In 5th grade I remember sitting around the playground during lunch and watching all of the girls compare feminine products. They all carried their own maxi-pads and tampons in their purses. I carried a kickball in my backpack. I didn’t understand why they were all so giddy about having their period. In high school, the same thing happened. Girls shared their thoughts on tampons and which ones were better than others. They hated their cramps and bloating. Once again I had nothing to share. By my senior year I was still period-free and I was happy for that. I didn’t have to worry about cramps, bloating or stained panties. I was free from all of those worries.
Then it happened. The most dreadful day of my late bloomer life.
During the fall of my freshman year at Rutgers, Aunt Flow made it’s unwelcomed appearance. I woke up in a bed and it looked like someone committed second degree murder. Call in CSI, my lady parts have been murdered. I remember wondering how I was able to sleep through all of the bleeding, then looked over at desk and noticed a bottle of Mad Dog. Oh, that explains it. From that moment on, I’ve hated everything about having a period. Seven whole days and out of those 7 days, at least 4 of them are competing with Niagara Falls when it comes to the flow. Thankfully, I don’t have to deal with cramps, but I’ll gladly exchange cramps for a shorter period.
It’s been a while since I’ve written about my battles with my horrible menstrual cycle, but most of my friends are the special ones that get to listen to me complain every month. Since I work with all women, we share our horrid period stories especially “Have you ever______” stories. The most remembered one is, “Have you ever laughed or sneezed and it felt like your tampon fell out?”, yeah, been there, done that, got the stained clothes to prove it.
Recently I decided to take control over my period and take a stab at birth control pills. For the longest, friends suggested that I try the pill to shorten my period, but I was so hell bent on not taking them, mainly because I didn’t want to die from a blood clot. Even though the chances of it happening are slim, why would I want to put myself into harms way? I figured it would be good to test them out before a planned trip because I hate traveling on my period. One of my biggest “oops” happened a few years back on a business flight from Baltimore to Miami and I had to walk off the plane with a jacket tied around my waist.
Two weeks ago, I officially became a birth control pill popper. I even set an alarm on my phone as a reminder to take a pill at the same time each day. I also spent time reading up on possible side effects, with my primary concern being blood clots. I already know of three people that suffered from blood clots, and thankfully they didn’t die. The possibility of death just to shorten my period isn’t that becoming.
Day 1- Ok, no blood clots
Day 2- Ok, no blood clots
Day 3- Why is everyone getting on my damn nerves?
Day 4- OMG, I want to punch this chick in the face!
Day 5- WHY IS EVERYONE & EVERYTHING GETTING ON MY DAMN NERVES
To hell with a blood clot.
Birth control pills turned me into this “HULK SMASH” chick. My mood plummeted. I was angry. Not just run of the mill angry, but angry to the point of wanting to throw and break things. My level of patience was gone. I complained to my friend that I felt like I was about to go crazy. I decided to head to the Google to see if I could find anything else about this pill. Lo and behold, I came across this little ditty of a site: Ask A Patient.
There are eight pages (probably more) of women complaining about the same issues! Either they felt as though they turned into a crazy lady, or they were severely depressed to the point of having to take antidepressants. One woman even said her husband took her pills and ran them over with a car because of her mood after taking them for a week. Another women said she’d rather risk pregnancy than take the pill.
I’m officially done with this pill. I will gladly bleed for 7 days than to feel as though I’m about to either burst into tears or wring someone’s neck. Maybe one day I”ll donate my reproductive organs to science, but until then, I’ll stick with my own hormones and period panties.