PERIODS
“I go and find the only other woman on the floor
is the secretary sitting at the desk by the door.
I ask her if she’s got a tampon I could use.
She says
oh honey, what a hassle for you.
I say
it ain’t no hassle, no, it ain’t no mess.
I can make life.
I can make breath.”
Dear Hadley,
Today, my favorite work partner was editing a project of mine. He said, “is there a reason you didn’t use a single possessive apostrophe throughout this entire piece?”
I said the reason I didn’t use any was because I don’t actually know how to use them.
It’s not that I haven’t tried. I have. I somehow learned enough to pass fourth grade. And since then, I’ve read about them, I’ve asked people to explain them to me. But in practice, they just don't click. Besides being complicated, using one doesn’t change the sound or the cadence or the rhythm of anything. So instead of wasting energy worrying about the misplacement before or after an s, now I mostly leave them out altogether.
But periods? I love them. They’re my favorite, by far. Strong and certain and complete. Signaling the end of one thing before the start of something new. Periods add rhythm.
A beat.
A pause.
A break.
Time to stop.
And think.
And feel.
Useful.
Mine started on a summer Saturday when I was thirteen.
I woke up, went to the bathroom, and there it was. My First Period, waiting for me. It arrived without a warning, but I felt confident, prepared. I knew how everything worked, what it all meant. My mom (your grandma) was out of town that day so I went into her bathroom, found the tampons, grabbed the instruction sheet from inside the box and figured it out. Then I went out to the pool to swim. Just like the girls in the school Sex-Ed videos, splashing freely with their new periods and their practical tampons.
For those first several years, I hated the bleeding. It lasted seven long days and the cramps were debilitating. At school, I constantly worried. Was it leaking through my jeans? If I stood up, would there be a puddle? Did I leave my tampon in too long?
My main goal was to control it. To make it less than it naturally was. I used the pill so it would be shorter and more regular. I took Ibuprofen and Midol to lessen the cramps. I complained when it came. I worried when it didn't.
All these years later, I can’t wrap my head around the reality that the process that enables life is something we learn to hate and hide — a secret, unworthy of sharing. It’s easy to see how period shame can become body shame.
Hadley, remember what I told you about the freckles on your arms? The ones I hope you learn to love because you'll get more and more every year? The same goes for your period.
Periods don't really get easier over time. Cramps are still painful. And anyone I’ve ever dated could tell you the challenges that begin a week before it starts, when my irritability is off the charts and I simultaneously want to be left completely alone and held really close.
But I've come to love my period because its real and important and purposeful. It demands that I tune into what’s happening with my body. Now that I've given it a chance to regulate on its own, it comes like clockwork. An on-time monthly confirmation that things are working exactly as they should. Tangible proof that my body is powerful, feminine, capable.
It’s also proof that I’m not pregnant. Which is something I’m consistently glad about. (Someday that will change. And I wonder how I’ll feel when my period arrives after hoping it wouldn't. But for now, its predictable hello still feels like a great gift. Something worth celebrating until it makes sense for me to make you a cousin.)
I have a deep appreciation not only for the four days of bleeding, but for the nuances of the entire cycle.
There are times of the month when I feel most creative. There are stretches of days when my skin looks glowy and other stretches when my skin looks more like a sixteen year old than the adult that I’m trying to be. There are days, right before my period starts, when I'm more tired and need more sleep. And there are also days when I have more energy, when I feel faster and lighter and have better workouts.
When I pay close attention, I can usually feel when I’m ovulating, too. Which I’m obsessed with because what could be more magical? An egg! One of the 2 million I was born with! One that could make a human! Kicked out of my ovaries and sent traveling down my fallopian tubes, hoping to meet a sperm along the way. If any proof of God exists, to me, this is it. Divine.
And like all the ones I've used throughout this letter, the thing I appreciate most about my period is the simple signal to stop. To pause. To let change happen. Instead of trying to control what my body does, I now use the pain or tiredness or moodiness as reminders to slow down, to be just a little kinder to myself. Because I think our bodies are exceptional at telling us things. But it's impossible to hear what they have to say unless we actually stop. And listen.
You are extraordinary, Had. You and all your eggs and cramps and tears and future life-making abilities.
I love you I love you I love you.
Aunt Liz.
Hadley, as I finish writing this, it's 2015 and the internet is up in arms about this photo. I hope that by the time you read this letter, this picture doesn't seem remotely scandalous. I hope that ten years from now, when you're a teenager, this whole topic will be completely free from the weight of stigma and shame, as it should be. (Photo by the talented and knowing Rupi Kaor)
