Episode 5
February 3, 2023
Today is the first day of my last period.
I’ve been asked by several people “how are you going to celebrate or commemorate today?” The thing is, it does feel monumental in some ways. There aren’t many people who can have such certainty: they are menstruating for the last time. But I do and I feel like it at least needs to be honored. That said, I’ve never been one of those people who does monthly rituals around my cycle, I’ve never felt like menstruating was the pinnacle of my womanhood and femininity. There were many years where the pain that I experienced as a result of my period meant that I truly hated my period and just wished to get to the age where I wouldn’t have it anymore.
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When I was young, I couldn’t wait to get my period. The first and only time my mom ever attempted the “birds and the bees” talk with me was when I was in 2nd grade after my school announced an age appropriate version of sex ed—the curriculum where we began to learn about how our bodies would be changing and we started to discuss concepts that we could not comprehend in regard to being sexually attracted to others and how our bodies were preparing for adulthood.
I wasn’t allowed to go to that module of health class; my mom assured my teacher that she would review the material and teach it to me herself. So I brought home the bag filled with pads and tampons that all of my other classmates were given, gave it to my mom, and anxiously awaited “the talk”. In fact, I begged my mom to talk about this stuff with me. She was incredibly hesitant but finally sat me down in our formal living room and began going over the material.
“Puberty”, my mom said.
I burst out laughing.
Puberty was one of the funniest words I had heard (I was in second grade) and I could not contain my laughter. My mom said the word again and my laughter became even louder as my mom’s face grew more red, clearly embarrassed at my reaction. She shortened the word to “pub”, thinking that perhaps it would not evoke such a response but the opposite happened.
After a couple minutes she got up, flustered, tossed the book at me and told me to read it myself. That was the first and last time I was given “the talk.”
A few years later, in middle school, I thought I was getting my period. I got to stay home from school and was told by my parents that getting my period was not something that was “locker talk”—meaning I wasn’t supposed to stand around my locker talking to my friends about it. By this point I understood social cues and how not everything was to be talked about publicly, however, I quickly caught on to this warning as a source of shame…I wasn’t to talk about this because it was gross, dirty, disgusting, and something to endure.
But, it ended up being a false alarm. I was crushed when I realized that I didn’t get my period.
I ended up being a late bloomer; I went through my entire freshman year of high school hearing my friends talk about getting their period and feeling like I was missing out on something. I only knew of one other friend who didn’t have it and we would meet eyes whenever our friends were talking about it—a silent vow that our secrets were safe with one another.
My entire freshman year I felt hot, sweaty, and disgusting from the inside out every day of school. I lamented that if this is how high school and adult life would feel, I didn’t want any part of it. It wasn’t until my mid-30’s that I realized the internal experience I was going through was my body changing, hormones flooding through me, and my body moving from a child’s body to an adult’s body (aka puberty). But at the time, it was just hot-shame that was my reality and I was not looking forward to more years like this.
***
Senior high summer camp was the week everyone looked forward to. I lived at the camp year round since my dad was a director there and I anxiously awaited being old enough to go to senior high camp. The majority of camp weeks during the summer were for kids coming out of grades 3-8 but one week of the summer was geared toward high school students and the camp staff went all out: theme nights, special food, rock bands, costumes, the best speakers, crazy activities…and tons of extra counselors to ensure that hormone-filled teenagers weren’t sneaking off into the woods. It was a week that my friends and I had been looking forward to for years.
Despite living at the camp, I got to be a regular camper who stayed in a cabin, slept in a bunk bed, walked a ½ mile to the building with showers and toilets, and ate in the dining hall. The first morning of senior high summer camp my 9 other friends and I woke up early so we could get ready and get to the amphitheater to get the best seats. I waited my turn for a bathroom stall only to discover blood…everywhere.
Completely unprepared with supplies or knowledge, I froze. I felt dirty and unsure how to clean myself up or make sure that I didn’t bleed everywhere. Somehow I managed to do enough clean up work to be presentable and asked my counselor if I could be excused; I scurried over to the nearest building that I knew had a phone in it and dialed the 3 digit code to be connected to our house which was on camp grounds.
I shared with my mom that I thought I had gotten my period and needed supplies for the week, including more underwear and pajamas. There was no fanfare, just an acknowledgement that she understood and would drop the supplies by my cabin that morning. I went back to my cabin, nervous that the blood had already leaked through the make-shift toilet paper pad that I had concocted and quietly asked one of my friends if I could use one of her pads. After breakfast, I returned to my cabin to find a grocery bag with Kotex pads, a few pairs of underwear and a new set of pajamas sitting on my bunk bed.
***
From that point forward, my periods were never easy. Until my late 20’s they were terribly heavy and long. I have always had severe cramps, I get 5 migraines each month related to hormonal shifts around my cycle, prior to participating in trauma resolution work, I was diagnosed with PMDD (premenstrual dysphoric disorder), and though that has gotten much better, I still have significant PMS symptoms.
Moreover, I tended to lean toward an ‘old testament’ view of periods. Though I never sat on a clay pot in a tent by myself, I never appreciated what having a period meant or how amazing it was that my body had the capacity to menstruate. Or what the process of menstruation meant in the birth cycle. I just viewed my period as a nuisance, I viewed my symptoms as the price I had to personally pay for Eve sinning in the garden, and I tried my best to get through each month.
To me, periods were gross–the logistical parts especially. It meant extra contact with my genitals–or even acknowledging I had genitals. Since I had never been taught about masturbation and only knew it was wrong and sinful–especially for women–having contact with my vulva was terrifying. My sole goal in life was to avoid sin–which is why I did not attempt to insert a tampon until my early 20’s. Even though this was not a sexually arousing activity, I was scared that the mere touching of my vulva would lead me down the path of sexual sin.
Even after I learned how to use a tampon, I still felt disgusted. I would insert it as quick as possible so that my fingers would not touch my private parts for too long and then scrubbed my hands (which I realize is a great practice for hygiene, but my scrubbing was more to do with ensuring I didn’t have sin on my hands–literally–rather than making sure my hands were washed.)
***
When my doctor mentioned going on birth control to help with my extreme PMS symptoms, I readily welcomed the idea. Until she said I could be on it for three months before I needed to come back in for a vaginal exam. I winced but put it out of my mind–three months seemed like a long way away.
Three months came and went quickly, however, and before I knew it, I was back in my doctor’s office for my first gynecological exam. Having no access to comprehensive sex ed from any of the influences in my life, I had no idea what to expect. My doctor handed me a gown, told me to undress, and lie back on the table. I was terrified. Not only was I unsure of what was happening, I was deeply embarrassed that I would be, basically, naked in front of someone. Even though this was a safe person, I had never faced the experience of my body being splayed open for someone else to examine and touch. I hadn’t even done that to myself.
The procedure was painful and shaming. When I told the doctor I was not sexually active she rolled her eyes and laughed. “OK,” she said with dripping sarcasm. I recognized that it was an anomaly for a 22-year old to be abstinent, but I still felt ashamed that she didn’t believe me. However, when my entire body locked up the moment she attempted to insert a speculum and then again during the manual exam, she became frustrated with me, telling me over and over to relax.
My body was on fire. I didn’t have words or understanding of what was happening but I wanted to run away. My nervous system was registering this as dangerous. As soon as the exam was over I felt what I now call an embodied violation hangover. That is, the feeling of being hung over despite not having taken any substances. Combined with the embarrassment I experienced from my doctor, it was not a good experience. (In fact, the experience was so overwhelming that I didn’t go back to the doctor for an annual exam for 12 years!)
Fundamentalism and purity culture had so thoroughly disconnected me from my body and terrified me of sexual sin that I neglected sexual health and taking care of my own body. Later, partnered sexual experiences and poor experiences with doctors would deepen the fear of my sexual self and become stored in my body as trauma, on top of the sexual and religious trauma I had already experienced from my religion and previous partners.
It wasn’t until I began working with a Somatic Experiencing practitioner and learned about my nervous system, how trauma lives in our bodies, and how to resolve that stuck trauma energy, that things started to change. After doing specific, targeted work on messages from purity culture and an experience of sexual violation that continuously haunted me, I was able to be introduced to my sexual self and experience something other than shame and disgust.
***
I think it was gradual…but it took me a while to recognize it. One day during my monthly cycle I was using a tampon and realized that I wasn’t rushing, nor was I reeling back in disgust. My fingers had touched my genital area and my body wasn’t panicking. I didn’t feel the urge to scrub my hands. Something had changed in my body–all this trauma resolution work I had done was actually working. The messages and experiences that my body held for decades weren’t living in me the same way they had.
It may seem small, but I think it to be a moment of healing. I don’t believe that healing is a fixed point that you get to–a finish line where you can say “there, I’m done healing”. I believe it to be an ongoing, nuanced, and complex process that happens in the small, everyday moments of life. The moments where you respond differently than you used to, where you can access different resources, where you become aware of being triggered and are able to lead yourself to safety. Often healing doesn’t happen in the big, cathartic, profound moments. It happens in the everyday moments that sometimes seem to pass you by, but if you look for them, they are there. It happens in the moment where your fingers touch your vulva when inserting a tampon and you no longer feel hot shame descending on you.
***
To be totally honest, for the past 2 decades, I’ve been waiting for this day. The day of my last period. I used to joke around with people that there should be a rent-a-uterus program that people could participate in when they were ready to have children but before and after that, they could have their uterus removed. I didn’t realize that back then, my attempt to joke about renting a uterus was actually my way of acknowledging several things about myself that I was not yet ready to say out loud–that I was in immense pain as a result of my uterus and that I didn’t want to have children (but that one is for another episode!)
It’s wild, and rare, to be one of the people who can know, without a doubt, that I will not have a period again.
Though I’ve never been the person who has tied my femininity to my ability to menstruate or have children, I’ve never been one to view ‘that time of the month’ as sacred (though I know many people who do and I admire this practice deeply!), there are still many emotions connected to my last period and my upcoming hysterectomy.
My uterus is what made me a danger to men, in my religion of origin. My uterus is what was supposed to save me–through childbirth–and give me purpose as a mother. My uterus was what gave me value; the pinnacle of my womanhood in a patriarchal culture. My uterus is what endangered me in Tennessee even before Roe vs. Wade was overturned (TN has had some of the most restrictive abortion healthcare legislation far before Roe vs. Wade was overturned.)
I can’t say that I am going to miss having a period. I can’t say that I am grieving that my uterus will be gone. I can’t say that I am not secretly relieved that as a woman who lives in a state like Tennessee, I will now feel safer as it pertains to the choices I make on behalf of my body.
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February 3, 2023
Today is the first day of my last period.
I will bleed. I will experience cramps and all of my other PMS symptoms. I will use products that aid in period-management without disgust, and dare I say, a bit of nostalgia?!?
And then, I will pack up everything extra and donate it to the period project, The Homeless Period Project that the Heal ATL therapy group does each year. (If you want to donate supplies or finances to this amazing resource, click the link to do so!)
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