(warning, this is about blood. yes, blood. it’s about our Periods.)

Do you remember that book? Are you there God, it’s me, Margaret. How I adored this book. I mean I read it over and over and over. In fact, I read it so much that the pages had smudges of strawberry lip balm (you know, the kind that was in a rectangular tin and had a lid that slid) and pages with their tops “dog eared” so that I could go back to for references on how to be an adolescent girl.

There are many moments that helped to define my girlhood. Catholic school, my parents’ divorce, my mother’s drug abuse, that girl hate that some girls give, and then my first “girl fight.” Oh and of course, getting my period.

My mother’s drug abuse turned me into a very ashamed and sad kid. I felt vulnerable to her mood swings and coined her “transformer” because one never knew who Darlene would be that day. Stay with me here. Before my step dad left us, he pulled me aside and said “Christina, you’re in Jr. High now and you’re gonna get your period.” I wanted to scream “WHAT THE FUCK DAD?!” I did NOT want to admit that I was a girl, number one. Two, I did not want to talk to my dad about my PERIOD. PERIOD! What I wanted to do that day that he handed me a box of Kotex to put in my locker, was to run as far away as possible.

He left before I got my period. I was 13. I was in the locker room, freshman year, and spotted it. IT. The little spot that was so small but identifiable. There was no mistaking it. “Fuck” I thought. Fuck. I went home early that day. Just left school. Walked home. Grabbed my own money and walked to the store and bought my own pads. Not some GD HUGE brick of synthetic cotton that was too big to even fit in my underpants, but a cute little pad that had purple prints on it. Fuck it. If I was gonna bleed, I was gonna bleed on my terms.

And I did. My terms. I didn't tell a soul. Not my mom. Not my grandmas. Not my little sister. NOT. A. SOUL. I hid my pads (I know, this is gross). I put them in my backpack and disposed of them at school. I don’t know how long it took my mom to find out that I had gotten IT, but till this day she still brings up how much it hurt her that I didn’t tell her that I had gotten my period.

Here’s the thing mom, Darlene, you were in no condition to give me The Talk. Becoming a young woman, a teen woman was so traumatic for me, so defining, that I wanted to keep it to myself. I didn’t trust sharing it with you. Was I ashamed…no, not at all! But I wasn’t proud either. I just wasn’t that girl who wanted to scream from the top of the mountain “I AM A WOMAN NOW!” Um, no. However, secretly, I was happy to have something that I could keep to my own GD self. I eventually told one of my grandmas. The white one. She secretly supplied me with money, cute pads, and double-stuffed Oreo's. I’m still unsure why no one seemed to notice the abusive, drug addicted, crazy-ass Transformer of a mother? But I guess that’s another story. Just keep supplying me with used Keds from Thrift Town grandma. Thanks.

In America, we definitely have an “ewwwww, gross?” attitude about a woman’s period. Sometimes it’s celebrated. Sometimes it’s empowering. Sometimes it’s a secret. Our periods are SO MANY THINGS. And don’t even get me started on what happens to a girl when she gets her period from a cultural perspective (by that I mean the Cubana-filipina side of me cuz that’s a whole ‘nuther story). The point of my ranting is to introduce Period Stories. A place where women can talk about or even write to their Period. Why the fuck not? Men talk to their penises, so I’m gonna talk to my Period, gonna write about my Period, and encourage others to talk about their Periods, PERIOD.

Because who can bleed for at least 7 days and not die. We can.

I finally had the courage to ask for a divorce and you calmly stood up and announced “2017 will be the year of the divorce” and then called your parents to tell them the news. And your parents…with their “happy 40th birthday BMW”, their “OMG, he changes diapers?!” Fuck you and fuck your parents. Fuck your patriarchy. Fuck you for being a disappointment. Fuck you for not being a partner that admits when he’s wrong. Admits that he’s controlling and agrees to therapy. Fuck you for not even TRYING to give me an ORGASM for over four years.

Just “fuck you” because I don’t have to be your friend because I don’t even like you. Fuck you because I got into THAT PhD program. Fuck you because even my best friend’s husband doesn’t want to do fantasy football with you. Fuck you because the person who married us said “oh thank god! he’s such a narcissist.” Fuck you for trying to tame the wild in me…the wild that you supposedly fell in love with.

I came across your Tinder profile and the thing that struck me the most was this: please love yourself. Wow, just wow. I love myself and that’s why I asked for a divorce. You love yourself so much that I fear that you are on the path to putting another woman on a pedestal and wondering why she falls from grace.