After my dick was put through a gauntlet of medical tests -- which included a doctor jamming a needle into my urethra, then sliding a tube that felt roughly the size and shape of a Slurpee straw down there to inject a solution intended to "cause intense pain in the event of a positive diagnosis" -- I moved on to other specialists. I eventually wound up with a physical therapist, which is what happens when medical science goes all Idiocracy on you and settles for, "Your shit's all retarded."
We went through all sorts of theories, including that one leg is shorter than the other, or that I use my pelvic floor too much and, instead of being able to toss cars with the force of my erections, I had instead pulled a dong-muscle. Then it was my spine being out of line, then me carrying too much tension in my shoulders -- spoiler alert: None of that was the issue. At this point I hadn't sat down in about 10 months. I could stand for a while, or lie down for a while, but had to constantly switch between the two. I was distracted from work, under a bunch of deadlines, and unable to do my favorite thing, which is sit on my ass.
I went to the doctor for antidepressants.
He was reluctant to give them to me, which is fine. I'm all for guarding against the overuse of prescription drugs unless it's Friday and you're out of bourbon. But this time I insisted, and two weeks later, I was better. Not fixed, but improved. And not just my mood, the mystery pain as well. I called the doctor with this bizarre news, only to have him say, "Oh yeah! That's a side effect of the antidepressants; we also prescribe them for nerve pain."
It was a stupid accident that finally helped me, but medical science rolled with it like they tripped down a stairway and accidentally did a front flip.
"Totally meant to do that -- I took four years of flip school from Johnny Flip, inventor of the flip!"
Like I said, I'm not fixed. I still have to work standing up, which I tell myself is something I have in common with Hemingway, instead of with graphic designers named Weston who wear those toe-shoe things. But the pain is diminished, and I've grown used to what little remains. I can't sit in certain ways or for very long, but I can make it through an episode of Game Of Thrones, and that's good enough.
I'm telling you all of this not because I'm an extrovert looking for excuses to talk about my orifices (who needs an excuse, anyway?) but because I can't stop thinking about how strange and silly it all was. It's kind of like the curse from It Follows -- I can't stop thinking about my dick turning into a Gwar concert unless I pass it on to you.
Congratulations. It's your problem now.
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