If you’re some traditional male chauvinist pig who cringes at the mere mention of period, stop reading. Or if you’re a woman who think girls should not share such personal details of one’s life, go away now.
Periods are a natural
suffrage phenomenon that us poor women have no escape from. Instead of concluding that every bad mood, tantrums stem from PMS and the whole range of having periods, read this. Well, some women are but I reiterate, not all of us are irrational.
Since I’ve had my first period on the day after my 13th birthday (thanks for the present, whoever up there), I’ve been plagued by cramps. In my teenage years I suffered the most. Almost every month when the red tide cometh over me, I had to take sick leave because I just could not climb out of bed.
As I got older, the pain got better (someone once gave me ill advice that the pain would stop once I started engaging in sexual activities. Obviously all lies). I still had to take painkillers, but at least I was still functioning.
All these years, my period came like clockwork (except that once when I had a pregnancy scare that was probably caused by the trauma of a bad breakup), descending on me between 28 to 31 days. I simply could not escape.
The past two months have been queer though. Last month, it took a whopping 38 days for aunt crimson to visit me. And this month, 33 freaking days. It’s either I’m going through a second wave of puberty or I’m having early menopause.
That’s not all. Remember how I mentioned that the pain is medically controllable? My most recent period was a nightmare. The pain crept up on me gradually and I was prepared. Then, while I was on the toilet (ok I’m sorry I’m being gross, but it has been scientifically proven that The Urge comes on stronger when we are bleeding down there), the pain hit me like how a person would feel when a baseball hits, except at the abdomen area.
I know I’m always exaggerating but this time I’m not. First, I doubled over in pain and clutched at my tummy like I got stabbed multiple times, then I started groaning as if I was giving birth. It got so bad that first I started tearing, and when the intensity of pain came in bigger waves, I started sobbing. Like a baby. I swear I couldn’t control those emotions. Read: I’m still not like those unreasonable girlfriends some of you had experience with.
My brother, who later admitted that he couldn’t handle crying girls and heard me wailing, tentatively asked if I’m ok. I managed to whimper for him to get me some water as if I was on the last vestiges of dying thirst.
Eventually, I managed to stumble and half-crawl my sorry ass back to my bed (still in tears). I fumbled in my bag for the painkillers (god-sent!) and popped them into my mouth as eagerly as a druggie.
By this time, I was still clutching on to my stomach, cold sweat pouring out of me, other hand gripping my sheets till my knuckles turned white, biting on my pillow to drown out my screams and my legs were squirming around. Yes, you can say that scene was equivalent to something out of The Exorcist.
Mum who by now was privy to the drama came to check on me and wanted to bring me to a doctor. I wailed through clenched teeth that I was immobile and she offered me a myriad of solutions which I declined. Eventually mum retreated with worry because all that came out of me were muffled and incoherent stuff. Seriously, you could offer me a Chanel bag at that point and I’d have said no. Even if X came by to declare his undying love I’d ask him to shut it. No, scratch that. I’ll take the last one back. I’d jump out of bed and declare mine right back at him.
Of course, with time, the painkillers did their work, but I swear I’ve never experienced such pain. It was almost as if there was a creature eating it’s way out of my tummy. I can talk about this with mirth now, but believe me when I say that the pain is real and I pray (and I’m not even a pious person) it never happens again.
If this persists (touch wood!), I’ll likely have to seek medical advice. For women out there who can relate, I feel ya sista’. As for the men, I hope you won’t have to see the women in your lives morph into a contorted ball of pain. The pain is real (though I can’t say that there are some women are just born dramatic or attention-seeking; good luck to that).
And I cannot believe I wrote such a long post about my period. Now don’t you think you’ve gotten to know me on a more intimate level? Soon, we’ll be likely to share poop stories. Soon.