My Period: We’re getting personal about our periods. The path to menstrual equity starts with talking about it.
My heavy, abnormal periods make life difficult in many ways — some big, some small, some insidious. They’ve cost me a lot of money: I bleed through packs upon packs of nighttime pads during menstruation, ruin bedsheets and clothes with stubborn stains, and spend on painkillers and period pants at a rapid rate. They cost me time, too: days lost to the bathroom floor, hours spent in doctors’ waiting rooms seeking help, afternoons surrendered to napping to restore my lost energy. I’ve spent years trying to get medical help, sitting on waiting lists and being passed around departments. I still don’t have an answer as to what causes my extremely heavy flow.
These are the more obvious consequences of a heavy period, which will resonate with anyone who has experienced the same. We feel more and more comfortable talking about topics like what is effectively a tax on having a uterus, the unfairness of healthcare and how those who menstruate are often ignored by medical professionals. But there’s a reality of heavy periods that we still don’t discuss, and that’s how having them can make you feel like a social pariah. We are expected to be stoic in the face of immobilising pain; when we are not, we’re branded killjoys and drama queens.
My heavy periods have tainted so many memories that should have been among the best of my life: Glastonbury, girls’ holidays, date nights, friends’ weddings, birthdays, beach days, career highlights. You name it, my period has ruined it for me. All around me, those I love have been making core memories while I’ve been relegated to public bathrooms or catching early cabs home.
I spent the first day of my first Glastonbury last year lying face-down in my tent, gripping my stomach in pain and sitting in smelly long drops, bleeding so heavily that pads only worked for 20-minute intervals. My friends were exploring the site, listening to amazing music and having the time of their lives. I felt like I was letting them down by not being my usual, fun self.
On a recent holiday with my partner, he swam in the sea while I sat watching in a café, wearing two pairs of period pants and three ultra pads fashioned into a nappy-like contraption so that I could be away from a bathroom for an hour. I felt like a burden, my period controlling the vibe.
Another time, I spent an hour of a close friend’s wedding reception in the bathroom, trying to scrub blood from my dress. I missed their first dance and the cake being cut. I felt overwhelming guilt for missing such a special moment.
Glastonbury, girls’ holidays, date nights, friends’ weddings, birthdays, beach days, career highlights… You name it, my period has ruined it for me.
My menstrual cycle controls my social calendar more than any other factor. I try to plan around when I expect my period to come, giving myself the first two days plan-free, moving work deadlines around. But as is often the case with abnormal periods, my period arrives as and when it pleases with little consideration for my schedule. It loves to show up two weeks early on the hottest day of summer when I’m wearing a little white dress, leaving me running through east London’s Hackney Marshes with enough blood down my legs to stop four strangers in their tracks (true story, unfortunately).
Girls are taught that periods are a shameful necessity. We are programmed to hide the fact we have them, shoving tampons up our sleeves at school, using euphemisms like “time of the month” and “Aunt Flo”, never talking about menstruation in front of men. Shame is as much of a symptom of periods as bleeding or cramps, and it dictates how we internalise experiencing them. Because of the shame so many of us carry about menstruation, those of us with periods often experience them as a hyper-individualistic, solitary thing.
I often feel like the only person in my social circle with these problems, that everyone else is just “getting on with it” and so I must be being dramatic. The rational, feminist, compassionate part of my brain knows this is not true. That my heavy periods do not make me a social burden, that I am not exaggerating and that, often, I am in fact being far too stoical. The internalised misogyny, quiet-evil voice that also lives in my head tells me the opposite: that I am a killjoy for having bad periods and that my loved ones must be sick of me making a fuss.
That not-very-nice voice is getting quieter, though. I’ve been battling it with community, facts and self-empathy. The truth is that I’m not alone, no matter how lonely it feels to have abnormally heavy periods. About one in three women describe their period as heavy and one in 20 women consult their doctor every year about this problem. Endometriosis affects one in 10 women and those assigned female at birth, as does PCOS (polycystic ovary syndrome) — heavy periods can be a symptom of both conditions. At a club recently, as I whispered to my friends that I had to leave despite only just arriving (because my period came unexpectedly), I looked around at all the sweaty bodies. I calculated that dozens of people in that room must experience abnormal periods yet my instinct has always been to feel isolated and envious. Holding onto these facts has helped anchor me. So many of us are in this together but we have been conditioned to soldier on in painful silence rather than finding camaraderie or demanding better treatment.
Speaking up about my abnormal periods on social media and in real life has helped me to unlearn all the shame I was holding onto.
Friends who had never told me about their symptoms have started to share their experiences and we are learning to hold space for ourselves together in social settings. Nowadays, I confront family members who clumsily make me feel guilty for my symptoms, and they are beginning to understand and approach me with more compassion. I no longer make up excuses or tell white lies when I need to cancel plans because of my period; I simply tell the truth. Slowly but surely, I’ve stopped feeling like a social pariah on the days I bleed. I’ve recently been prescribed tranexamic acid, which can help treat heavy bleeding, and in October I have an ultrasound appointment to see if an abnormality is at play. Heavy periods are a reality of my life right now and I cannot shame my body into bleeding less. All I can do is hope that society starts to accommodate those of us with abnormal periods, rather than forcing us to pretend they don’t exist.
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