The Moment I Realized I Was a Crazy Period Lady and Proud

Cream Pie | Janel Campbell | October 26, 2015

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I know what you’re thinking: girls who get their periods are freaks.


Sorry, Cady. 

And maybe the rumors are true. Maybe women are from some distant planet where it’s socially acceptable for our bodies’ hormone levels to drop, signaling the blood and tissue lining the uterus to then break down and pour out of our vaginas like Niagara Falls. But that’s the thing: we’re not from a distant planet, and we never have been. Women have been menstruating since the dawn of time, (and thus populating the world, you’re welcome), and still it’s not socially acceptable for us to go to CVS and stand in line with a box of freaking tampons. Sorry old, pretentious asshole. I forgot how insulting it must be for you to witness a young woman actually have the audacity to go out and publicly purchase feminine toiletries for herself. I must’ve left my manners at home in my its-not-fucking-1950 startup kit. 




Women get our periods! It’s a thing! And if it’s gross for you, imagine how it feels for us. Have you ever had to stand up five hundred times a day to search for the nearest foreign specie with a vagina, only to ask if there’s any blood on the back of your pants? And let’s not forget the painful embarrassment that comes with having to wear a pad and a tampon, aka a diaper, and feeling like everyone is inevitably laughing at you, (you have confirmed this laughter, by the way, because said pad is now giving you an ass wedgie so intense that it would be seemingly impossible for people not to notice). No, you haven’t done any of that. And let’s face it: by ‘you’ I mean boys.



Idiots, assholes, jerks..


I’m kidding.

But seriously, don’t any of you have sisters? Girlfriends? Moms? Why is menstruation still such a foreign topic to you all? You don’t have to learn about our periods, but we must know how to tie your ties? What sense does that even make? Women don’t even wear fucking ties!

And though that brainlessness will forever confuse me, that is a topic for another time. For now, allow me to share a story about the moment when I realized I didn’t give a sugar-honey-iced-tea about who knew I was on my period, and, in doing so, hopefully I encourage some of my blood-flowin’ ladies to do the same.

I was sitting in class when it hit me: it was time to change my tampon. My class was arranged in an awkward-as-hell semi-circle, so I knew that if I reached into my bag everyone would know that I had my period, and I would commit immediate social suicide, have to pack my bags, and move back to Kansas. No, I’m totally kidding, I would kill my parents if they raised me in Kansas. But I was pretty embarrassed about the fact that the entire room was about to see me walk out of the bathroom with a tampon in hand. Nonetheless, I walked into the 1980’s style bathroom (shoutout HU! We love your flaky green paint and poor plumbing), and though the flickering white light in the corner was doing its best at setting the mood, I couldn’t help but sit on the toilet in complete distress. Is this seriously happening right now? I had taken my tampon out, and the blood was legitimately flowin’. I tried everything from trying to let it run the old nose-bleed style, to every girl’s favorite: rolling up an entire roll of toilet paper to catch the bloody nile. That being said, naturally my alternatives failed, and I knew I would have to go back to my classroom, grab a tampon, and walk back out to the bathroom, (which, if you haven’t caught on by now, was a decision one hundred times worse than initially just walking out with the tamp). 


But as I sat for a moment and took in the tantalizing sound of the toilet’s constant rushing water, I realized: who cares? I didn’t even know half of the people in my class, let alone care about what they thought of me. Besides, if I went back in there I would certainly leave the class with a giant “look at me!” written in red across my ass. So, needless to say, I marched my feministic behind back in and out of that mofo, kotex in hand, and felt pretty damn good about it.

Moral of the story?

Fuck off, and let us bleed in peace.