CRAMPS
You’ve gone through every purse, backpack, and overnight bag in your apartment.
Three tampons.
Good enough because you don’t have time to stop before work. You try to track but it’s never quite right. You’ve never been one to plan anything in advance. Another characteristic passed down from your mother. Not one of the good ones.
You cursed and cheered when you got your period this morning. Cursing because uncontrollably bleeding from your vagina is always a nuisance, cheering because that’s what you do when you’re a single woman. It’s not like you’ve been having crazy wild sex and if you were being pregnant is unlikely. At least you now know why you’ve been feeling how you’re feeling.
You’re not old, by any means, but within the last couple of years doctors stopped asking if you want to get on birth control and now ask if you started thinking about having kids.
The answer is no.
The response to saying you don’t want kids has changed since you were 23. Instead of “oh, you’ll change your mind!” people have started to say , “ maybe you should freeze your eggs for when you change your mind.”
The answer is still no.
Last week you wanted to kill youself. The plan wasn’t as fleshed out as it was in high school but the thought was still alarming. It’s haunting how much better you can picture everyone’s life without you in it.
At this age you realize you should wait until your parent’s and grandmother are dead before you try anything again. Imagine your mother trying to explain to your immigrant grandmother what happened. She was a kid during World War II in Austria. Your problems are miniscule.
None of your clothes fit right and your skin has broken out all around your chin. In the mornings you’ve woken up in a panic. A puddle of sweat and anxiety after eating, drinking, and smoking too much. You’ve convinced yourself that your friends are tired of you but keep you around because having a friend like you makes everyone feel better about themselves.
It seems like these feelings will never go away.
Two weeks later your stomach hurts and your underwear is stained.
Thank God you’re not suicidal anymore, just hormonal.
Imagine throwing a child in the mix.
Author: Vanessa Noelle
