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Published by wren.smc, 2020-03-18 00:34:17

HFG Final

HFG Final

HELLFIRE
&

GEMSTONE

The Old Art of Agency
for the New Southern

Woman

Wren S. Austin

Title   P​ age Number 

   

Preface 
   
Cotillion Princess  9 
 
The New Southern Woman’s   
Creed  10 
 
A Letter to My Grandmother   
   
Bless Her Heart  12 
   
From The Desk of Susan  15 
Humphries 
  16 
Southern Lady Code   
   
You’re Doing Great, Sweetie 
  18 
Do You Know How to Wear   
Clothes? 
  20 
Be a Slut. Do Whatever You Want.   
 
PCOS  21 
 
   
 
23 
 

24 

 
 
 

 
 

[Defending Social Change: A Prelude of Sorts] 

 
A Note on Purpose 
 

The “Southern Belle” trope is, for some, their only understanding 
of Southern women. It is so often an untried perception, one that fully 
excludes those who fall outside of set standards of race, sexuality, and 
socioeconomic status. The South, or rather the cultural South, is an 
incredibly diverse place, but the homogenization of society put forth by 
the current understanding of what (not who, w​ hat)​ a Southern woman 
is is simply irresponsible. This myth is a complete disservice to all 
women, no matter their situation. This project seeks not to edit the 
current bounds of what makes Southern womanhood what it is, but to 
burn them and build from their remains something that is not a label, 
but a way of life. It seeks not to prescribe womanhood or to lay out a 
distinct definition of what Southern women must be, but to create a 
collective understanding based upon lived experience. It seeks not to say 
what Southern women must be, but who they a​ re​.  
 
 
Where is the South? 

 
For the purposes of this collection, I’ve opted to focus not on the 
geographically-defined South, but the cultural South. The culture of, 
say, Georgia, is very different than Southern California despite the fact 
that parts of the two share a line of latitude. However, there are still 
geographic patterns regarding this cultural South. After surveying over 

 
 

thirty fellow Southerners, I’ve chosen to define the “cultural South” as 
an area that includes states below the Mason-Dixon line and East of 
Texas. Although there have been disagreements on “how Southern” 
certain states’ cultures are, especially pertaining to Maryland and 
Southern Florida, this definition of the cultural South functions most 
effectively for the purposes of these works.  

 
 
What is this Culture? 
 
The tenets of Southern culture, or at least the culture against 
which this work functions, are fairly well-known. The presence of 
religion, particularly evangelical Protestantism, is quite heavy, so much 
so that the area is often referred to as “The Bible Belt.” Where there is 
food, there are gatherings, and where there are gatherings, there is food. 
If it can be fried, it shall be fried, and barbeque is a way of life. Iced tea 
flows freely and, if it’s a soda, it’s a “Coke.” Hospitality is a staple, of 
course, but don’t assume that it’s always a gesture of kindness; the nicest 
people talk the most shit. It’s a culture that I believe that everyone 
should experience at least once in their lifetimes because, despite its 
downsides, it can be so beautiful and so rich. 
 
 
What is this Culture for Women? 
 
For Southern women, grace and elegance are often valued 
qualities. Beauty is not only encouraged, but expected. Many of the 

 
 

women around whom I was raised refused to go to the mailbox without 
makeup, let alone school, work, or the local Walmart. They were 
well-spoken, never cursed, and almost always presented negative 
comments drenched in a syrupy-sweet coat of bullshit. These are only 
expectations, of course, unfortunate holdovers from another era. This is 
not to say that all Southern women are forced into this mold, but it is 
more common than many would like to admit. During interviews with 
other Southern women, I found that many wished to be more upfront 
and honest with people, whether in regard to physical appearance or the 
words that they used. However, they still held strong to the expectations 
thrust upon them because that’s just what they had to do to fit in or, on 
occasion, to survive. The aforementioned expectations make up the 
culture against which this work operates, not Southern culture as a 
whole. 

 
 
Why Did I Do this? 
 
Most of the stories contained in this chapbook come from my own 
experiences living in the Deep South. I was raised by my grandparents in 
a small town in rural Arkansas while my Mom worked nights at a local 
newspaper. For the first sixteen years of my life, I was deeply involved in 
the church that my family had gone to since the seventies, attended and 
eventually taught in the local Cotillion chapter, and participated in 
shooting sports. In short, I did all the things that I was supposed to do. 
Eventually, though, I found myself alienated from the community that I 
once so cleanly fit into after being outed at school and, soon after, 

 
 

becoming the victim of a hate crime. In 2017, a few months after things 
fell apart, I was welcomed into a vibrant academic community at 
ASMSA, a boarding school not far from my home. It was at that point, 
living according to my personal values at school and throwing all of that 
away during weekends with my family and Cotillion classes, that I 
recognized the growing tension between the person who I was raised to 
be—a beautiful, elegant Southern belle—and the person who I was 
becoming: a crude, brain-damaged queer person with aspirations of 
neverending scholarship and relative solitude. These works are a way for 
me to grapple with this tension while reclaiming the label of “Southern 
Woman” as something more inclusive and contemporary. 
 
 
How Did I Compile these Works? 
 

In addition to personal experience, I spent a lot of time 
interviewing, whether covertly or openly, the other Southern women in 
my life. My aunt unwittingly helped me to develop the colloquial 
language utilized in some pieces, while friends from here and back home 
aided in establishing the values that my version of New Southern 
Womanhood now contains. My grandmother is also featured 
prominently in my work. Despite our many (many) disagreements, she 
has been an incredible influence in my life and, at 83, still kicks ass. 
“Hellfire and Gemstone” really is a collective effort in the end, and I 
couldn’t have done any of this without the badass Southern women in 
my life. 
 

 
 

Race and the Southern Woman 
 

The process of creating a definition of the Southern woman, 
whether new or old, demands a consideration of race and its role in 
creating existence. This demand is something that I’ve pondered both as 
a writer and as a woman. On the one hand, I understand the need to 
address the place of women of color, especially black women, in this 
collection. I don’t feel that it’s my place to say who does or does not 
belong in this category, but instead to include all the voices that make it 
up. However, as a white woman, I cannot claim to understand the 
Black, Southern woman’s experience. I don’t want to become one of the 
many voices talking over people of color, claiming to know better than 
the people who’ve actually lived the experiences that I address and their 
many intricacies. In truth, I don’t feel that I can accurately or 
responsibly address the specific experiences of Black women in the 
South. This project seeks not to lump all experiences together without 
considering the role that race plays in day-to-day life in the name of 
“inclusivity,” nor does it claim to be omniscient. Thus, I’d like to point 
readers who wish to know more about Black, Southern women’s 
experiences to Black scholars who’ve addressed the topic. These scholars 
include E. Patrick Johnson, whose book, B​ lack. Queer. Southern. 
Women.​,​ ​was a finalist for the Lambda Literary Award, and Zandria F. 
Robinson, whose blog, New South Negress, addresses the very issues 
that Black women face in the South. I hope not to alienate readers 
whose racial experiences differ from my own by not addressing these 
issues personally, but to point any interested soul to others whose stories 
are more accurate and honest than any version that I could create. 

 
 

A Note on Varied Experience 
 

The premises of most of these pieces are based upon personal,  
subjective experiences, as are the attitudes expressed. Whether positive 
or negative, these experiences are not necessarily universal, nor do they 
claim to be. Granted, some are shared. However, if your experience, 
Dear Reader, differs from these stories, that’s okay. In fact, that’s 
awesome! The diversity of lived experience in the South is one of the 
coolest things about it. This collection seeks not to invalidate 
experience, but to tell stories that would not otherwise have been told. 
In truth, I’d love to do another collection in order to tell even more 
stories. I cannot apologize for my choice to elaborate on the 
sometimes-difficult topics contained here, nor can I apologize for any 
stark honesty regarding them. However, I will continually strive to 
express the South’s many aspects, whether good or bad, with vigor, 
clarity, and transparency.  



The New Southern written off as defective. In our 
Woman’s Creed pursuit of perfection, our 
pursuit of a​ cceptance​, it seems 
  that we’ve been misunderstood. 
We are neither inherently bigots 
As the new generation of  nor damsels in distress, and the 
Southern women, we may be  domestic sphere is not our only 
pressured to take up the habits of  domain. We may be scared or 
our predecessors. Some of these,  unsure about what the future 
such as knowing one’s way  holds, but we are not powerless. 
around the kitchen and being 
able to charm the pants off of  There are things that we 
even the most difficult people  cannot change, yes, but there is 
(mostly figuratively, but  one, very important thing that 
sometimes literally), have their  we can change, Ladies: our 
advantages. Tradition isn’t  mindsets. Allow me to propose a 
always​ a crime or burden, after  union, a collective effort for not 
all. This, friends, is where we  only the betterment of our ​image 
begin.  as a group, but also of our 
personal selves. Today, we are to 
Our traditions do not give  dedicate ourselves to better. We 
us permission to consider  are to commit to becoming the 
ourselves as superior to others.  people who we wish to be. By 
On the other hand, they also do  accepting these stipulations and 
not strip us of our worth or  by taking up this creed, we 
accomplishments. We were born  commit ourselves to the 
into a society that, on occasion,  following: 
requires us to be a perfect puzzle   
piece, lest we be thrown out or 

 

   
WE WILL:  WE CAN: 

1. Honor our accomplishments  1. Have success in the 
2. Have the utmost respect for  professional sphere 

ourselves and others  2. Choose to find our places in 
3. Own our opinions  the domestic sphere 
4. Practice kindness when 
3. Take agency over our own 
applicable  bodies 
5. Admit our faults 
6. Hold our bodies in the  4. Love men, women, and those 
who are neither 
highest regard 
7. Be generous when it is  5. Acknowledge our heritage 
without worshipping the 
warranted  unjust 
 
WE WON’T:   
WE ARE: 
1. Enter into marriage or 
motherhood outside of our  1. Friends & Mothers 
own, free will  2. Lovers & Loners 
3. Queers & Sluts 
2. Bow to tradition when it  4. Junkies 
infringes upon our rights as  5. Mentally ill 
people  6. Disabled & Abled 
7. Rich & Poor 
3. Accept the harboring of  8. Neurodiverse & 
prejudice toward others 
whose paths diverge from  Neurotypical 
our own  9. Thin & Fat 
10. Athletes & Homemakers 
4. Diminish our intelligence  11. Doctors & Scholars 
5. Deny ourselves the freedom  12. Strong & Powerful 
13. Southern Women 
of choice 
6. Take shit from anyone 

 

[The Mouth of the South: A Letter to My Grandmother] 
 

Granny, 
 

I’m not so sure how I’m supposed to start this. Yes, I know that 
that’s cliché, and that you hate when I say “that that,” and that you’d 
rather I say this to your face anyway, but I don’t really think that you get 
a say in this.  

I know that, over the past few years, you’ve made a lot of decisions 
in my life. You decided that I could go to boarding school, then that I 
could move to Chicago. You decided my prom dress, my glasses, even 
the clothes I wore to my first symposium. Most of those decisions were 
good, and so I took them. You decided to ignore the little hints, the little 
flashes of different that tainted my otherwise acceptable façade. For that 
I am grateful. For sixteen years, I got to be your off-brand Barbie doll 
and, somehow, it worked. When the 2016 election rolled around, 
however, you made a decision that I will never, ever understand. I’ve 
spent the last few years trying to grapple with, or rather, reconcile the 
tension between ​who​ you are and w​ hat​ you did.  

You were always like one of those mosquito lanterns for me in that 
I just kept trying to follow you, but somehow got burned in the end. I 
tried my best to do what everyone around us did and get behind the 
ever-present wave of MAGA activists. I ignored the assault allegations 
and blatantly incorrect Tweets and ate s​ o​ much Chik-Fil-A because I 
wanted to be good for you. I wanted so badly to be like you because, 
damn it, you’ve done it all. You’re educated and hardworking and 
dilligent to no fucking end and that’s all I could hope to be. Now, I 

don’t get it anymore. Why did you vote for him? Why did you vote 
against yourself? Against me? 

Was it a question of tradition? I think that, to some degree, I can 
understand that. Things were, ​are,​ changing. Fast. I can’t imagine what 
it would be like, eighty-three years into life, to see what was once 
unimaginable become not only legal, but acceptable. I understand your 
need to care for others and your intense commitment to your faith. I 
also understand how voting red can, in your mind, achieve those goals. 
However, I also know that we’re a lot alike, so I don’t understand how 
you’re not completely insulted. That man has offended all of your 
sensibilities and then some. Frankly, it’s fucking disgusting. I’ve never 
known you to just let yourself be suffocated by convention, so why start 
now? I mean, god, you went to graduate school in the rural South as a 
woman in the Sixties! What’s more badass than that? 

And I get that you’re voting for you, and that that’s what you were 
taught to do, and that’s fine. But things are different now. Our decisions 
no longer affect us alone, and I think that you know that. We can’t just 
“fix” all the “evil” in the world by forcing America into this 
conservative, Protestant matrix. Why would you try to shove people 
into these neat little boxes when you’ve fought against that for your 
entire life?  

And none of this is to say that I’m not grateful, to some extent, for 
your presence in my life. You know, you’re always there to catch me, 
even when I get evicted from my dorm in the wake of a pandemic. So 
long as I follow your rules, your support is unending. It hurts, 
sometimes, to know that it all would go away if you knew the truth. I 

don’t think you’d like me very much if you saw what my life looked like 
on the day-to-day. We have to take what we can get, though, right? 

I guess that what I’m saying here is that I don’t get it. You have no 
idea how badly I want to understand you, to grapple with the tension of 
your decisions in relation to the life that you’ve lived. It’s a tension that I 
face in my own life, albeit in a different manifestation, so I’m not 
singling you out here. I know how much you’d hate that.  

I want to end by saying something that I’ve kind of been trying to 
say here the entire time. This unsendable letter isn’t my effort to judge 
you, your beliefs, or your decisions; you’ve had enough of that in your 
life. Do I understand you? No. Do I always like the things you say? No. 
But I do love you. And I love how much you care about doing what you 
perceive to be the right thing. I love that you care so much about the 
people around you and that you work so hard to protect them. I see 
where it’s coming from and, although I don’t like where it has come to, I 
respect the life you’ve lived. Stay kind, always, and if you ever find this, 
I’m so sorry. 
 

All love, always, 
Lauren 
Wren. 



 
 

From Then to Now: A Lecture on Etiquette and Standing the Test of 
Time 
 

Mrs. Patrick (Susan) Humphries, National League of Junior Cotillions 

 

To My Ever-Lovely Assistants: 
 

Just as in any other field, there are works that remain relevant 
despite their age. One of these texts, Emily Post’s E​ tiquette​, makes up 
the bulk of what we will teach this year not because of its age, but 
because of its continual adaptability to our time. Elegance and class shall 
never go out of style, after all. Thus, any deviation from our material will 
not be tolerated.  

I’ve some instructions for you regarding the students. For the 
ladies, exemplary behavior is key. They will watch you because they 
crave validation. They will mimic your clothing, so promiscuity may be 
unwise unless you want them to run amock in crop tops and miniskirts. 
It’s distracting for the boys. The rules of semiformal attire will be 
observed. Thus, I expect them to be clean, unwrinkled, and preferably 
colorful. Also, skirts are to be worn at all times. If they wouldn’t wear it 

to church, they shouldn’t wear it here, and no respectable woman in this 
state would wear pants to church. It’s distracting for the boys.  

Small talk shan’t be tolerated, nor grandiose conversations. Ideally, 
silent ladies are sweet ladies. I don’t want them gossiping. It’s 
unbecoming. Ensure that they do not dance together. I don’t want any 
of these subverted ideas getting into their minds. Instead, gently 
encourage them to practice the steps on their own. In any case, do not 
allow them to gather in shrill groups. It’s distracting for the boys. I 
expect them to be upstanding, classy, and pleasant at all times like the 
good little girls that they shall be. 

For the boys, keep them off of their phones with jackets on. Be 
patient with their mothers and keep your cool. Boys will be boys, after 
all. 

Thank you for your attention and I look forward to working with 
you this season. 
 

Sincerely, 
Susan 

 

Southern Lady Code: a technique by which, if you don’t have 
something nice to say, you say something not so nice in a nice way 

 

In truth, I’m not sure why I expected to be met with anything 
different. I agreed to go to the party at the behest of my mother, who 
had so kindly tolerated the scorpions that my grandmother called her 
friends the month before. She said that everyone we cared about would 
be there, even the Gentrys, an older couple who ran the local Cotillion 
chapter that I had taught during high school. That should have been the 
first clue that something unpleasant would go down. Mrs. Gentry had 
always been a bit of a tool, ranging somewhere on the mean girl scale 
between Regina George and fucking Paris Hilton if the two were old, 
sour Southern women. I tolerated her for all those years because I was 
obligated. Now, that obligation was over. I was, however, still tied to my 
grandmother through blood and jewelry, so I donned my red pantsuit 
(“very holiday appropriate,” she said) and pearls, girded my loins, and 
walked into that hotel under the influence of far too much shiraz. 

It was the final comment of the evening that got me. I dodged 
comments about my weight (“your face looks so much slimmer, 
sweetheart!”), major (“hope you have a good backup plan”), and love 
life (“I don’t see a ring on your finger yet, darling.”) for a whole hour 
and a half until my grandma pulled me over to see Mrs. Gentry, who’d 
been nonchalantly chatting with the new Chamber of Commerce 
President for much of the evening. After shooting the breeze for a 
moment or two, she’d asked my grandmother something (I can’t 
remember what) and, as usual, my grandmother responded. Now, 

 

apparently, I’m the “creative type,” whatever the hell that means. 
Probably a knock at the fact that I refuse to bring home the good ol’ 
Christian boy of Joyce’s dreams.  

Sometimes I really wish she’d just go out and say what she meant. 
To hell with all this “Southern Lady Code” bullshit. If she wanted to 
call me a helplessly ugly lesbian with more mental illnesses than IQ 
points, she really should have just come out and said it. But ​no​. Of 
course not. It had to be dainty. Well, “creative” my ass. Politeness can’t 
save us, but guess what it can do? Shove it. 

 



 

Do You Know How to Wear Clothes? [Or Rather, a Treatise on 
Presentation and Propriety] 

-Featuring text from Post’s “Etiquette,” 1945 Edition- 

 
The woman who knows how to wear clothes is a stage director 

who skillfully presents herself [O​ kay, so now it has to mean something? 
Newsflash! I’m wearing these clothes so I don’t freeze to death in this 
frozen hellscape. Next!​]​.​ This skill in presentation is something for which 
it is difficult to write directions, because it is a talent rather than a 
formula [​Talent, right. Because it definitely takes talent to convince my 
Cotillion director that this dress that I’m wearing totally came out of my 
own closet and not my girlfriend’s.​] Naturally, she who is young and 
whose skin is clear, whose figure is model “16,” can literally put on any 
hat or dress she fancies and have both become her to perfection [O​ kay, 
Lady. First of all, it’s a hormonal disorder. Don’t be fucking rude. Second 
of all, culottes are a crime and I will die on that hill.]​ . And yet another 
girl, lacking the knack of personal adjustment, will find the buying of a 
becoming hat an endless search through such trials of unbecomingness 
that she buys, not one she likes, but the one she dislikes least, because she 
must put ​something​ on her head [​And of course it’s a hat. Because this is 
the South and women must wear every hat. One must be mother, 
homemaker, lover, daughter, model, actress, mattress, seamstress, chef, 
and companion. In this world, you must “put s​ omething ​on [your] head” 
because you can never just exist for yourself. Being anything other than 
everything is simply being incorrectly female.​] 

The sense of what is becoming and the knack of putting clothes on 
well are the two greatest assets of smartness [G​ od, I hate that word. 

 

“Becoming.” Every time it’s followed by the words “of a lady,” I just want 
to vomit. Because why does it matter? Why does it fucking matter? Are you 
just going to take away my “woman card” if I can’t wear a hat without 
looking like an egg? It’s fine that you thirst for tradition, but I refuse to be 
the water that quenches it. I’m tired of being told that my worth as a 
woman is determined by my ability to be one of those Barbies with the 
poseable limbs​].​ ​ And both are acquirable by anyone willing to look at 
herself as she really is [L​ ook at myself as I am? Okay, fine. I am I. I am 
me. I exist. I don’t have the perfect body, but I have a body that works. I 
look like an absolute troll when I wake up, but at least I wake up in the 
first place. I curse and I cry and I make a fool of myself on the daily, but 
at least I get the option to do that. Many people don’t. So, if you really feel 
the need to tell me that the things that are “becoming” of me as a lady are 
floofy dresses and ugly hats, then be my guest. But if you’re going to tell 
people who are just trying their best to survive that they’re not doing good 
enough by your arbitrary standards, then you can pack up your so-called 
“etiquette,” stop forcing me to fit into your glass slipper, and fuck off to the 
frilly hell where you belong.​]



“Lauren, here’s the thing. Your ​BMI​is over 30. You’re clinically o​ bese​. 
And yeah, yeah, I get it. You say that you w​ ork out​five days a week and 
eat right​and do all of that, but it’s not showing on the scale. I need to 
you to work harder. I get that you like weightlifting and your whole 
deadlifting thing is a cute party trick, but​ only running will get you 
there​. And carbs are evil. C​ arbs are evil​. That’s the mindset that you 
need to have to c​ ontrol yourself​. I really think that all these mental 
problems will go away if you ​lose some weight. It’ll make you 
happier.”​ -​My PCP,​a family friend. I was ​16.  

 
The smell of medical disinfectants always made my chest go tight. I 
think it stems from the time that my grandmother took me to the 
dentist to get a cavity filled and held me down when the analgesic wore 
off too early. Now they have to sedate me, or I’d bite him. Mostly out of 
panic, but partially out of spite. But that’s a story for a different day. 
I woke up at 8 am for my 10 am appointment. Diligently, I did my  

hair, applied some makeup to cover the hormonal acne that had plagued 
me for the last year or so, and threw on the outfit that I’d laid out the 
night before. It didn’t matter, really. I didn’t need to dress up to go to an 
appointment with my gynecologist, but that’s just what we did. “We” 
was my mother. It was my grandmother and great-grandmother, 
neighbors, aunts, even the ladies at church. Leaving the house without 
one’s face on was practically sinful (or even literally for some people). 
And so I behaved. 

 
“You don’t remember the f​ irst day of your last period?​It was a 
month ago, tops. How do you not remember?” 
“You ​haven’t had it​?” 
“S​ ix months,​huh?” 
“Oh. Well...let me note that. But I want you to see this ​nutritionist​. 
Maybe d​ ropping a few pounds​will kick everything back into order.” 
A ​Nurse Practitioner​. I was 17. She meant well, I think. I hope. 

 
Back to disinfectants. It had been twenty or so minutes since I 
signed in. I was expecting the delay, of course, because nobody in this 
office ran on schedule. Trying to ignore the burn of alcohol (and not the 
fun kind) in my nose, I toyed with the fringe on my scarf. Next to me, 
my grandmother read silently. We did this often. Just sat there, even at 
home. Somehow, even in public, when she could only do so much, it 
was still worse. 
I crossed my knees and, a moment later, she thumped me on the 
knee without a word. Then, I crossed my ankles, sliding my body into 
that “attactive” ​s​ shape that my Cotillion director loved so much. I 
sighed, tugging at the neck of my shirt. The v-neck top was a 
hand-me-down and, despite the fact that it was approved by the woman 
next to me, it still made me feel...icky. I didn’t like the feeling of wind on 
my chest. I knew far too well what that meant in these parts. 

 

“Lauren, I’m reluctant to put you on b​ irth control.​It causes w​ eight 
gain,​you know. Besides, you’re not doing any kind of...​that​stuff.​..are 
you?” A ​Nurse at the Health Unit.​Still 17. 

 
When they called me back, they referred to me as “Lauren.” I 
know that they had to, that it was my legal name, but I didn’t like it. I 
don’t think I would have thought much of it otherwise, but sitting here, 
on this table, in a paper gown, in a cold room gives me ample time to 
think. To ruminate.  
My clothes are neatly folded in a chair. For a brief moment, I 
consider putting them on and just running out of here. I don’t need a 
diagnosis, right? Can’t I just be a fat, fit anomaly? Maybe I’d be okay 
with that. It’d be worth it to not be so...exposed. I mean, I’ve spent my 
whole life being told to cover up and that my body isn’t for me. It’s not 
mine. It’s kind of...gross. I don’t know. All I know is that, right now, I 

don’t think that I want to exist.
 

“Okay, so, after the p​ elvic exam​and the u​ ltrasound​and all of that, I 
feel confident diagnosing you with ​PCOS​. This is a textbook case, but 
it’s definitely not the worst that I’ve seen. I’m going to prescribe you a 
birth control​called Yaz, which should actually​ limit​some of your 
symptoms​. Otherwise, I want you to k​ eep doing what you’re doing.​ 
You seem to be living a really ​healthy lifestyle ​and I’m generally 
impressed. I know that this can be frustrating, and you might hear some 
pretty nasty stuff, but I want you to know that you are doing all that 
you can to care for yourself. Just keep doing your best and that’ll be 
enough for me.”​ A Gynecologist​. I was 18. And now I know. 

 
Symptoms of PCOS may include infertility, weight gain and difficulty 
with weight loss, irregular menstrual cycles, acne, ovarian cysts, and 
pelvic pain. Yes, I know that I’m fat. No, that bottle of ibuprofen in my 

bag is not secretly full of weed or whatever. I have PCOS. And, monthly 
periods or not, I’m still female. I’m not lazy. I’m not a fake athlete. And 
I’m not the pageant girl that my grandmother wanted. But I’m human. 
And Southern expectations can shove it. 


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