A Period Piece

Written by Isabella Castello

Art by Lucy Latorre

From ages 12 to 16, every time someone asked if I got my period yet, I always shrugged and said, “Guess I’m a late bloomer.” Then, I’d waddle away, trying to de-wedgie four pads that I had stacked on top of one another. I hated ripping open the packaging in the school bathrooms, so in the morning I layered four pads. As each filled throughout the day I’d peel a layer off to reveal a clean one.

I smelled like sweat, stale blood, and damp cellulose fluff. I was repulsed by my period—it hurt, it was messy, and I knew nothing about it when I got my first one. My measly middle school health classes taught us about abstinence before puberty, and my mom was uncomfortable discussing anything that had to do with my developing body—in 8th grade I made her cry when I lied about getting bullied in the locker room just so she would buy me a bra at the Hanes outlet store. Everyone around me danced around the topic, so when I finally got it in 6th grade it felt like I had to keep it a secret.

I cut the wings off my pads for gymnastics competitions, spent entire beach days on the sand, licking the beads of sweat off my upper lip and pretending it was the ocean water I usually liked to suck out of my hair, and wasted so many rolls of toilet paper wrapping my underwear like a sprained ankle. My commitment to secrecy kept me from asking questions. I spent years trying to DIY my period away, and years failing. My methods, like the pad layering, left me humid between the legs and my refusal to talk to anyone about it made me think that periods were always smelly, sticky, and a borderline biohazard.

As the years progressed, I finally worked up the courage to use tampons and consult my mom (on the condition that she was sworn to secrecy). My periods became less physically disgusting, but I still couldn’t shake feeling like a pig in the mud.

Women have been told our periods are dirty for centuries.Even the Bible has something to say about it, asserting that awoman and everything she touches is made unclean by her menstruation. And although I wasn’t around for the time when people were convinced that everything a menstruating woman touched turned blood red, the fear of periods prevailed. Now, we’re sold pads that boast to be the most invisible diaper on the market and thick tampons that are breeding grounds for life-threatening bacteria—but at least they last the longest.

All the conversations around periods are centered around a woman’s ability to hide and ignore them as effectively as possible. There’s never any talk about touching, smelling, and embracing menstruation. These commercials and awkward conversations with my mother never directly told me “Your period is disgusting and you’re a dirty disgrace to God,” but they told me that it needed to be discreet. I filled in the blanks from there using the pre-pubescent boys’ “ew”s and my own stale smell.

But at 17, looking for the latest and greatest tool to manage my period, I found the Diva Cup. The box in Target promised me 12-hour wear with no leaking, no toxic chemicals, and the unfathomable reality of not having to spend hundreds of dollars on period products each year. I bought it instantly, and drove home with it in my lap, eager to slip it in and have it save my life.

It took me about 45 minutes to insert the cup the first time. I read the manual, watched YouTube tutorials, and looked at myself in a hand mirror to make sure I was trying the right hole. By the end of it both my hands were covered in blood and my upper lip was beady with sweat. But it was in, and I jumped up and down, wiggled my hips back and forth, and did a handstand to make sure of it.

After I bleached the toilet and scrubbed the blood out of my cuticles, I was surprised to feel pride instead of disgust. In those 45 minutes trying to insert the cup, I was the closest and most accepting of my period, and my body, that I had ever been. For years, I tried everything to make my period invisible, but this time I was so focused on beating the Diva Cup, that I forgot I was digging through my blood clots to do so.

With each insertion the process got easier. Now, it takes me less than a minute to remove, empty, and reinsert. And although my hands don’t end up dripping with blood, it’s impossible to avoid getting it on my fingers, and under my nails and cuticles. The cup forced me to confront my period, and, honestly, my vagina, so much that it felt scandalous at first—like I must’ve been doing something wrong. But now, when I’m forced to use one of my emergency tampons, the dryness and penetration of it all is what gives me the chills.

Having to not only see my blood, but touch it and watch it coat my fingers, made me go beyond acceptance of my body and its processes—it taught me to love it. It was a sticky and bloody exposure therapy that showed me that my body was not disgusting, but fascinating and capable of more than I could ever comprehend. It boosted my confidence and pride in all aspects of my femininity, not just my period. I show off more of my body, found beauty in my bare, acne-ridden face, and cut my hair into a pixie cut because I was tired of hiding behind dead ends.

Embracing my period meant embracing me, and that’s bled through every aspect of my life. I plan to ride this red wave all the way through the hot flashes on menopause, and to find the same confidence and pride in each phase of my life.