I first learned what being a woman meant when I was in middle school. Between freakouts of hair growing down there (and keeping it quiet because I thought I did something wrong), my mother pulled me aside one day. “Dea,” she said, holding on to a stained pair of underwear. “This is yours?” Yes, I replied. The details of that conversation are lost within my memories, but I do remember things had changed. Starting that day, I couldn’t pray at all until the stain stopped appearing. I had to start wearing panty liners, which graduated to menstrual pads when the bleeding became heavier.
I was now a woman, at 13 years old.
I think most people don’t have fond memories about their periods. The first few years were filled with the constant worry that I had bled through my pants and constantly worrying about how to dispose of bloody menstrual products. In high school and college, there were countless days when I brought a jacket in tropical Indonesia because that was the only way to cover up the blood seeping through my uniform skirt. I have frequent, painful memories of being curled up in pain because of menstrual cramps. Twice I passed out because of the pain.
Countless painkillers and kind-hearted, but ultimately useless, advice were thrown my way. Rushed trips to the bathroom and whispered inquiries of extra pads were the norm.
I hated every part of it, but I lived with it because that’s what’s supposed to happen to a woman, right?
One of my favorite things I’ve ever written is a piece I wrote about gender euphoria. It’s messy and barely edited, but it helped me figure out some things about my gender. I mentioned there that I rarely ever have gender dysphoria.
Except that’s not 100% true.
Roughly every 40 days or so, the dysphoria hits me like a truck. A blood-red, searing-hot truck that embedded itself in my abdomen for about a week. The pain and the constant blood management reminded me that my body is quite literally punishing me for wasting an egg that could have been turned into a human being. For those 4–5 days, I’m constantly reminded that I am a “woman” that is capable and should be giving birth right now or else.
Since I first got my period, I’ve been using disposable menstrual pads. That’s how I was taught. That’s the culture we have. Because of environmental factors and the amount of money I was bleeding out (pun absolutely intended), I decided to switch to washable, cloth menstrual pads. But washing these constantly and the imperfect way they absorbed the blood made me feel frustrated. Yeah, I’m not wasting money or contributing to the giant trash pile by using disposable products but dang, washing these things is a pain.
Last year, I caved and bought a menstrual cup.
Why I didn’t just go for a menstrual cup in the first place is another essay on its own, but what I can tell you is that I could have never predicted the way this decision has affected me.
I never realized just how big that pad’s presence is. After all, this is how I’ve always dealt with my menstrual blood for almost two decades. It’s just how it is. In reality, it is such a big signal to my body that I am menstruating. It’s another physical reminder that my body is doing things that I don’t want it to do. When I finally used the menstrual cup, I forgot.
I forget that my body can behave in ways that aren’t to my liking. I forget that my body is functioning in a way that signals to others that I am female. Suddenly, there is no more red flashing sign that keeps telling me I am a woman. No physical reminder at all of what I am going through.
While I still bleed heavily enough in the first 24 hours to make me still have that thought, its presence is very minimal. My brain is too focused on pain management to think about other things, anyway. But for the rest of the bleed period when I’m not dealing with cramps? It’s back to normal, gender-neutral mode again. No dysphoria, no hating my body, just… neutral.
Of course, ideally, I want to feel like this 365 days a year. I still dream about that hysterectomy every now and then. But for now, this is good enough. For now, this menstrual cup that disappears in my body, that most people associate with femaleness and femininity, is helping me feel like the gender-neutral, nonbinary person that I am.
