There are certain facets of a woman's life that are so sticky and primal that we don't ever want to discuss them. Men and women have some of the same problems, since they've both got gendered ideals to live up to, and devil take the one who doesn't fall in line. But women's bodies are mixed up in fear and worship and creation and blood and death. Primal societies worshipped them for creating life. Our modern world constrains them whenever possible because of the power they hold. It's no picnic becoming a woman in ideal circumstances; it becomes even more traumatic without support.
Yep, I'm trying to back away from this, even as I write it. "Let's talk academically, so I can pretend I never started this." Yeah. But no. I'm going to tell the truth.
I was always book smart, and it showed in how I spoke. I think my mom really thought of me as a miniature adult, and I know for a fact that my dad really only enjoyed hanging out with me when he was playing devil's advocate and getting me to argue with him. Being smart was fun, and I liked the feeling I got when someone was impressed with me. So it was natural, then, for my mom to assume that I knew what was going to happen to my body, and that she didn't need to tell me anything. Right? Oh hell, I have no idea what was natural. Here's what I do know.
My mom never told me anything about how my body worked. When I came downstairs to tell her that I got my period, she said, "I was wondering when that was going to happen!" I was 13, which I'd deduced was pretty damn normal. Now, if she was wondering when I was going to start my period, wouldn't you think that she would have something ready for me to use when that happened?
Nope. Instead, she handed me one of her supersized tampons and told me to go put it in. I struggled in the bathroom with the huge wad of cotton for fifteen minutes or so until I gave up. Exasperated as usual with anything I couldn't do, she rolled her eyes. I put some toilet paper in my underwear and she sent me off to school, promising she would send me some pads.
In Home Ec class, I got a delivery in a brown paper bag, nothing taped down or anything. The kids in school all hated me, so I knew that whoever had delivered the bag had looked into it and seen the box of pads. After class, I went to the bathroom and took care of business. For the rest of the day, I was on high alert, but no one made any remarks to me, or teased me about the bag.
That year I was in seventh grade, a full on tomboy, partially because I was a full year younger than everyone else, and partially because I was extremely athletic and loved moving my body. At my previous school, there was no playground equipment, and I loved playing on swings and bars. My new school had this awesome contraption that had multiple swings and a long string of bars to monkey-climb across. The boys and I would compete to see who could get across fastest. The first leap was to the fourth bar out, and then you grabbed every other one for maximum efficiency. I had a great time playing during every recess, break, and lunch. It goes without saying that I played hard in every P.E. class.
No girls at my school ever used the showers after P.E. You Just Did Not Do That. The girls might get a towel damp and dab under their arms with their shirts still on if they'd sweated at all. It goes without saying that the popular girls never moved quickly enough to sweat. I couldn't figure out what the point was if you didn't try hard and have a good time.
So one day in P.E. class, my teacher, Ms. S., sat the girls down in the gym and said that over the next few days, she might be pulling kids aside to talk about hygiene and taking care of yourself. Sitting there on the wood floor, I got that sinking feeling. I knew she was talking about me. I was the last to leave the locker room after class, and she pulled me aside.
It wasn't the discussion of, "You need to wear deodorant, some teachers have complained about your smell" that hurt me and made me more ashamed than ever. It was the look on her face. I was well acquainted with that look, it was classic Mom. It said, I am disgusted by you; I cannot belive that I have to deign to tell you this information, but in case you didn't know, you're disgusting and gross and you will never be okay; your very existence offends me.
I can still see the flutter of her eyelashes as she sighed and told me I needed to use deodorant. Because everybody else knows this, why don't you? She never asked one question. She just assumed I knew these things. But I didn't. No one had ever told me.
I started using my dad's antiperspirant, and stole one of his backups for after P.E. I was definitely the only girl using something that didn't have a pink lid and a light fresh scent. I just kept hiding as much as I could.
Over the next few years, my periods were fairly normal, but I had a supply problem. I would steal my mom's pads when I could, but I was so ashamed of everything to do with my body that I could not face buying pads by myself. I couldn't drive to the store by myself, and we did not live in an urban area. Occasionally I would buy pads from the bathroom dispenser, but I would break out in a cold sweat, waiting for someone to catch me in the act. I knew I would get laughed at, and the story would be all over school in minutes. I didn't have any friends I could talk to about this, and I always knew that my body was something to be ashamed of. Nobody in our family talked about bodily functions, let alone sex, ever. My mom could barely look at me without criticizing something about me, moment by moment, and she hated anything I wanted to spend money on. Occasionally I could throw a box of pads into the grocery cart if we were shopping and she was in a good mood, but that was it. I knew that I wasn't worth spending money on, my body was awful, and having a period just made everything worse. I had to hide that, too.
So out of desperation and wanting to stay invisible, I started making my own pads. I used toilet paper, and wound it round my hand to make a thick pad, then wrapped layers around the crotch of my underwear to hold it in place. Unfortunately, they never stayed in place very well, and many's the time I had to excuse myself from class to readjust or make a new one. Walking to my next class was a minefield, and I couldn't adjust anything without calling even more attention to myself. Wearing these makeshift items was utterly stressful, especially during P.E. or sports practice. I was afraid to try tampons after trying that first one. That's supposed to go where? Yeah, no thanks.
Sometimes I hear stories from my friends about their moms introducing them to menstruation, and I listen really carefully, just so I can hear about what should have happened. I wonder what it would have been like, how I would have felt about my body, if a conversation like theirs had taken place in my household. But really? There was no possible way that could have happened. My mom did not want to talk about my body. If I had asked any questions, she would have gotten that pursed lip look on her face, like she just smelled a dead rat in her shoe, and I was disgusting and gross and how could I even ASK that question? Deep sigh, roll of the eyes, and utter disdain. I was never safe in that house, and I was never safe in my body, least of all.
My eyesight has been fairly bad since third grade, and when I was growing up, I always took a shower in the morning, then put my contacts in when I stepped out and dried off. So I couldn't see at all when I was in the shower. In high school, it became clear that I had to shave my legs to fit in. Once again, supply problems. I used to steal the head of one of my dad's refillable razors and hook my fingernails into the slots of the head to use it to shave my legs, all done without being able to see clearly. One day, I stepped out of the shower and realized that yet again, I had sliced my leg on the back of my achilles tendon. I put in my contacts and got partially dressed before I stepped out of the bathroom to get a bandaid from the kitchen. My mom was standing in the kitchen and saw my leg bleeding all over the place. "You cut your leg shaving?" "Yeah." She laughed and shook her head. "Can't you do anything right?" I glared at her and went back to the bathroom. No sympathy, no caring, no comfort, just disdain. If I hadn't been on a linoleum floor, she might have gotten pissed about the bloodstains.
It's a little disconcerting, seeing all of this out in the world. But this was the reality of my adolescence. I was given no information; there was no internet to reference for information, and our Encyclopedia wasn't geared toward teenaged girls. The authorities who were supposed to help me were just as disdainful as my mother was. I had to make do, to wing it, to try my best to survive and succeed with the only tools I had at hand. It's amazing I survived as unscathed as I did, that I survived at all.
The saying goes, "blood is thicker than water," which is supposed to mean that your family will always be there for you. Well, my parents were always there for me; my mom to mock and neglect me, and my dad to terrorize me and enable my mother. However, the real quote is this: "The blood of the covenant is thicker than the water of the womb," meaning that the vows you make with your friends are more meaningful than any familial relationship. My mom always used that saying to remind us that she would always be there when we needed her; to me, that was a threat, not a promise. Blood may be thicker than water, but blood always reminds me of neglect and disdain, and the ways I was failed, not supported and cherished.
No comments:
Post a Comment