Unclean
My eyes fly open courtesy of the sharp pain shooting through my lower abdomen and instant panic grips my heart. Please let it not be what I think it is. It is way too soon: I am not ready. “Do not be it. Do not be it. Do not be it.” I whisper to myself like the words can change anything. I look down to check my undercloth and instant relief floods my heart. It is not my menstrual period. Hopefully, this sharp pain in my stomach is just indigestion and not a sign that my period is about to start. Looking out of the window, I see it is getting bright outside. I should start getting ready for church. I love Sundays, not because of the going to church part but because I get to sleep in. Every other day, I have to wake up early to fetch water from the stream before the sun comes up, clean up the house, and go for lessons. Sundays are the exception because according to Mama, “it is the Lord’s day and we ought to rest just as God did”. I get up and stretch my hands as high as they can go, then roll up the sleeping mat and place it in the corner of the room where I usually keep it. Is that a new crack in the wall? Oh well, it is one more crack to go with the millions of cracks that make up this rickety house. As I walk out of my room, I notice how quiet everywhere is: Mama has already left for church. I would hear her moving about if she were home. I head to the kitchen so I can take out some water from the drum. The drum is big enough for a child to drown in if they get stuck in it. I know this from personal experience: I nearly drowned when I climbed into it when I was younger. I can still remember the sound beating Mama gave me after she rescued me. The beating had the desired effect because I did not go near the drum for years after that. I remember believing Mama hated me for the longest time after that. Those were the times I wished for my parents the most. My parents died in a ghastly car accident when I was an infant so I have lived with Mama, my father’s mother, all my life. I do not know anything about my parents or the accident that took their lives. Mama never talks about either no matter how many times I ask. She always says I do not need to know more because she is my mother and father now. Sometimes, I feel she is sweet for that. Other times, I feel she is selfish for hoarding information about my parents. I fill up the bucket beside the drum and take it to the back of the house where the toilet is located. The water is cool to the touch but I do not let that bother me as I quickly freshen up and head back to my room. Squatting in front of my small pile of clothes neatly folded at the corner beside my mat, I pick a dress at random to wear. Mama has mentioned a billion times that I should put more care into how I dress for service but I really do not care about impressing anyone with what I wear. I make quick work of dressing up, pick up my Bible, and head to church. I always take a leisurely stroll to church because I love the sight of nature – the slight wind blowing the tree leaves, the occasional scurry of small animals across the path, the sound of wildlife, and the view of the spectacular sunrise. I have watched it since I was a little girl, up until now that I am the full old age of sixteen. It is all so beautiful and it never gets old. I wish I could stay here forever. Unfortunately, there is church service. I do not like church. It is filled with the hateful and judgemental people of our community who gossip from the start of service till the end. I can never tell Mama this though… she will think I have been possessed by an evil spirit and take me to the pastor for special prayers. To be fair, it is not just the church I do not like. I do not like the entire community, their small-mindedness and nonsensical traditions make me so angry. I hear raised voices singing hymns from the church and sigh, I hate that too. The church is less than a five minutes walk from our house so I get there quickly. I take a moment to stare at the church building like I always do. I should be used to it by now but I am not. It amazes me that such a standard building exists in this community. It is tall enough to tower over every other building in its vicinity with its grey walls and ever-clean window panes. I wonder how much money was sunk into it, money that could have gone into improving the community. I snap out of staring, take a deep breath, and head to the church entrance with an ingenuine smile on my face. I am already dreading the long hours I will be stuck here for. I enter the church and walk to the back with my head down to avoid having to make eye contact with any of the gossips. Why are the doors at the side of the building and not at the back? I know I ask this question in my mind every Sunday because it annoys me every Sunday. I finally get to the back. I sit in the last row of seats and watch the spectacle that we call a Sunday service. It starts with Sunday school which is taken by one of
On Exaggerated Menstrual Pains
📷: Diva Diaries PS: If you think talking about menstruation is nasty or disgusting, log off now. Your opinion doesn’t matter to us. So…for those of us who care about women’s reproductive health, let us begin. A while back, I heard a friend was sick and went to see her. I didn’t know what was wrong because she wasn’t very coherent on phone but I knew she would appreciate visits. I called a mutual male friend and we set off to see her. When we got to where she was staying, we saw that she was doing better and she told us we shouldn’t have been worried because ‘it was just menstrual pain’. There were a bunch of us there so we settled into good natured camaraderie. As we laughed and talked, she gradually became more withdrawn. Soon enough, she got up and went to the bedroom. We continued gisting and having fun. After a while, we noticed she had not returned and our host went to check on her. She returned and told us our friend was writhing in the bedroom. We all rushed; panicked and afraid. Our host quickly called someone and in the five, maybe ten, minutes before he showed up, my girl went from ‘just menstrual pains’ to writhing in pains, screams and uncontrollable spasms. We all had to hold her down and carry her to the car. Even when we got to the car, her legs were everywhere and it took all my strength to hold her down as gently as I could. I could feel the shivers running though her body and when we finally got to the hospital, it wasn’t too soon. The male nurses at the reception were a bit nonchalant, even taking time out to laugh and talk. Our host was mad and nearly went ham. It wasn’t until they saw our urgency that our friend was shown into a doctor’s office. The doctor quickly prescribed injections after we told her that she had taken some strong acting analgesic and had already been admitted before for the pains. It was maybe thirty minutes after the shot was administered that our friend began to feel better. Not better as in her normal self, but better as a person just coalescing from a terrible illness. Our male friend, who had been afraid at the sight of a usually strong girl totally broken down by her period pains, kept looking as if he had had an encounter with a ghost. We joked about it being normal for many girls and women and he swore he wasn’t marrying anyone. As we laughed in the face of all these, one of the male nurses spoke to us and suggested that he hadn’t been quick in his response because ‘you know how girls like to exaggerate their menstrual pains’. His view was that when women want to get out of work or just want ‘petting’, they exaggerate the pain they feel. Was this guy serious?! Did he ever have menstrual pain that helped him gauge the extent of pain a person should feel at any given time? Or did his teachers teach him that women didn’t feel as much pain as they ‘pretended to’ when having cramps? I nearly flew into a tirade at his educated but ignorant brain but then my friend moaned and I channeled my energy into being a good friend. It is a common perception by many people that women exaggerate the pain they feel during menstruation. I recall even reading an article with this same theme one time and I am still smarting from the anger I felt when I read that load of stale bull crap. This is because I know – first hand – what menstrual pain does to women. I started menstruating February 10, 2000. I remember that day as clearly as I can see my hands now because that was the beginning of my monthly torture. My insides felt like they were been slowly torn up with scalding iron. I writhed and screamed and cried and begged God to take my life and it wasn’t until my mother came home – hours later – and saw the blood that she rushed and got me drugs. In those hours before I was rescued, I broke out in a fever, had diarrhea, was nauseous and vomited at least three times. Adding to that was the fact that my lower back was on fire and I couldn’t stand straight; or sit; or lie down; or kneel; or stay in any position for more than two to three minutes. The drugs took away some of the major symptoms but the diarrhea and nausea remained. My sense of smell was heightened and normally wonderful smells became disgusting and nauseating. Till today, the thoughtof pancakes during my period makes me nauseous. The thought! It has been more than nineteen years since I started my first period and every month, every damn month, I go through variations of this type of hell. Let me reiterate so you can understand. For the past 238 months, I have had to deal with such terrible menstrual cramp that it is a wonder I am still here today. Every single month since that day, I have to take drugs to have a slightly better chance at dealing with the pain. If I miscalculate my cycle or start when I have no access to drugs, I pay dearly. You can imagine my outrage when someone has the gall to tell me that I am exaggerating my pain! Like, is this person mad?! Ladies back me up here. When we are in such excruciating pain, we don’t give a flying fuck about your ‘petting’; or the lack of it. All we can think of is the white hot pain searing through our very core. Did I tell you I begged God to take my life on more than twenty occasions because of the kind of pain I was feeling? And mine isn’t
