stories of menstruation by RN&R readers
WelcoMe to a brand neW contest froM the reno neWs & revieW. In part, we devised “Stories, period.” as a means to further normalize menstruation as a topic of discussion. It’s something 51 percent of the population will experience throughout the majority of their lives. And what an experience it is. When things go well, your period arrives on a fairly regular schedule every month, give or take, and lasts a predictable number of days. But when things with your period go wrong, it can be really, really scary—whether it’s missing in action or appearing at random. Despite some universal themes, the journey from when each woman’s period first arrives to when it departs is an individual one. For women who are encountering female hormones for the first time after making their transitions, the experience is an even more singular one, shared only by a brave few. As any woman will tell you, a menstrual cycle is way more than just a few days of bleeding and hormonal flux. It’s a weekslong span of time during which three key hormones—estrogen, testosterone and progesterone—rise and fall in a pattern. And the balance of those hormones can affect you in a variety of ways—your sleep quality, appetite, energy levels, mood and love life, to name a few. And this, of course, spawns stories. In our promo for this contest, we joked about the “Red Badge of Courage sort” and the ones “that are funny—now.” But we also invited you to share your poignant stories about menstruation. I’m very pleased to say we got all of that and more in the entries. Give them a read, and, if you’re interested, come to the Holland Project on Nov. 4, from 7 to 10 p.m. for an event we’re calling “Sunday Bloody Sunday.” People will have a chance to read their period stories in front of an audience and listen to music by Reno bands, including Pink Awful, Fine Motor, Our Small Talk and Caitlin Thomas. We’re hosting the event in conjunction with Planned Parenthood and, obviously, the Holland Project. Also, there’s a question on this year’s ballot—Question 2—and if it passes, feminine hygiene products in Nevada would be exempted from local and state sales taxes. We’re not taking a position on this question yet, but if you want to read about it, we recommend you go here: https:// bit.ly/2LJWhGV. Enjoy these stories. I hope we’ll see you Nov. 4 at the Holland Project. And, please, don’t forget to get out on Nov. 6 and VOTE! regards! Jeri chadwell, associate editor
s to r i e s ,
period. “Missed” Month one
I don’t miss it at first. Being ghosted by my period feels like the start of summer. It is freedom from disruption, from reevaluating outfits, activities and appropriate underwear. Freedom from supply rationing and strategy—the art of tampon smuggling from purse, to sleeve or pocket, to bathroom. It is the luxury of sleep. It is the relief of leaving my designated “period” blanket and the anxiety of soiled nightwear and sheets in the closet. I am used to these vacations. My period is Beyonce. Since I was 11, it has always done what it wants, when it wants. I could worry that I’m pregnant but trust my body enough to believe I am not. Month three
All the tests are negative. Within four weeks, I have peed on three different sticks, two different brands. Still, I am barren of babies and blood. I bingeread articles about false negatives, crazy stories about women dropping surprise babies in taxis or toilets, and
scarier stories about miscarriage and infertility. I gain weight, but don’t know if it is from pregnancy or cheeseburgers. The stress of a phantom period, of three years of teaching, of 180 students, of balancing a career, a relationship, and parents who can’t let go is making me over eat and under sleep. I look for hope. Other than tighter clothes, nothing else about me feels pregnant, but I still imagine the possibility. I eat French fries and start planning for a nursery and how I’ll tell my boyfriend once I know. Month seven
I miss buying tampons. There is a sale at CVS for Tampax Pearls, but I have no use for them or the box of Huggies beside them. I don’t know what’s wrong with me and am too afraid to ask a doctor, or Google or my boyfriend. I learn the shame of getting your period is nothing like the shame of losing it. I imagine blood tests, cancer and never getting to name a daughter after my grandmother. At the checkout line, Snickers are also on sale.
Month ten
My body is no longer mine. Before a party, I cry in the bathroom because nothing fits me. My hair blankets the bathtub and my brush. I start getting migraines. I miss the cycle, the rhythm of knowing what and when. I miss my blood and what it meant. Month one
I pull down my pants and stare at spots of red seeping through new underwear. I am disappointed. Almost a year before, at month thirteen, a friend tells me she couldn’t get pregnant until she lost weight. “I hit 135 and bam!” I try not to focus on numbers but on actions. A new school, a new home, and a kickboxing studio helps. I learn about hormones, contraception and self-care. Slowly, my body becomes familiar. Last week, I took two pregnancy tests. They were negative, but I am fine. In my blood, I have all the hope I need. —MJ Ubando
“stories, Period.” continued on page 12
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