CW: Medical, reproduction, fertility, chronic pain, sex.
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I am having the worst pelvic pain flare I’ve had in the past 5 years, possibly ever. The last time I got to this point it took 6 months of PT to unsnarl.

I’m a very “compliant” patient. Doctors love that. I take my meds as directed, I follow at-home breathing exercises and diet plans and whatever they tell me, really. But sometimes compliant isn’t good.

I specifically was told to do cranberry juice, lots of cranberry juice, for repeated infections. I drank A LOT of cranberry juice. Unsweetened, even. The more I hurt, the more doctors suggested it, the more I had.

By the time I was able to advocate for my pain, I was in a lot of pain. They do something called the q-tip test, where they touch your external anatomy lightly with a cotton bud to see where it hurts. I ticked every box; I hurt everywhere.

I was a newlywed for all this, by the way. The jokes about sex stopping after the wedding hit hard. So did the ball & chain stuff. I had a lot to work through. Especially as a queer woman & a trauma survivor.

So I have a lot of things going on in multiple systems that like to set each other off. A bladder problem, a pelvic infection, a stomach bug, a new lube, anything can set off a pain flare. The constant pain caused adhesions, gluing my insides together.

When I mention this laundry list to a new doc? It’s often disregarded, or not taken very seriously, even though it is serious. I’m chronically ill, but invisibly so. It’s earth-shattering when something goes wrong.

This time, I know exactly what it was. I had a diagnostic test, because we’ve been TTC for two years now. I’ll probably delete this later and break the thread, but that’s where I’m at right now. The test is invasive, and comes with a risk of infection. Which I got.

I have a history. I spend months to get into balance again after an infection, to say nothing of the deep, tight muscle pain from my belly button to my knees. My whole body is a clenched fist.

I have all new doctors, because we’re expats now, and a whole new bunch to convince to take me seriously. But at least I know now that my body is worth listening to, worth paying attention to, and I won’t try to tough it out for years on this go around.

THIS is the situation I dropped Elizabeth into for Trouble & Strife. Chronic pelvic pain over a long time, glaring severely. We all have different diagnoses, but I have a literal dozen AFAB friends who have dealt with painful intercourse.

Of course, at this point it’s not just painful intercourse. It’s painful wearing jeans, or workout shorts. And reminding doctors that it’s no good assessing my reproductive abilities if I hurt too much, if sex becomes impossible.

Sometimes it sets off my fibromyalgia too, either directly or by lack of sleep. My hands can hurt, my hips, my shoulders.

I was lucky. I left my job at the time, and was able to work through daily PT, to rest a lot and treat myself kindly. Always with the little voice saying I was a burden.

I was lucky to have a phenomenal sex life to work back towards, even on the days it felt impossible.

And like Elizabeth, I have a guy in my life who sees taking care of me as a joy. Who does my exercises with me, and even some of my PT when I flare, who brings gentleness when every action has some possibility of pain. Someone I trust deeply. That’s where Sidney came from.

I wanted her to find joy in her body, and pleasure. Even when it was an unruly thing and didn’t do what she wanted it to. And she did! Elizabeth knows her own worth. Trouble & Strife hangs on that.

People say Elizabeth is bossy, and they’re right. When a slightly different angle means searing pain instead of pleasure, and when that topography changes day to day, you learn to get specific. And Sidney likes that! He likes knowing what to do, and he can’t bear hurting her.

So when I say my books are personal to me, I really really mean it. Happily ever after matters. How we talk about happily ever after matters. It mattered to me when I was a reader, and now that I’m a writer, it’s everything.

When I wrote Trouble & Strife, I thought I was recovered. Hours or days of pain, not weeks. But struggles can resurface, and Sidney and Elizabeth both know that deeply. They’re with the right person to face those challenges.

Time to shout out other books that have helped me. Get A Life, Chloe Brown by Talia Hibbert. I have fibro too, but it meant the most to me in terms of relationships, chronic illness, and the place of accommodation in romance.

Two Rogues Make A Right by Cat Sebastian is a sparkling portrayal of chronic illness, and the private universe that can exist between a couple within their own home.

Eight Kinky Nights by Xan West, for queerness and chronic pain disability. For masc and femme presentation, for dominance and sex ambivalence and boundaries and deep trust. For self-exploration after a change.

An Unseen Attraction by KJ Charles, for gentleness and deeply caring partners, for communication, for accommodation rooted in near-reverent affection.

More recently, 40-Love by Olivia Dade and Bottle Rocket by Erin McLellan, for heroines with impeccable boundaries and supportive heroes. I am deeply grateful to romance for its place in my recovery, and to all of you who write and read it.