I finally flossed my teeth. It was the first time in ten days. I moved about my bathroom with excited anticipation of normal days to come, suddenly aware of the overflowing garbage pail and grime in the cracks of the backsplash. Blood pooled delicately between the enamel of my teeth, reminding me of yet another way I had failed. I looked carefully in the toothpaste-splattered mirror, a tired shell, raw from a week of crying, hormones dragging me kicking and screaming onto a ride I did not queue up for. I’m relieved to recognize a glimmer of authority in this woman’s gaze, but wary that she might be an imposter. As the pattern goes, she is a temporary resident, an emotional nomad riding the waves of the cursed tides she inherited. The cramping in my lower abdomen reminds me that this woman is actually me, and promises the opportunity to finally bleed from somewhere other than my gums. To make my way back to proper functionality.

The last day that broke my heart was Thanksgiving. The time before that was Halloween. And the time before that was a month prior. On it goes. My husband and son stood in front of the iPad, making pumpkin pie over FaceTime with Nana. Thankful for the technology but bothered by the concept of virtual pie-making, I rolled my eyes at the abysmal nature of this year. We’re all well-versed in missing family, living one thousand miles away, accepting consolation prizes via Amazon Prime and iPhone applications. But the pandemic has taken our isolation to new extremes. I was running an unexpected temperature and we’d have to cancel our already socially distant plans. While feeling many things, the overriding emotion was “leave me the fuck alone.” I picked a terrible fight with my husband because suddenly the fever and having to call three people and tell them I might have COVID seemed like a terribly unjust burden. Everyone around me was disappointed, while an odd sense of relief washed over me. It’s nine days until my period and I am exactly the kind of monster who doesn’t care about things like Thanksgiving or the disappointed look on her five-year-old’s face when it gets cancelled.

I spiraled into a sloppy, animalistic pile, a monster in her lair. Set to crumble into familiar contortions in the center of the king-sized bed. The white comforter in desperate need of a trip to the dry cleaner, swallowing her collapse, month after month. Writhing in her disorienting sadness, holding pillows like imaginary people, and telling them stories of her overwhelming sorrow and self-hatred. As I lay there, unable to comprehend the sharp turn of the day, tears running until there were none left to cry, I felt aware that this spiral was not entirely my doing. Just a day ago, I drove alone in my car singing happily and tallying my gratitudes. How quickly my chemistry could turn on me.

I was never formally diagnosed with premenstrual dysphoric disorder, a health problem that can cause exacerbated irritability, depression, and intense anger for up to two full weeks before a period and a few days after. However enlightened and motivated I was with this revelation at the time, it is three years later and I still seek answers. These impending period weeks hold palpable tension, heavy anticipation, and a desperate desire to be left alone. I’ve felt everything from rage to severe depression to hopeless desperation. Even just a lingering numbness, beckoning me away from the joys of my life.

This is not something we tend to talk about. Not at home growing up. Not with the majority of our peers. Certainly not in our yearly physicals where we’re poked, prodded, sent out for labs, and ushered away in half the amount of time we waited in the lobby. Culturally, we vaguely call it PMS. We link vaginal blood flow to a cascade of emotional misbehaviors. We cast judgments, labeling women as angry, hormonal, and irrational. We shame them for having an organ that requires an involuntary monthly shedding. A process no one signed up for. We didn’t ask for a uterus. We woke up one day, thirteen and terrified, with swollen breasts and blood seeping from our most intimate places. We were told why it’s necessary and maybe even why it’s an honor. But certainly not why we would spend the next thirty-five to forty years apologizing for it.

For the first fifteen years of my womanhood, physical bleeding took precedence over emotional hemorrhaging. I was given crude pieces of plastic wrapped in pretty paper to deal with my new problem and shown the proper way to dispose of the carnage. I improvised and wrapped tampons tightly in wads of paper to hide them in trash bins. Or shoved them in the pockets of purses, because for some reason some people don’t have little garbage pails in their commodes. Sometimes bringing the evidence with me anyways because even if they did, that wrapper sitting in the otherwise empty pail revealed my secret. She is bleeding. How embarrassing. How shameful.

In those early years of menses, my bleeding was as heavy and unpredictable as my moods. The largest tampons and thickest pads were fickle friends, unable to be trusted. I bled through super plus tampons in a matter of hours and had periods that would last up to two weeks. It was only recently when my therapist looked at me, mouth wide open, wondering who helped me with this very frightening problem, that I realized this wasn’t normal. I didn’t have help. I didn’t even know I needed to ask. Abiding obediently by the rules of secrecy we were taught, I handled my shameful and messy issue like a good girl. I wonder now what losing so much blood meant for my teenage mental health.

In high school, my male friends called me “the devil” because my moods were unprecedented. Small and unassuming, I packed a malicious punch and I leaned into the reverence they had for girls who could hang with the boys. I wouldn’t understand for a long time that I’d slip into this role at very specific times of the month, the adoption of this part of my personality overriding the more affable qualities of my burgeoning womanhood. On good days, I was a compassionate and effective listener, a creative artist and writer, and an organized and motivated student. This often left me surprised at how and when the wrath would surface. There were uncharacteristic backstabbings, fueled by teen jealousy and self-consciousness. Fallouts with friends over injustices and young heartbreak. Sometimes I just took the devil girl comedy routine a step too far, leaving myself embarrassed and exposed. I surmise now that most of my episodes aligned with perfect hormonal precision.

I sit today with lime green plugs shoved deeply in my ear canals. Anything to block out the sounds. I type on a keyboard scribbled on with yellow crayon. My toddler has been fighting his nap for nearly ninety minutes. I have irrationally concluded that maybe I should never have had children. I am simultaneously aware that this thought is absurd. My five-year-old is in his virtual art class calmly raising his hand and waiting his turn. He taps his foot incessantly to help his juvenile patience hang on a second longer. I am aware that it is an inappropriate time to scream “Stop it” at the top of my lungs, but if I don’t do something fast, I might just be that crazy. I am losing it and its only one p.m. on a Tuesday.

I step outside into the cold and take a frantic, frigid breath. I try my husband, but he doesn’t answer. He can’t talk me off every one of my bridges anyway. I pace in a manic fashion, abrupt and angry stomps in a ten-foot space, grateful I can’t hear anything but my own racing thoughts. My rage slowly minimizes to anger. Then my anger dissolves into sadness. Just this morning I was dancing merrily with my kids in the living room. Is it really too much to ask to feel okay for more than a couple of hours? The inconsistency and not knowing when I can count on myself is maddening.

I sit and dream about a world where my husband could explain to his boss that he requires the next few days off to support the hormonal health of his wife. Or set up childcare for three consecutive days every month while I heal and retreat. I wonder why Christmas can’t just be in January this year so I can fully experience the joy of my children’s lit faces. I’m tired of my physical and emotional well-being taking a backseat just because it pertains to my period, society’s nuisance and a woman’s burden.

Alone at last, sundown, I sit on the warm bed of the acupuncture table. My doctor is a gift from the heavens. I explain that in the last ten days I have felt some of the ugliest, darkest thoughts I could fathom. Sometimes triggered by the tritest of things. I tell her I’m finally bleeding today and by Thursday things should be back to normal. But without a doubt, I’ll be right back here in less than a month. Her gaze is piercing, working hard to compensate for a masked smile. Tears fill both of our eyes as we remember unspoken celebrations of having babies just a month apart. Two women on journeys to heal themselves and others. She tells me she experiences something similar to what I am describing and has been troubleshooting the problem. She does not break eye contact, puts firm pressure on my leg and says, “We’re going to figure this out.”

Over the years, I’ve treated myself to all the best products. Period cups in every color of the rainbow. Underwear I can bleed right into, free and unabashed, a far cry from the pads and tampons from my youth. I book extra therapy and acupuncture. Anything I might need for that extra little boost. I incorporate small rituals each day to remind myself that, as Gandhi says, “My life is my message,” and I am worth celebrating, even on my darkest days. Today I finally shed my lining and one more egg of many I never intended to fertilize. I feel the dull ache deep in my roots and I curl into a ball, hugging my pillows. This time they’re soft, sweet, and inviting. They hug me not because I am desperate, but because I am home and they’ve missed me. I missed me too. There are no more tears to cry. I close my eyes knowing we made it and allow myself to be held steadily by my own loving arms. We’ll try again next month.

-Becca Tillinghast

Becca Tillinghast (she/her) is a writer, a yoga instructor, and a knitter of all the yarn. She lives in Nashville, Tennessee, with her two wild and incredible children and her ever-supportive partner. Her work can be found on Scary Mommy, which explores the challenges of parenting and the vulnerability of this messy and beautiful life.