeast infections can cause them.  Woo hoo!!!  I'm saved.  Thank God.  But............I'm not totally convinced.  Oh, and did I mention how much this thing freaking hurt?  Yeah, whatever it was clearly burst and was basically an open wound that I peed in all day.  Nice.  (Do you need reminding that I warned you?)

OK, so I confide in a neutral friend at work and she thinks I'm crazy to think it's anything to worry about.  Another friend confirms.  I'm still worried and make an appointment...can't get one until the next day.  Wierd that open sores on genitals doesn't count as an emergency.  And I was not all that stable-sounding when I called either.  I beleive i used the term "freaking out" more than once.

Get home that night and the blister is all but gone.  Huh.  And it doesn't really hurt anymore.  OK.

Get to the doctor.  I explain everything.  She assures me without even looking that the likelyhood that it's herpes is slim to none considering how fast the thing appeared and disappeared and that there was only one, etc.  (By the way, let me disclaim that it's not the herpes itself that I was so afraid of.  Not that I want it, but I know it's a very liveable condition to have.  It was the fact that my husband and I had infectioous diseease testing 18 months ago and got a clean bill of health.  To me this meant that it was contracted in that time period and therefore my life as I knew it was over - are you with me?  Get where I was coming from?)

OK, so she takes a look.  She says "I see lacerations here.  Oooh and there's some of the blister left so I can culture it."  She proceeds to take a q-tip and jam it into the former sore like she was digging for gold.  Holy crap.  Um, that hurt.  A lot. 

Let me cut to the chase.  (I know, you're thinking: why stop with the nonessential details now?)

Diagnosis:  (and this is literaly written on my chart)  AGGRESSIVE WIPER

OMG

Treatment?  Gentle dabbing.

I tore my cooch up.  Me.  And then the medication I used made it all bubble up and stuff.  Ew...  Who knew?  I mean gentle dabbing makes good sense.  Sure.  But I never dreamed I could get little toilet paper cuts down there.  Wow. 

So now it's all better.  And I'm dabbing gently and cooch is happy.  Lesson learned?  I NEED THERAPY.  I must stop taking out my stress on my cooch.

And the worst part?  That I ever thought fabulous husband was up to no good.  Sorry sugar.  I tend to overreact.  Again, I need therapy.  Now.  No, more like yesterday.