By Holly Thomas
I am so mad. I have known something was wrong with me since I was 14. It has taken nearly 10 years to get other people to believe it too. If it wasn’t for a very select group of friends and family, I think I would have given up a while ago.
I am so MAD that I am a woman. I am so so mad that I have to live this every month. I’m so mad that sometimes I feel like nothing. I feel like dirty clothes crumpled on the floor I am so mad.
I’m so mad at my womb and the pain that it is. I’m so mad that it has taken years to find out what is wrong with me. I’m so mad that the first doctor I had the courage to tell, gave me a print out of period pain. I’m so mad that I was forced to wait years because I wanted a female doctor to look inside of me. I’m so mad that I was told it would be a woman giving the ultrasound. I’m so mad that I was told it would be external and non-invasive. I’m so mad that it wasn’t and I couldn’t say no because my pain dictated that I needed to find out some answers. Enough is enough. I’m so mad that I went in that room. Big, fat man with big bald head and big bloated belly. I’m so MAD that he told me I’m pretty and that I’m ‘far too young to be in a place like this’. I’m so MAD that I had to get undressed and pull my knees up and take my knickers off. I am so fucking mad that I had to say yes to a huge, symbolic penis probing into the core of me. I’m so mad that I had to undergo this to find out that I have 8 cysts and the beginning of endometriosis and a bunch of other problems. Chronic pain. I’m so mad that you said ‘clean yourself up’ as you chucked a pile of tissues at me. I’m so mad that I felt I should go to school immediately after, for fear of being absent both in body and in mind.
I’m so mad that ‘being a pussy’ means being weak. Because this thing tries to kill me every month, and each time I have to fight back. I’m so mad that tampons and pads are scented because the smell of something you can’t help is shameful. I’m so mad that we are told to be discreet, when this thing creates the life that breathes breath into all of us. I’m so mad about pretending it doesn’t hurt when I can still taste the vomit from 10 minutes ago, when I passed out in pain. I’m so mad that ‘is it your time of the month’ is a joke because have you tried searing pain and hormones that convince you your body is your enemy? Have you tried it? Hormones that tell you you can’t trust yourself because you are worthless and you have nothing to contribute. Ha ha classic women. On the rag. I’m so mad because I have no energy. It’s drained me of everything I was already lacking. I’m so mad that it’s another thing to add to the already long list of things to worry about when you have sex.
I’m so mad and I’m so sad because if you ask a few women you’ll find them reciting the same thing, as if from a script handed out for free. I am so mad because you shouldn’t have to beg to find out that you are ill. I am so mad because you shouldn’t be told you’re imagining it. I am so mad because I’m mad, and I don’t want to spend my life angry. I’m so mad.
I am so mad that the pain reaches fever pitch. I’ll be talking to you and suddenly all of my organs shift and I’ll say ‘sorry I have to call my mum’ or ‘sorry I have to wee’ or ‘sorry say anything holly before it all collapses and you are left standing here, hollow’. I am so mad, please forgive me.
I’m mad that the word ‘period’ itself means full stop. No conversation allowed or aloud. Discontinued. I am mad.