Ugh.
I feel oogy*.
It's that time. The time once a month when my body turns into a disgusting tool of inconvenience. I have never had easy menstrual cycles and have spent my entire womanly life attempting to corral, control and endure them. The only relief I ever found was the three years I managed to find a birth control that worked with my body's chemistry and produced such a light and amiable time I barely noticed the changes occurring. However, since we have been trying to have a baby I have been off the pill for over a year. This has brought about the return of my Red Days Of Hell(TM) as I so sweetly call them. Days filled with multiple bathroom trips and worries about anyone seeing me from behind and nights sleeping on towels and laying ram rod straight so not to toss about and shift things to make a mess. I got through products like they don't cost an arm and a leg and try not to think about sitting in pools of my own liquids. Feeling so disgusted and sensitive I hardly like to be touched and must devote a lot of my daily thoughts to not going insane when certain expelling "feelings" happen down there.
For 19 years I have suffered (minus those three blissful pill years) and because I fully believe in making others suffer along with me (misery loves company after all) I am going to explain my cycle and what I endure with each stage so that you will know the level at which I must revisit every month.
THE FIVE DAYS OF MY PERIOD
Day One: An Introduction To Bleeding - This day is preceded by no less than three days of constant sweet and salty eating. The need for pretzel/ice cream and chocolate/chips combinations is akin to the members of The Jersey Shore needing to tan themselves the color of tangerines. I know it's not good for me but I can't stop myself from shoveling the delicious and soothing concoctions of goodness down my throat. I will start having those phantom feelings of "something" happening down there and will make multiple trips to the bathroom to check and see if the process has started yet. After several false starts, eventually there will be a smear, I will groan and cry a little while on the porcelain throne, knowing what is in store for me over the next few days. The first feminine product, roughly the size of a toddler's diaper, will be worn that night and the "period panties" will make their monthly appearance out from the depths of my under garments drawer.
Day Two: Crime Scene - This is the day I wake up to the second coming of the horse's head from The Godfather making an appearance in my pants. I can never be too far from what fastly becomes the only place I feel comfortable: sitting on the toilet. If I could plant my behind on that bowl day in and day out for the next two days I would probably be able to get through this process in a much saner fashion. But life must be lived, clothes must be worn to live that life and thus dreams of steadily dripping into a flushable device rather than my pants are moot. There will be several times throughout the day I will pull down my pants, take stock of the situation before me and announce the need to call in a CSI team to navigate my way through all the stuff, sure they have never encountered a scene so foul and full of bodily fluids. Reams of toilet paper and even moist baby wipes are in heavy use throughout this day as I try to stay ahead of the flow. Indelibly smears manage to make their way up my back, on my hands, on the toilet seat. It is impossible to feel clean on this day and I usually wash may hands about a hundred times and shower at least thrice. Standing up becomes the most unpleasant sensation as everything held together inside suddenly shoots out and pools onto the torpedo sized device lodged between my thighs that is attempting to protect my delicates. This is also when I despise being touched, brushed against or leaned upon in any way between my chest to knees region. Contact with this area will produce a prompt kick in response as Charming has unfortunately discovered.
Day Three: Clumps And Cramps - Although the day before has quantity, this day's quality of hell makes it my more despised day of the process. The feeling as if my insides are being ripped out one strand at a time by a ravenous rabid gerbil has often caused me to lay curled in a quivering ball, pleading for anything to stop the malicious rodent from devouring my woman parts. I am sure going through birth is a million times worse, but until I experience that particular excruciating joy I only know this pain and discomfort is something I only wish upon Charming when he is being particularly annoying. If I could stay curled in my protective ball of safety, or lounge in a warm bath soothing my aching insides from the outside, I might be capable of handling this day a bit more. But the accompanying things that exit my body make grisly horror movie gore look like red Jell-o in comparison. Being someone who is simultaneously horrified and fascinated I of course must always look at what is deposited in the bowl or shower upon cleansing. The largest has been half-dollar sized and I was so proud I called Charming in to witness the event. He hasn't eaten strawberry jam since. Showering becomes like a treasure hunt as all the pieces and tidbits are discovered in folds and corners. Often I see pictures in the clumps that make their way down the drain and wonder if my baby-maker is trying to send me a message.
Day Four: The Sneak Attack - On this day I wake up, do my morning business and nothing. It's all clear down there. Ah, but beware! No matter how much I want to rejoice that the terror is over until next month, I will be celebrating a bit too premature. A few hours later I am bound to discover things have revved up again and it would be catastrophic if proper precautions were not taken beforehand. I have lost many a good pantie to Day Four and will never fall victim to it's wily ways again.
Day Five: Precautions - Regulated to the last dregs of the process, this day is what I like to call the Last Stand. There is little oomph left, mainly washed out brown remains of what once was, and the odor of defeat. Actually it's worse than feet. It's that odor that makes this day tougher than it seems, as eau de corpse permeates up to my nostrils no matter how much I attempt to clean. It will be gone in a day but nightmares of someone else witnessing this embarrassing last ditch effort of my body trying to win the war that has been waging on inside my parts is enough to keep all others at bay until the white clean panties can be raised in victory.
So there you have it. An inside look at what goes on in my insides. Aren't you happy you clicked here today? I really should be ashamed of myself but I have no qualms about what happens to me once a month. It happens to almost every woman I know. It is what makes me a woman and I love being a woman. Most of the time. This process is natural and amazing and is a part of my life.
But it is also what I most want in my life to stop happening as soon as possible.
*Since I was asked repeatedly on FB what this word meant I shall explain since not many people seem to have heard it before. Oogy is a term I have used since I was a teenager after having read and reread Misery by Stephen King. Annie Wilkes uses this word repeatedly throughout the novel to describe how Paul must be feeling after wrecking his car, shattering his legs and her eventual hobbling of him and the pain pills wear off. It is an overall feeling of pain, discomfort and general yuck. Feelings my period brings on in earnest. Now, I'm not saying my period is in any way on the level of a hobbling but it is pretty close.
