Golden Blood

It was a four month streak without my period again. Before it was four years. It shows up and then disappears. This time around I think it was because I ate no fats for five months. Well, I learned a valuable lesson. Eat your damn fats. Although, it wasn’t just fats I’m sure. I wonder how many times I can say the word fat in one paragraph.  It’s sad that fat reminds me of a negative thing, a body thing, a weight thing. Fats are glory—in food and on my damn body.

I got my period this past Monday. I cried and laughed on the toilet as I stared at a bloody tissue like a primal greek goddess. In my head though, greek goddesses didn’t get a red, bloody period. I imagine it was like a gold dusty powder that just fell out of their beautiful porcelain vulva’s and dissipated into thin air. And that dissipated gold would reincarnate itself into everyone’s golden crowns and toga buckles. So essentially, little did the people know, they were all walking around with recycled menstrual gold strewn on their bodies and homes; a silent tribute to the yoni.  Or did they know and love it? Perhaps the world was a place in which women’s dusty gold flow was a prized possession; when a woman didn’t menstruate it would cause a ruckus in the society and shake the foundation of their existence like a proverbial earthquake.

What if women today regarded their flow like gold dust? What if we looked down at our bloody undies and stained sheets, and instead of cursing all the reasons why we leaked (loose undies, pad getting stuck in butt crack, tampon filling up, heavy flow in need of diaper), we felt our energy fly out into the atmosphere like bullets. And then, raise our hands in the air like Bette Midler in Hocus Pocus as she holds magic power between her electric palms and smile like a benevolent witch. 

I’m crazy. But am I? We’re all just a little insane. 

There is something deeply disturbing about a woman not getting her period that I can’t quite describe. It’s definitely not something I can describe to a man which is a shame because this world seems to be filled with male practitioners all over the god damn place. Male nutritionists, male doctors, male therapists, male heroes. Males males males. I’m sick of them. I love you men, and I love your penises because I happen to be straight and like how it feels. But do I feel hatred at how innately behind you can be on the emotional intelligence spectrum? Yes. I hate that women are so smart and astute yet clobbered with a metaphorical boot every single day. We walk around holding a wealth of primal knowledge just spewing out of our pores because it is in our bones, it is in our hearts, it is in our nature to know, observe, empathize. What is in your nature? 

I am still figuring that out. 

Don’t make me explain to you, men, why it kills me to miss a period, and the sudden feeling of female inadequacy. Or what it feel like to be debilitated with physical ailments that I am incapable of performing sexual activities, and receiving my god given right of an orgasm, affection and love ….and then look at me with a face of pity and tell me “It’s ok”.

What if your penis stopped working? What if all men’s penises stopped working and we told you it was ok and contorted our faces into a look of pity? It would not be ok. 

This world would would be turned upside-down until western, eastern, holistic and witch medicine was exhausted into finding a cure for your precious phallus.

I feel you women. I feel your pain when you miss a period. I feel your pain when menstruating hurts so badly you can barely get on with your day, let alone walk up the stairs. I feel you when you bleed twice a month and don’t know why. I feel you when go years without an inkling of blood. I feel you when your hormones are raging hell on your body and mind and it feels like the light has never been so far. 

I feel you because I am you.

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