In January 2026, after six years of trying, I was finally diagnosed with endometriosis. This article is about that diagnosis, and my celebration of finally being believed through a pole dance performance at the PERIOD cabaret.
I’ve written about my period extensively on this blog, from reviewing period-proof underwear to attempting to mitigate my extremely painful periods through different remedies and checks. I don’t just share this content because it tends to do well, but because being more open about discussing periods has helped me, too.
I am not proud of having started being more open about periods because of brand partnerships that offered a good fee, but that’s how it happened: these work opportunities at times when I didn’t have a stable salary challenged me to talk about my period publicly. At the time this felt scary, but it really helped me undo the effects of the stigma attached to period visibility and the need to perform an always appealing femininity that formed in my head, largely due to taboos from media narratives seen in my teens.
The avoidance of conversations about it had left me really ignorant about matters central to my own wellbeing, so since then I have started being way more open about my menstrual health. Now that I have finally been diagnosed with endometriosis and Premenstrual Dysphoric Disorder (PMDD), I want to continue on that trajectory.
Endometriosis and PMDD symptoms
As I wrote last year, even if I identify as a woman, and my gender is the same as the one I was assigned at birth, I don’t see periods as a “beautiful manifestation of my womanhood.” I don’t associate periods with femininity, just with grossness and pain.
The PMS-to-bleeding time of the month is usually the time when I feel myself the least, where I feel the most detached from my body, and where I’d rather not be walking in my own shoes. I am not squeamish about blood, but I just don’t see myself on my period as truly myself. I don’t feel as strong as I often think I am, I feel physically sick, I immediately start fearing I’ve permanently injured myself, I become paranoid about my relationships and my actions, I sleep poorly and become utterly unreasonable. It’s like a monster has taken control of who I am, and my mental health really takes a hit.
Physically, things during my periods aren’t great either. I sweat more, feel heightened pain with everything I do, because my body is swollen and my skin feels more sensitive – not exactly ideal when bashing your body against a metal pole is a huge part of your day. I’ve had to perform and compete on my period, which greatly affected my movement, my sanity and even my ability to choose costumes (cue: planning for an un-choreographed bloodbath).
From my “Unfucking my painful periods” blog post (yes I am quoting myself but I didn’t wanna rewrite this lol).
Now, these symptoms of dysphoria have been formalised with a PMDD diagnosis, which is a massive relief given that I’ve spent half of each month feeling like I didn’t want to be in my own skin.
PMDD is a very severe form of premenstrual syndrome (PMS) which, according to the Mind charity, causes a range of emotional and physical symptoms every month during the week or two before your period. PMDD can have a serious impact on your life: Mind write that it “can make it hard to work, socialise and have healthy relationships. In some cases, it can also lead to suicidal feelings.”
This condition can be caused by hormonal changes and smoking, but also by stressful and traumatic past events – and as an abusive relationship and sexual assault survivor, I’ve had plenty of those. Stress is also a factor, and I don’t think it’s a coincidence that so many of these experiences started during the pandemic, a time when my professional and personal life felt incredibly uncertain, and continued as I continue to struggle landing a permanent job in academia.
As the quote from my previous blog shows, aside from my PMDD symptoms, I’ve also been experiencing extremely painful periods in the past six years. This started in the first lockdown, when I remember spending an entire day between the bed and the floor screaming in pain. When society reopened, my ex was shocked to see colour leave my face as soon as my period came, to the point I struggled to walk. This doesn’t happen as frequently now, but it still does.
I’m sure you can see feeling like this isn’t only scary, distressing, and challenging towards performing normal tasks: it’s also in stark contrast with my lifestyle, my training, and the perception I have of myself.
According to Endometriosis UK, endometriosis is a condition in which tissue from the membrane that normally lines the uterus — the endometrium — grows outside the uterus, typically on the ovaries, fallopian tubes, intestines or other areas in the pelvis. This tissue accumulates blood like the endometrium during your period, but it has no place to shed it at the end of the cycle. The accumulation of tissue and blood can cause inflammation and scarring, which can lead to pelvic pain and infertility, while blood trapped in the ovaries may develop into benign cysts called endometrioma. Because of this excruciating pain, endometriosis costs the UK economy £8.2bn a year in treatment, loss of work and healthcare costs (stats still from Endometriosis UK).
The cause of this condition is still unknown and there is no definite cure, also because there are apparently more studies on and funding for the causes of male pattern baldness than on this under-researched chronic illness.
Still, since the extremely painful symptoms I experienced started, there was no acknowledgement from my GP or the NHS that I indeed had endometriosis, meaning I was often left to manage my pain on my own, while also fearing it could be connected to more serious conditions. I was stuck between not being believed or taken seriously, and the admin of trying to find out what was going on to live a better life.
The lack of funding for women’s health, the gaslighting many of us face when asking for basic healthcare and the avoidance of the subject at work are very much related to the censorship these topics face online, painting reproductive health as something inappropriate that must be hidden and controlled. So fuck that, here’s more information about it.
The journey towards my endometriosis diagnosis
I hate the word “journey” in so many ways, because it’s giving influencer telling us how she got into a cringe hobby. But sadly, getting diagnosed with endometriosis is a journey for many people, and not a glamorous one… kinda like the Odyssey.
Endometriosis is quite common: according to Endometriosis UK, 1 in 10 women and those assigned female at birth and of reproductive age in the UK suffer from it, as well as 10% women worldwide. It’s the second most common gynaecological condition in the UK, and it affects 1.5 million women and those assigned female at birth, a similar number of those affected by diabetes.
Despite all of this, it still takes almost nine years from your first visit to a doctor to get a diagnosis.
Wild, right?
I guess I was lucky, because it took me just under six years. Six frustrating years of calling my GP about my pain, of having to convince them I was struggling, of being sent to get pelvic scans and blood tests which are currently not the way you diagnose endometriosis. Meanwhile, the pain continued so I had to take matters into my own hands.
After seeing Wellbeing of Women’s “Just A Period” campaign on the news, which showed how many women and people with uteruses’ pain was often dismissed by GPs, I used their period symptom checker tool to see if my symptoms were normal. As you can see below, they were not – and the great thing is that the tool automatically generates a letter for your GP to help you make your case without the distress of having to fend for yourself.
I sent this to my local GPs, but the wait times to be referred to a specialist were insanely long. As I waited I booked a private blood test via Hertility, which had stricter requirements for preparation than any of those I was sent on by the NHS (namely, testing on day 3 of my period while having fasted and drunk plenty of water).
The test found two things: that I have high levels of the 17-Beta Oestradiol hormone, which is often linked with heavy and painful periods, and that my egg count is on the low end of normal, which means it may be harder for me to have children. This checks out, because 25 to 50% of those with endometriosis struggle to conceive. I still don’t know how I feel about that because I’ve never been into the idea of having children, but being in the first stable and safe relationship of my adult life is making me think about it more seriously.
Hertility recommended further investigation with a gynaecologist, but since their doctors were quite expensive, I went to see my gynaecologist back home in Sardinia (while I STILL waited to be seen by the NHS, six months since sending the Wellbeing of Women letter). My gynaecologist at home suggested taking the CA-125 blood test, which measures the level of a protein that can be elevated in people with endometriosis. Nothing showed up, but this test is not a definitive diagnostic tool for the condition.
By June 2025, I had kind of given up and just assumed I would have to live like this forever, because I was tired of crying on the phone with my GP, and I didn’t want to spend two days a week waiting on the phone for two hours in the hope that Homerton Hospital’s gynaecologists had a cancellation to see me. It was around July that I got a phone call by a doctor at my GP practice, who argued that being seen through Community Gynaecology as part of the Homerton Healthcare NHS Foundation Trust may be quicker than getting a referral. I didn’t hear from them until the end of November 2025, when they offered me an appointment at the end of January 2026.
I went to that appointment ready to fight, ready to say that I was tired of doing tests that wouldn’t work, that my pain is real and that I had tests to prove it. That I just wanted a diagnosis so that I could move on with my life and just manage it. So when the doctor briefly asked me about my symptoms and swiftly moved onto managing them, perhaps through birth control, I started fighting, and not just because birth control has messed with my mental health in the past. I just felt like she was trying to shut me up.
Instead she just said: “Unfortunately there is no cure for endometriosis, so this just means we have to help you manage it.” I hadn’t realised she had just believed me, and diagnosed me there and then. Tears just started falling from my eyes, not really out of happiness but out of anger and confusion for all the years I had to spend stating my case, when this woman simply offered to diagnose me with endometriosis and PMDD on the spot, because my symptoms were consistent with them.
Before this, I was always told that the only way I could be diagnosed was through laparoscopy, a type of keyhole surgery whereby a thin telescope (called a laparoscope) is inserted into your belly button to see and access the organs inside the abdomen and pelvis. In these cases, if a surgeon sees abnormal tissue, they send it off for a biopsy and provide confirmation about endo. This can result in the symptoms going away, but it isn’t a given.
Yet, none of the doctors I spoke with would put me through for laparoscopy, meaning I was in a condition of stasis, having pain but not answers.
What changed this time is that, unbeknownst to me, research is now moving towards a clinical endometriosis diagnosis without the need for laparoscopy, which is not only expensive (hence why the NHS was most likely fobbing me off), but which also comes with the risks of infection, major bleeding, and injury to important structures like the bowels or bladder – and even with pain increase. So given this, the doctor just believed me and gave me a diagnosis letter that recognised my symptoms.
Performing at PERIOD Cabaret
I left the GP feeling shell-shocked, a sensation that lasted for the entire day. I felt deflated, empty and emotional, perhaps because I worked myself up so much to fight, and then I didn’t need to, and I was just told I had a chronic illness and that my pain was real. I had been waiting for this for years, and now that I had it, I wasn’t sure how to feel.
Fortuitously, I was given the chance to channel the feelings emerging from my diagnosis shortly after. A few weeks earlier, I had applied for Juliet Peaches and Luna Lussuria‘s PERIOD Cabaret, happening in March at my birthday photoshoot location Love Affair Basement to raise money for Endometriosis UK. I didn’t know I had endo when I applied, but wanted to raise money in solidarity.
I found out I got in on the day of my diagnosis, and even though it felt early to come up with a new performance in the space of just over a month while also juggling this with my new job, I knew I wanted to do it.
A gorgeous FLINTA* cabaret featuring drag, pole dance (aka moi) and burlesque largely brought to the stage by performers with endo, PERIOD also gave me the chance to do things I’d always wanted: perform outside the pole dance community and start going into nightlife, to tell a story outside of the constraints of polished pole performances, or of the need to always perform tricks towards scoring competition points.
I wanted to bring a performance showcasing the different stages of how I experience endo and PMDD throughout my cycle, starting from feeling like a disgusting, weak creature all the way to horniness, strength and rebirth.
To do this, I covered myself in blood. I of course would have preferred pouring blood all over myself while performing, but blood is A) messy for venue managers to clean and B) not a guarantee for grip, so it suited my narrative to apply it beforehand.
With fake blood make-up all over my face, hair and body, I brought the Patrick Bateman vibes while also releasing myself from the fear of being weird and unpolished, which I embraced by starting my act by twitching on the floor, to end through a combo of tricks I’d always wanted to bring to the stage – aka stepping up the pole by hooking my heel spike onto it, and doing a twisted split. The crowd loved it, and performing felt cathartic and like a new phase of my life as a performer.
Juliet and Luna’s show was a smashing success: they had a full house, resulting not just in a full fee for us performers, but also in plenty of money donated to Endometriosis UK. The organisers also took the time to educate the audience about endo, and I was pleased to see that there weren’t just women, but also plenty of men, in the crowd.
If the moment of my diagnosis felt deflating, this cabaret definitely did not, and I feel like I’ve given my pre-endo self the best send-off.
Washing the blood out of my face, body and hair was way less fun, but going for a late night bagel in Brick Lane with my partner (who didn’t seem to mind me still looking like Patrick Bateman) really helped.
What’s next now that I know I have endometriosis?
As I mentioned before, the doctor I spoke with emphasised pain management following my diagnosis. I rejected the options of hormonal birth control (due to its previous impacts on my mental health) and of the coil (given that I have chronic UTIs and that the coil does result in several infections), but we agreed that when things go really bad, I can use half a dose of period delayer to manage my symptoms. I had to do that because I was in severe pain during the Christmas holidays, and this actually ended up resetting my cycle with less painful symtoms. I use half a pill of PrimolutNor three times a day to delay my periods by a few days, but this isn’t something I can take every month.
Fertility is the slightly bigger hurdle, given that once again I’m very ambivalent about having children. Apparently, though, if you have an official endometriosis diagnosis you are taken more seriously while trying to conceive, and receive more support. So we shall see.
For now, let’s celebrate the fact that I no longer have to take the same tests twice a year, or cry on the phone to be taken seriously, or feel crazy – and that I looked fucking hot during my performance.
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