photograph: Pinterest

Dear reader, 

I had the most excruciating period of my life this week and I called my mom for help. In my fit of discomfort, she did everything she could to comfort me, including telling me this was how her period used to be. Despite being worried that the rest of my youth will be spent crying on a bathroom floor, I feel more connected to her than I ever have. 

Me and my mom have a complicated relationship (who doesn’t) and I’m trying to mend it. Nothing specific happened between us, we just don’t talk that much. I feel estranged from the rest of my family and it’s a point of tension for all of us. But, in my moment of extreme discomfort and frustration, I needed her.  

She was there for me the way any mother should be there for their crying child; she did her very best to comfort me. She reminded me it wouldn’t last forever and that I’d dealt with this for years; she told me this was how spent many months of her youth. 

At first, this pissed me off. 

Are you kidding? You’re telling me I better get used to a bare tile mattress for the rest of my young life and I’m supposed to feel reassured… awesome. She continued to tell me insane battle stories. She’s seen it all, from throwing up on the side of the GW Bridge to embarrassing gynecologist visits…I have to buckle up. 

Eventually, her plan worked; instead of thinking about the horror going on inside of me, I was picturing my mom in my shoes. I saw her in her twenties doing anything to get to work on time, I saw her struggling to fill out paperwork, and I saw her crying to her mom on the floor of a communal bathroom. I also saw her stroking my hair when I was 11 and thought I could never wear white pants again. 

I’ve always felt ashamed for not being comfortable around my mom—it’s not all my fault, and fixing this is something way deeper than a period—but this call made me sympathize with her more than I ever have. Instead of seeing her as my mom, I saw her as a woman, and separating these two made me realize how similar we are. Everything I do, a little piece of my mom is with me — and now when I’m puking from cramps, I’ll have to be reminded of her, too. 

As I get older, I understand my mom more and more. I’m more hyperaware of all the things that make her act how she does and say the things she says. Maybe my hormones are all out of wack, but moving forward I’ll treat her with more grace than we’re both used to. Who knows maybe she’ll even be allowed to read this blog…probably not though.

Love,

Isabella