There will be blood

Red overwhelmed the toilet bowl. It tasted metallic even though it only met my eyes. I was warm, giddy. I was also unprepared, on so many levels. No pads, no tampons, no hope. I had released hope a long time ago, letting it dissolve into resolution. It would come if it came, or maybe it wouldn’t. I didn’t get to choose. Keeping a just-in-case stash of feminine products felt like mockery, leaving me stuck and hardened, like chewed gum on the underbelly of an elementary school desk.  

My expectation had evaporated as the final Midol capsule collided with porcelain. A single flush seemed to seal my fate. Who needs kids or ovulation or blood in their underwear? Sore boobs, acne, mood swings? I got to bypass the curse and still be a lady. But it wasn’t right. I didn’t work. I had betrayed by body and she had responded accordingly. When I wasn’t counting carrots or logging miles, I was beaming with disordered pride. When I wasn’t bleeding, I was winning. I held on to that smug smile, even while in treatment. I maintained that menstruation was for the weak. I may finally tolerate the consumption of a banana, but I would not bleed.

I only had a flicker of a memory of my period feeling like an honor. 

Despite its resemblance of a crime scene, it was a rite of passage. And I wanted it. Other girls had just started whispering about chocolate cravings at the lockers and collecting quarters to vend Tampax from the archaic machine in the locker room, and my envy was starting to swell. I waited and prepared. The two times I wore my bright white capris pants (before Labor Day) the year of the sixth grade, I proactively placed a thin panty liner in my corresponding white underwear, stealthily coaxing the curse’s arrival through my diligence. But my first period didn’t come on one of those white capris pant days. It instead flowed on an unassuming spring day when I was rocking good ole jeans and no worries. 

Even after The Body Book and your mom prepare you to become a woman, the first time you bleed down there is just bizarre. For me, the flow was light and the supplemental symptoms were few, but a threshold had still been crossed. It’s true, what they say, that you feel different. The inevitably of its arrival, pre-determined by your double X chromosomes, doesn’t seem to matter. The first shed of your uterine lining flips a switch and you’re thrust into a club you didn’t choose. Suddenly you have to learn how to use a tampon in a porta potty on a California beach, convincing your twelve-year-old self that shoving a tube of cotton up a hole between your legs is totally regular and not terrifying. (Not to mention confusing. Which hole? How far? What’s the string for?) Suddenly you have to ask your friend’s mom’s boyfriend to make an emergency stop at Target on your way to spring break in Owatonna, concealing the contents of your plastic bag with care. 

And while suddenly you also get to blame your grumpies on that time of the month and have a ready-made excuse for dipping out of gym class, I was always aware that periods could be heavy in more than flow. Their late arrival can strike fear in the hearts of those not ready to be parents, but coming on time can devastate the ones who desperately are. Their consistency and predictability can instill stability and confirm health, but their irregularity or absence entirely can indicate a broken system. 

The first time my period receded, my starving was secret. Cheek bones were just beginning to jut, and eye sockets weren’t yet hollow. I knew what I was doing, but I didn’t realize what it would do to me. I mentioned the missed months to my mom in passing, and her immediate concern landed me in Dr. Neely’s office a week later. But I lucked out: The doc blamed youth and basketball. Sometimes young women who are really active lose their periods because sports are physically stressful. Well ya know what? Sometimes young women lose their periods because forcing their bodies to conform to a fat-phobic, misogynistic society that evaluates worth based on body size is also physically stressful. But, sure, basketball is stressful, too. With confirmation of medical normalcy, my mom’s alarm bells hushed, and my eating disorder re-submerged under the radar.

The next loss was familiar, and I knew how I’d earned it. But any admission of this intentional victory actually meant an acceptance of defeat, so I pretended to be worried about my health and my hormones and my brokenness. Dedicated to the façade, I went to all the specialists and took all the tests and tried on all the diagnoses to see if I could externally blame something other than myself. Was it Polycystic Ovarian Syndrome? Maybe endometriosis? Hypothyroidism, perhaps? Let’s put her on The Pill! 

Then came the rabbit hole that is “natural” medicine, when I hoped that supplements and acupuncture might re-curse me. But apple cider vinegar cleanses and elimination diets and sugar replacements failed to heal, and even offered a handy excuse for continued disordered decisions. No diagnoses fit, and no treatment cured because the problem was mental illness and the solution was eating. 

But, slowly, I remembered the flicker of a memory when my period felt like an honor. 

Despite its implication of a disorder failure, it was a recovery rite of passage. And I wanted it. Other women had just started whispering about the best fertility tracking apps at the water coolers and tweeting about the sustainability of THINX period underwear, and, finally, envy started to swell again. I waited and prepared. The two times I wore my flesh toned crop pants the year of my first job, I proactively placed a thin panty liner in my corresponding flesh toned underwear, stealthily coaxing the curse’s resurgence through my diligence. But my period didn’t come again on one of those flesh toned crop pant days. It instead flowed, ironically, on a day dedicated to eating. 

That fall, my world had flipped right side up. My brain began believing new beliefs, and my life began to bloom. But my body didn’t. It sat and it stayed and it avoided. I thought she was staying smug, but it turns out she was just taking her time. I filled that time with longing, new longing. I wanted to bleed. I wanted to feel. I wanted to have options. I wanted to be whole. 

But that felt like a wish. A dream. An utter impossibility. Until the day the bowl turned red. I worked again. It was Thanksgiving.