Menstruation: No fertilized egg has implanted itself in the uterine wall, so the thickened lining of the uterus sheds. It’s a miserable spring cleaning. An unwelcome, usually painful visitor reminding me of my reproductive duty. I take a couple Advil and migrate to the bathroom. There I don my armor for the day, cotton cylinders and pads to soak up the blood as my uterus purges the fortress it has built.
When I got my period at age 18, I screamed. My joyful, girlish shriek radiated through the house. Then the tears began to pour. Years of struggling with an eating disorder prevented my body from feeling safe enough to produce a period. The blood was a sign of freedom. Freedom from the voice that controlled my life for so long.
The season was spring, the birds singing and flowers blooming outside. The news spewed out of me, by mouth and over text messages. Soon all my closest friends and family members knew that I was finally menstruating. Grinning with my newfound womanhood, I put my first ever tampon in.
Each month, the bloody visitor came knocking. I danced in the bathroom mirror upon the site of the blood in my underwear. My friends laughed when I would declare that the day a great one, simply because I was on my period. They remarked on my unique experience and added that the novelty would eventually wear off. Soon the spring of menstruation turned into a barren, frigid winter.
Two years later, my internal organs ring themselves out as I feel the puddle of warm blood on my bed sheets. The perception that I have of myself morphs into a monstrous, blood-oozing ogre. Life doesn’t slow down just because I’m bleeding. My productivity won’t stall though it feels like my uterus is being shredded like parmesan cheese at an Italian restaurant. I’ll ignore my body’s calling to rest a little extra and instead continue to run on fumes.
The stumble out of bed greets me with a wave of nausea and my dorm room wardrobe. The outfit I picked out was for a young woman, not the ogre that I am now. I’ll have to channel my non-existent energy into picking out a new outfit.
These pants won’t work, my stomach is too distended. I no longer want to try a new eye makeup look today, it will take too much effort. Each and every shirt I put on causes a sort of gag reflex from my skin. So I settle on a plain long sleeve shirt with a softness that always feels right.
It is winter inside and out. The foreign frost spreads within me. The cold strips me bare of hope, of love. The fleece blanket begs me to curl up into the fetal position underneath it instead of going to class. An icy storm of self-loathing coupled with a general hatred for humanity festers in my mind.
The day passes by in a blur, reality distorted by the raw cold and aggressive snow flurries my period so generously welcomes. Tears freeze from the cold inside me before they can even escape my body. The lump in my throat swells like a lymph node. With each swallow, the hot tears threaten to melt my icy internal environment, bringing with them the relief of sobbing.
At the end of the day, I crash into my bed from emotional and physical exhaustion. Finally in the fetal position, my body is cracked like a mid-winter split lip and the tears that beckoned before have now dried out. Heavy with self-disgust, I lie awake and pull myself apart, over-examining every conversation I had instead of doing anything to save myself from the storm.
Follicular phase: Now that the bloodbath is over and my uterus has discarded its unwanted lining and unfertilized egg, spring truly begins. Ovary follicles grow like blooming trees. Estrogen attempts to rebuild the fortress that is the uterine lining; it hopes that soon a fertilized egg will adhere to its beautifully built wall. Life is flowery and full of energy.
It’s here I begin to question the beauty of my life. Things are too good, it’s honestly suspicious. I tell myself to just accept it: maybe things are going well and it’s as simple as that. In lack of dissatisfaction and endless self-criticism, I question if this means that I have reached the point of completeness that usually feels lacking. Now this is who I’ve always wanted to be.
Drawing on my eyeliner goes smoothly, I get the perfect little wing on the first try. My outfit matches the exact expectation I had when I laid it out. Last night, it took no effort to decide upon what I wanted to wear. I looked at my closet and felt an immediate calling to this very outfit. I switch my earrings from the silver pomegranates I wear nearly every day to ones with a golden vine design. Today calls for something different and creative. I’m the best version of myself on this fine Wednesday. I look in the mirror, at my hair and my body, and I can’t find one thing to scrutinize.
The colors of the world have been enhanced, the sun radiates warmth in the same way my heart expands as a gleaming light outside of my chest. The normal conveyor belt of second guesses, antsiness, and anxiety has ground to a halt. My thoughts don’t race, my hands don’t shake. I can’t help but smile when I walk to class. Abundance wraps me in a strong hug and presents a bouquet of flowers with a kiss on the cheek.
The fragrant lilies of purple and white are my morning coffee, which the barista has never made more perfectly than it is today. The paperwhites are beautiful tickles of hope. Roses convince me of my unwavering beauty and daisies bring forth gratitude for all the little glimmers of life.
I notice that the bouquet is wilted at its edges. I doubt this state of contentment and satisfaction rather than fully indulging in the bounties of my life. Something will unravel soon, the dark foreboding clouds will creep back into my brain.
Ovulation: It’s the moment the uterus has prepared for. The ovaries release an egg and everything is perfectly organized for fertilization. The cocktail of hormones paints a beautiful picture of womanhood but at the same time, my mood begins to sour.
Logically, I should feel energized and gorgeous due to my extreme fertility at this moment. My uterus wanted to send me on an all-inclusive vacation. The beach attempts to woo me with its warm sand that is soft as sugar. For this one summer day, the ocean is sparkly and a deep turquoise.
But all I can feel is the sand sticking to the sunscreen lotion on my thighs. My sunglasses don’t sit right on my face as I try to bronze my white wintery skin. My body is sweaty and my face is oily. My clothes are ill-fitting. Isn’t womanhood wonderful?
I decide that migrating to the ocean to escape the discomfort I feel within my own body will elevate my mood. The water that was once a vibrant blue becomes murky and the salt stings a small cut on my ankle. Once again, I am an ogre: perspiring from hot flashes and lugging around sore, tender breasts.
Luteal phase: The chosen egg prances down the fallopian tubes in search of a swimming sperm. Progesterone is making last-minute adjustments to the wall in case of pregnancy. The egg searches and finds no sperm. It rests unfertilized and must meet its demise. The storm begins to brew as progesterone and estrogen levels drop. The uterus is preparing to destroy the lining that it has built.
I don’t want to see anyone. But being physically alone is synonymous with an aching loneliness. All I need is a hug but it’s 11pm on a Thursday, I’m all by myself. Tears stream down my face because I miss my cats and I convince myself I’ll never find my place in the world. I cry more because life is just so monotonous and I can’t think of anything to feel excited about.
My legs are tree trunks and my stomach feels like an inflated balloon. My body is not my own. I can’t connect to the person in the mirror who stares back at me with swollen eyes, a sprinkle of blemishes around her mouth, and an aggressive frown on her face. Last week’s self-confidence is nowhere to be seen.
The bouquet sits neglected in an old juice bottle that is no longer filled with water. It is dying, it is dead. There is no longer evidence of what was once so beautiful.
I stare at my closet, hoping to be called to a shirt and pants that I can set aside for tomorrow. It can’t be too tight because then everyone will see that my body looks like a whale, but it can’t be too baggy because then I’m letting my critical thoughts reign supreme. I’ll go with the black jeans even though I already wore them twice this week, maybe wearing my favorite pants will automatically make tomorrow feel better.
The dying, the unraveling… it’s an awful lot like fall. Nature sets the trees aflame in an attempt to distract us from the bitter cold that is on the horizon. The bitter nights carry over into a crisp morning. The sight of death, from green and lush to brown and dry, is all around us but we look in awe at the beautifully vibrant leaves.
The ability of my body to intricately decorate a womb without command from anything except fats and proteins, multiple hormones, is miraculous. The years where the leaves never turned, where estrogen and progesterone had no presence have disappeared. With the power of nourishment of myself and my body, I unravel.
I flop onto my bed, itchy with self-hatred. Lights on with my head resting on a cool pillow, the leaves begin to fall. Assuming the fetal position, my body begins to shake. Mucus spews out of my nose and acidic tears pour onto my pillow. I convulse with such force and such silence. The loneliness burns a hole in my heart as I wet my pillow.
I can’t see the golden orange leaves, just the gaping void of all I don’t have. It’s midnight and there’s just me. I drift off to a heavy dreamless sleep on my soggy pillow. Rest revitalizes my blood flow and warms my unconscious body.
Menstruation: Shoot, it’s early this month. No fertilized egg means a resurgence of the bloodshed that my period tracking app failed to predict with complete accuracy. I buckle up for bloating and prepare for an evening that will be tear-filled for reasons that I can’t quite pinpoint.
An early November cold snap covers the sad grass and dead, damp leaves in a frost. The light jacket that was set aside last night just won’t do. This unexpected frost calls for mittens and thick wool socks.
I roll over in bed with my heartbeat in my ears. The passing of another month is marked by my period. I smile peacefully through the dull cramp that hums in the lower portion of my stomach.
The winter frost melts as the morning continues. The day passes with a chill that smells like coming snow. The sunset bleeds red and deep orange into the sky. The first snow falls gently as I am reading a book with a warm cup of peppermint tea in hand. My uterus twists and cramps, so I sink my teeth into a few squares of chocolate.
There’s a comfort in the consistency. A beauty that as I grow, my period tags along with me. With a deep breath, my hands caress my bloated belly. I thank my body for finally trusting me, deciding to listen to it in return.