So, just to premise this a bit, I wrote this blog several months ago and never got around to finishing it, but I wanted to share anyway. Fair warning, there is seriously WAY TOO MUCH INFORMATION in this post. I do not recommend a guy read this if he wants to maintain any sort of romanticism about the female body. There is also plenty of expletive in here, so if language offends you, avert your eyes. Otherwise, enjoy! Sympathize. And hopefully we can all bond over a mutual understanding of what women go through on their period.
For the past six years, I have been blissfully out of touch with my "time of the month". No visits from Aunt Flo. No crimson tides filling these shores. No rides on the cotton pony. No shark week for this lady business, no ma'am! For the last 25% of my life, I have been a distinctly non-suffering woman, thanks to a high school pregnancy, Jesus, and modern medicine. Did you know that an IUD is a more effective method of birth control than getting your tubes tied? Neither did I, until my OBGYN was giving me that little nugget of information while tugging the IUD I'd bonded with for five lovely years out of my hoo-ha. I thought, "Wow, and there are women who DON'T use IUDs?" Now, obviously, every woman is different and not every woman stops having a period while using an IUD, but I was one of the lucky ones whose experience was solely flawless, and that made having it taken out that much more sad for me. The end of a bloodless era. Thank you Mirena, for everything. I'll never forget you. What can I say? I'm sentimental.
Unintentionally symbolic, I had my IUD removed on January 3rd of this year with advisement that I would experience an irregular period and then begin having regular periods shortly after that. My first stop on the way home from the OBGYN's office was Albertson's, where I bought tampons, pads, and condoms. I got home, threw them all in my husband's face, and said, "Merry Christmas" (He was not amused). So I waited. And waited. And waited for two months, five days, all the while thinking "I can't be pregnant. Can I? I mean yeah the condom broke last week, but I can't be pregnant." Until, finally, it came. MY PERIOD. It was life changing. I remember standing up at my desk, answering a phone call, and then thinking, "HOLY F*$% WHAT IS HAPPENING?!" I don't even remember who had called, or what they called about, but the minute that phone call ended, I ran to the bathroom. The ONE day I wear mustard colored pants. In a way, seeing that blood was profound. I was reassured that I am human, that I am a normal woman, that my body was not permanently damaged by five years of hormones. All the irrational fears left in the wake of a change made to my body five years ago, were simply gone. On another level, I was absolutely terrified. Six years without blood pouring from my vagina is a long time, enough time for the image to shock me as much as it had when I was thirteen, and it truly felt like I was getting my period for the very first time in my entire life. As in all perverse and slightly disturbing situations, my brain went to humor on instinct. Some of the jokes that went through my head were:
"Wow, someone murdered a squirrel in here!"
"Ooh, bad day to wear mustard. Now I've got all the condiments for a cheeseburger."
"Ronald McDonald would be so turned on by this."
"Grissom, does this look like enough blood for this kind of wound? I think we're still looking for a primary crime scene."
Not my best one-liners, but I'll blame the emotional trauma.
I spent five minutes in the bathroom, debating whether or not my shirt was long enough to cover the bloody bits, before deciding that I was going home to change. I told my boss, "I need to run home for a second." She was confused and said, "Uhhhh" to which I responded with a hushed, "I need to change..." And if you ever want to feel camaraderie with another woman, watch her face as any sort of period reference registers in her brain. She nodded all no-nonsense-like, and said, "Yep. You're good. See you soon." Thank God I live five minutes from work. My poor, poor, home sick from work, husband watched me walk through the door, bewildered. I said, "Well, I know for a fact I'm not pregnant." His faced folded in on itself and he said, "Ew", then redeemed himself by asking if I was okay. I changed into black pants and the most comfortable pair of cotton panties I own, and only then, did I feel like I was going to be okay. Like I would survive the day. Thank you, Cotton Panties, you're the only ones who understand me. In the weirdest walk of almost-shame, I didn't even look at my coworkers faces as I walked back into the building wearing different pants. Insecurity was shouting, "THEY KNOW! THEY ALL KNOW!" like a band of pubescent females in Salem during a witch hunt. Reason reassured me, "Half of them don't even realize you left, and those who do definitely don't care," then proceeded to slap the shit out of Insecurity with a backhand. High five, Reason. The rest of the day was blessedly dry, because though I was metaphorically a thirteen-year-old, my body remains that of a 23-year-old, and I do remember how to use tampons. I googled how long my period is supposed to last, what foods to eat, what foods to avoid, whether or not I could still go to the gym, how long my husband should avoid pissing me off, and all the other things my brain had deigned were not important enough to remember over the course of six years. I went home and made salmon (because omega 3's and fatty acids aid easing cramps?), broccoli (shit, what did the website say about broccoli?), and rice (because... Rice. Yum.) and laid about the house feeling like a fucking goddess. When all was said and done, here are some things that I realized:
1) Being a woman is HARD: I realized that almost every single woman on the planet goes through this pretty much every month, and the only ways to avoid it are by paying money to change the balance of your hormones to prevent pregnancy, by not having female reproductive organs (guys, y'all SUCK)... or by being pregnant. Which would be great if it didn't end in a far bloodier ordeal that comes with an 18-year legal contract, and should only be done after careful deliberation by both parties involved in the baby-making process. Otherwise, the majority of women just suffer through this monthly blood-fest, enduring cramps, cravings, mood swings, etc. all while trying to be the same wife, mother, employee, etc. that they are during the rest of the month. Day ONE of my first period in over six years, and I felt entitled to anything I wanted, including but not limited to, any chocolate that crossed my line of sight, a full massage, paid time off, the respect and special attention of all my coworkers, and last but not least, acknowledgement from the world for my pain and suffering. None of which would be practical, considering half the worldly population does this (and often way worse than I do).
2) Being a woman is AMAZING: Please see above. Ladies, we go through that every month, and not only do we survive, but we thrive. Based on what our bodies endure and our brains adapt to let us cope with, it is safe to say that we undoubtedly the superior sex. Men would not survive a period cramp, much less handle them for five days in a row every four weeks for half their lifetime. They just would not. An occasional knee to the groin sounds blissful in comparison to what we go through and deep down, I think men know this.
3) "You cannot murder your husband. You cannot murder your husband. You love him. It doesn't matter that's breathing in your direction. Yes, his YouTube is being played at full volume, but that's not a deal-breaker! It's not worth killing him for. No, no, you can't castrate him just because he asked for a blowjob while you're on your period, please be rational. Seriously? Is the guillotine necessary in this mental adaptation of "Punishments Suitable for the Husband Who Pisses Off His PMS-ing Wife"? I don't think so." This may be a very, very slightly overexaggerated, but you can see exactly what I'm talking about.
Eventually, having my period will be normal and totally less dramatic. When that time comes, I'll look back on this blog post with fondness and remind myself of these things: That being a woman is hard, that being a woman is amazing, and that I cannot, under any circumstances, murder my husband.
For the past six years, I have been blissfully out of touch with my "time of the month". No visits from Aunt Flo. No crimson tides filling these shores. No rides on the cotton pony. No shark week for this lady business, no ma'am! For the last 25% of my life, I have been a distinctly non-suffering woman, thanks to a high school pregnancy, Jesus, and modern medicine. Did you know that an IUD is a more effective method of birth control than getting your tubes tied? Neither did I, until my OBGYN was giving me that little nugget of information while tugging the IUD I'd bonded with for five lovely years out of my hoo-ha. I thought, "Wow, and there are women who DON'T use IUDs?" Now, obviously, every woman is different and not every woman stops having a period while using an IUD, but I was one of the lucky ones whose experience was solely flawless, and that made having it taken out that much more sad for me. The end of a bloodless era. Thank you Mirena, for everything. I'll never forget you. What can I say? I'm sentimental.
Unintentionally symbolic, I had my IUD removed on January 3rd of this year with advisement that I would experience an irregular period and then begin having regular periods shortly after that. My first stop on the way home from the OBGYN's office was Albertson's, where I bought tampons, pads, and condoms. I got home, threw them all in my husband's face, and said, "Merry Christmas" (He was not amused). So I waited. And waited. And waited for two months, five days, all the while thinking "I can't be pregnant. Can I? I mean yeah the condom broke last week, but I can't be pregnant." Until, finally, it came. MY PERIOD. It was life changing. I remember standing up at my desk, answering a phone call, and then thinking, "HOLY F*$% WHAT IS HAPPENING?!" I don't even remember who had called, or what they called about, but the minute that phone call ended, I ran to the bathroom. The ONE day I wear mustard colored pants. In a way, seeing that blood was profound. I was reassured that I am human, that I am a normal woman, that my body was not permanently damaged by five years of hormones. All the irrational fears left in the wake of a change made to my body five years ago, were simply gone. On another level, I was absolutely terrified. Six years without blood pouring from my vagina is a long time, enough time for the image to shock me as much as it had when I was thirteen, and it truly felt like I was getting my period for the very first time in my entire life. As in all perverse and slightly disturbing situations, my brain went to humor on instinct. Some of the jokes that went through my head were:
"Wow, someone murdered a squirrel in here!"
"Ooh, bad day to wear mustard. Now I've got all the condiments for a cheeseburger."
"Ronald McDonald would be so turned on by this."
"Grissom, does this look like enough blood for this kind of wound? I think we're still looking for a primary crime scene."
Not my best one-liners, but I'll blame the emotional trauma.
I spent five minutes in the bathroom, debating whether or not my shirt was long enough to cover the bloody bits, before deciding that I was going home to change. I told my boss, "I need to run home for a second." She was confused and said, "Uhhhh" to which I responded with a hushed, "I need to change..." And if you ever want to feel camaraderie with another woman, watch her face as any sort of period reference registers in her brain. She nodded all no-nonsense-like, and said, "Yep. You're good. See you soon." Thank God I live five minutes from work. My poor, poor, home sick from work, husband watched me walk through the door, bewildered. I said, "Well, I know for a fact I'm not pregnant." His faced folded in on itself and he said, "Ew", then redeemed himself by asking if I was okay. I changed into black pants and the most comfortable pair of cotton panties I own, and only then, did I feel like I was going to be okay. Like I would survive the day. Thank you, Cotton Panties, you're the only ones who understand me. In the weirdest walk of almost-shame, I didn't even look at my coworkers faces as I walked back into the building wearing different pants. Insecurity was shouting, "THEY KNOW! THEY ALL KNOW!" like a band of pubescent females in Salem during a witch hunt. Reason reassured me, "Half of them don't even realize you left, and those who do definitely don't care," then proceeded to slap the shit out of Insecurity with a backhand. High five, Reason. The rest of the day was blessedly dry, because though I was metaphorically a thirteen-year-old, my body remains that of a 23-year-old, and I do remember how to use tampons. I googled how long my period is supposed to last, what foods to eat, what foods to avoid, whether or not I could still go to the gym, how long my husband should avoid pissing me off, and all the other things my brain had deigned were not important enough to remember over the course of six years. I went home and made salmon (because omega 3's and fatty acids aid easing cramps?), broccoli (shit, what did the website say about broccoli?), and rice (because... Rice. Yum.) and laid about the house feeling like a fucking goddess. When all was said and done, here are some things that I realized:
1) Being a woman is HARD: I realized that almost every single woman on the planet goes through this pretty much every month, and the only ways to avoid it are by paying money to change the balance of your hormones to prevent pregnancy, by not having female reproductive organs (guys, y'all SUCK)... or by being pregnant. Which would be great if it didn't end in a far bloodier ordeal that comes with an 18-year legal contract, and should only be done after careful deliberation by both parties involved in the baby-making process. Otherwise, the majority of women just suffer through this monthly blood-fest, enduring cramps, cravings, mood swings, etc. all while trying to be the same wife, mother, employee, etc. that they are during the rest of the month. Day ONE of my first period in over six years, and I felt entitled to anything I wanted, including but not limited to, any chocolate that crossed my line of sight, a full massage, paid time off, the respect and special attention of all my coworkers, and last but not least, acknowledgement from the world for my pain and suffering. None of which would be practical, considering half the worldly population does this (and often way worse than I do).
2) Being a woman is AMAZING: Please see above. Ladies, we go through that every month, and not only do we survive, but we thrive. Based on what our bodies endure and our brains adapt to let us cope with, it is safe to say that we undoubtedly the superior sex. Men would not survive a period cramp, much less handle them for five days in a row every four weeks for half their lifetime. They just would not. An occasional knee to the groin sounds blissful in comparison to what we go through and deep down, I think men know this.
3) "You cannot murder your husband. You cannot murder your husband. You love him. It doesn't matter that's breathing in your direction. Yes, his YouTube is being played at full volume, but that's not a deal-breaker! It's not worth killing him for. No, no, you can't castrate him just because he asked for a blowjob while you're on your period, please be rational. Seriously? Is the guillotine necessary in this mental adaptation of "Punishments Suitable for the Husband Who Pisses Off His PMS-ing Wife"? I don't think so." This may be a very, very slightly overexaggerated, but you can see exactly what I'm talking about.
Eventually, having my period will be normal and totally less dramatic. When that time comes, I'll look back on this blog post with fondness and remind myself of these things: That being a woman is hard, that being a woman is amazing, and that I cannot, under any circumstances, murder my husband.
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