I got my period completely unexpectedly. I hadn’t even been told a thing about it and was absolutely convinced something was wrong with me when I saw blood in my panties. I had to go, crying and scared, to my teacher. I had to sit, embarrassed and bloody, in the office and wait for my stepmom.
The blood was thick, heavy, and I felt like I was going to throw up. My stomach rejected food, the part of my body I wasn’t even fully aware of yet was now always sticky and wet and gross and I was told it was completely and totally natural. No one told me it was okay to be afraid. No one prepared me.
“It’ll be over in a few days,” they said.
“It won’t come back until next month,” they said.
Sleep started to elude me almost completely, and then I’d get so tired that my father had to literally drag me into a standing position so I’d start to become conscious. My stepmom didn’t explain that if my pad got full I could change it. She yelled at me because pads are expensive. I ruined almost all of my underwear because I didn’t want her to yell at me again. My dad refused to acknowledge it had happened at all. He has four daughters.
A sharp pain gripped my side and I could barely breathe. I didn’t feel good. I begged to stay home from school. I was crying and clutching my side. Something wasn’t right.
“It’s normal,” they said.
“Don’t be so dramatic,” they said.
I passed out in science class. Woke up in the doctor’s office because my small town didn’t have a hospital and was told I’d had a ruptured ovarian cyst. I had four more cysts on my left one and at least three on my right. I needed to be on birth control and tested for PCOS.
I didn’t even know what an ovary was.
My dad flat out refused to get me birth control. Said I didn’t need it. That there was no reason for a twelve year old to get on the pill. I’d just start having sex and who knows what else and that was that.
“What do you mean you’ve gone through the entire box of pads already?” my stepmother demanded, loud, shrieking. “There were 20 pads in there! How many days do you bleed?”
I didn’t know I was supposed to count.
“When does your period start? How many days between stop and start?”
I didn’t know I could count.
I started marking it all on my calendar. Some months there was nothing. Some months over half the days were filled in. I stole an entire box of pads from under the sink to hide in my room for my very own.
New year, new calendar. I give my period tracking one to my stepmom and take her through it page by page. My periods last 10 days at the least. There is no consistent day my period begins and I show her.
“You just counted wrong,” she says.
My legs swell. My back aches. I’ve got a headache. I puke up my dinner and shit out my breakfast five minutes after I ate it. I’ve bled all over my bed.
“You’re overreacting,” they said
“Don’t be such a baby,” they said
I can’t eat for two straight days because if I do I will throw up. I’m not sick. I’m on my period.
I go through 40 pads this time.
I gained three pant sizes right before the blood shows up. I lay in bed all day with a heating pad across my shoulder blades, on my lower back, and one across my stomach. It doesn’t really help.
My own money. No health insurance. I moved away. Saw a doctor. I’m on birth control pills.
The pills have stopped working at easing my blood flow. The doctor tries a new pill. It does nothing. The doctor tries another pill. I can’t afford it. I don’t go to the doctor for four more years.
My girlfriend drags me to the doctor with my state health insurance. She tells the doctor about my symptoms. The doctor’s mouth opens slightly.
“That’s not normal,” she says.
I bleed for 28 days straight.
I’m diagnosed with Polycystic Ovarian Syndrome. The doctor asks if I want an IUD. I’ve never even heard of that.
My insurance pays for it. It’s free.
“It’s worth a try,” I say.
I haven’t had a period in months.
My oncologist examines my medication list. “IUD? Birth control?” he asks. “You’re married. Don’t you want kids?” No. “What about your husband.” Wife. “Oh.”
My GP is out of town. I see a new doctor. We’re discussing surgeries. Is a hysterectomy an option?
“No,” he says. “You might marry a man who wants kids.” I’m married to a woman and I don’t want kids.
My dad is a nurse. He has four daughters.
“You’re married to a woman. Why are you on birth control?”
“Because I need to be,” I say. Finally. I say. “Because I want to be.”
Because it’s my body. Period.
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