perioood!

Writing about periods (because I'm a girl, of course)

(Sustainable period products and advocacy courtesy of August! Please read about all the amazing work they do here, and if you’re considering buying, here’s ten percent off: LOUU8607. I may earn commission. In fact, I certainly hope I do!)

I’m writing about periods, like all women allegedly do at some point. I am a member of the group of girls who got their period so early that they didn’t know what periods were. My mother hastily explained to me that actually, this strange bodily function would now be a monthly occurrence for…ever? She bought me pads and asked if she could tell my dad, which I actually think is very cute.

I felt equipped with the knowledge necessary to brave the world of menstruation. But then, for some reason, I didn’t get my period again for another year. So there I was, all this wisdom, and nothing to really use it on. My teensy tiny friend, a ballerina, once opened my bag and pulled out a pad, which my mom had kindly stowed away in there should I need one. Ballerinas, as I learned throughout puberty, did not usually get their periods early. This one in particular, who was also fond of calling me fat, was appalled and disgusted at me having any kind of menstruation aid. I was humiliated.

I don’t really properly remember then getting my Official period, only that I didn’t even bother going through the rigamarole of once again announcing to my mother that I had become a woman. Olds news, you know? My parents, very well-intentioned, seemed desperate to Not Talk About puberty, insisting I feel comfortable asking them questions with the unconvincing assurance of a first date telling you they’re actually really relaxed.

So I didn’t ask about anything. I’m famously incredibly young, so I had Google by my side for my adolescence. “How to shave for the first time.” “How to know what kind of bra to wear.” How to get measured for a bra.” “What is masturbation?” (I was so unclear on what masturbation was that I genuinely thought it counted to simply caress your own leg. Which is honestly pretty intimate of an act, so maybe I was onto something.)

I’m not exactly sure at what point I started to cramp. I feel like maybe a year into the whole period thing? I was on a family vacation, wearing a cute floral skirt whose elastic band dug into my stomach. I didn’t want anyone to know I had cramps, that I felt nauseous. I didn’t want anyone to know that I was on my period, or indeed that I even had a period at all. I had a very Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell approach to menstruation. Anyway, my lunch did not stay down for very long, and I left the beach dressed head-to-toe in shitty tourist merch.

Part of the shame and embarrassment was that no one else had their period. All my friends were ballerinas or gymnasts. They were all short and skinny and very much pre-puberty. I was their oafish, menstruating sidekick, and I didn’t want anyone knowing that. I had debilitating cramps for two years. I had multiple outings during which I had to lay down on the grass for hours until my uterus eased up on its contorting. Because I didn’t want to talk about my period, no one told me about ibuprofen. And can you imagine how great it felt to discover Advil?

Oh man. I was astounded. I didn’t really know what ibuprofen was for before then. I thought I would have to spend one week a month dizzy, nauseous, with such strong cramps I couldn’t walk, for all time. But my girl ibuprofen made it all so much easier! And everyone else was starting to get their periods, too, so I could be a little more honest about it all. (That ballerina friend, by the way, didn’t get her period until she was fifteen. Her mom invited us to the “First Moon Party”, in which all women present had to wear the color that represented where they were at in their menstrual cycle; white for the pre-menstrual, red for us perioders, and purple for the menopause divas. Absolute humiliation ritual.)

I wanted to be a more open source of information for my younger sister. I told her I would happily give her the period talk. I showed her pads and tampons (which I couldn’t and still don’t use, by the way, but the vaginismus article will have to be for another time). I told her to cover the pad wrapper in toilet paper so no one could tell you had used it. Why? She asked. Huh. I wasn’t sure. I mean, the answer was because I was humiliated to be a person who had a period like most other people. She didn’t seem to think it was an embarrassment, though.

(The best moment, which I had to ask her permission to share with all of you, was when I gave her a pad and told her she could try to put it on in the bathroom. When she emerged, she said “It sort of works…” I asked what she meant; it’s pretty straightforward. She told me she had peed on the pad. This is why we need sex ed! Of course she didn’t understand the intricacies of how much (or how) period blood shows up. And have you ever asked a cis man to explain periods to you? They truly have no idea what’s going on down there.)

I feel like, with all the First Moon parties and the “your changing body” talks and the ads with the girls riding horses, everyone was trying to convince me that having a period is GREAT! What an amazing thing that the body does! And I do think it’s amazing, in the way I think it’s amazing that the body does anything. Doesn’t mean I think it’s great.

Woo-woo, cis-centric feminists put so much effort into pushing the narrative that periods are the best representation of womanhood, so we have to treat them as gorgeous and precious and earthly (as we should women, is the implication). That never resonated with me. I actually think periods are really gross. It’s gross to bleed and it’s miserable to bloat and have cramps so strong you faint while eating a cupcake (true story, not to brag). The mood swings are less “high-strung woman on a sitcom” and more like deeply intrusive, pervasive depressive episodes. And the poops are, in a word, insane.

I don’t need my period to be a wonderful, gorgeous occurrence. I’m still amazed at what my body can do, and grateful for it. And I really hate having my period, and it keeps me from doing stuff. I have to organize my whole month around this handful of days where my body hurts too much to leave the house. Period blood once a month doesn’t make me a woman, there’s a whole bunch of cultural and societal and mental stuff that does that.

The longer we keep up the ruse that periods are this teeny-tiny, delicate, feminine inconvenience, the less validity we give to the genuine issues that come with them. Doctors and health organizations around the world already don’t give respect to women’s issues, and most people who have never had a period have no understanding of the incredibly high pain tolerance required to endure one. There is this huge gap in the healthcare world (okay, one of many) that needs to be addressed, and we can take some of the first steps by being honest about our periods. They don’t have to be cutesy and quiet to be valid. And neither do we!