Hello men! I thought this would be a good time to remind you that anything you can do, I can do bleeding. That’s right, whatever it is you did today, I can probably do it while hemorrhaging from the most sensitive part of my body. And I won’t die! Remember that when you’re standing on the train in the morning surrounded by bodies — roughly half of them female bodies. Think about it. A mortal being, walking the earth, shedding her blood continuously for a week, all while looking totally normal and smiling through eight hours of continuous meetings to avoid workplace discrimination. —Madeline Trebenski, Anything Men Can Do I Can Do Bleeding
“Anything you can do I can do bleeding.”
I keep seeing this on instagram and on t-shirts and I love it. Because it’s TRUE.
I’ve spent eighteen years doing things while bleeding. Going to school and going to work and giving presentations and running fucking marathons. Doing things that men do. All while cramping and clotting, tired and teary.
When I think about it, it makes me feel proud and a little superior. It makes me feel like an amazon warrior, like Robin Wright in Wonder Woman. Our bodies are incredible.
I use Clue to obsessively track my period. Last month, I took my cycle chart from the past year and put it against the lunar calendar from that same time period. I couldn't believe it: every month, I bled on the full moon and ovulated on the new moon. The moon’s 29.5 day cycle and my body’s natural 29 day cycle, in sync. Every time there was a full moon way up there in the sky, I was down here, on earth, bleeding from my vagina. Sounds witchy, I know. I use a lot of essential oils and even I did a double take. But it’s real. And it’s beautiful. And it’s my new favorite proof point of my intrinsic female power.
Phases.
This is how women work. This is how we’re designed. Our days and months are not linear. They’re cyclical. Up and down and up and down.
It’s nature. It’s science. It’s hormones. It is NOT crazy. It is NOT dramatic. It is NOT weakness.
“So, what would happen if suddenly, magically, men could menstruate and women could not? Clearly menstruation would become an enviable, worthy, masculine event: Men would brag about how long and how much. Sanitary supplies would be federally funded and free. Generals, right-wing politicians, and religious fundamentalists would cite menstruation ("men-struation") as proof that only men could serve God and country in combat ("You have to give blood to take blood"), occupy high political office ("Can women be properly fierce without a monthly cycle governed by the planet Mars?"), be priests, ministers, God Himself ("He gave this blood for our sins"), or rabbis ("Without a monthly purge of impurities, women are unclean"). —Gloria Steinem, If Men Could Menstruate
Three years ago I quit my corporate job and started working for myself. Without need to conform to someone else’s 9-5 schedule, I really tuned into how my cycle affects how I feel and the work I do. Every month, like clockwork, my period ends and I enter a wild stretch of productivity and creativity. Days where I accomplish three times as much as normal. During the week I ovulate, I am superhuman. Quick and energetic. I bounce out of bed early, I need less sleep. I try to schedule as much as possible during that week because I know I’ll get it done with joy and ease. I’ll collaborate better. I’ll work more efficiently. (Also, I’ll look my absolute fertile best and people will respond better to me without even knowing why).
Around day 23, a slowing sets in. The autumn of my month. A quieting. My body and brain move at a more medium pace. The opposite of stagnation: preparation.
On days 25-28, I’m tired, increasingly irritable, overheated. My breasts swell, my abdomen slowly puffs, I cry without warning. And then, on day 29 or 30, I bleed.
My period almost always starts overnight. I wake up to it (or wake up because of it). And on that first day, I’m dead. Exhausted. My cramps are level ten. My eyes well up with tears because of the pain. I have serious diarrhea (thanks, uterus contractions). My legs ache.
I used to pretend that I was ALL GOOD, GUYS. “Running just a little late. I’ll be there soon!” I’d type in a 9:00am email to a colleague. I’d press send from the comfort of my bloody sheets.
Then I’d pop four Advil and will myself to move into the shower where my blood would run down my legs and down the drain. I’d grab three super tampons, put one inside myself and the other two in my bag and head to a meeting. Cloudy-headed, hot, sweaty (because the diarrhea's no joke). Pretending I was not a woman. Pretending I was the same as them. Pretending I did not bleed.
“The Lie,” Salt
All month long, my body tells me things.
On day 14, phenomenally glowy skin and a quiet ache on my left or right side: “We’re sending down an egg! If you don’t want to use it: be careful, Liz.”
On day 29: “Hey, we’re doing important things right now. We’re shedding what was built up over the past month. Getting rid of what’s not necessary so you can start over again. It’s going to take some work. Be easy on yourself.”
I’m officially done pretending, done faking. Now, I listen and respond. Which is why I’ve decided not to work on the day my period starts.
Not because I can’t (eighteen years — 216 times! — of bleeding and pushing through it has proved that I can, just fine, thank you very much). But because I don’t want to anymore.
Because while there is no doubt in my mind that we are ALL equal — I recognize that we are also different. Men and women, we’re biologically different.
My body does different things. Incredible, rhythmic things. Things that I want to honor.
Today, I stayed in bed — curled into a cramp-alleviating ball — until noon. I drank raspberry leaf tea and took gentle Turmeric instead of stomach-upsetting Advil. I dabbed healing clay on the three zits that popped up on my chin and cheek, same as they do every month. I wore sweatpants so that I could also wear a super thick organic cotton pad with wings, because it feels good to let myself bleed freely instead of absorbing it all before it ever has the chance to really leave. I wear tampons mostly (Diva Cup, I know, I know. But I’m just not there yet.), but I like pads right at the start because I like getting a good look at the blood. It’s fascinating. It deserves some respect.
Eventually I took a long hot shower. I went for a walk by the lake and let my hair dry naturally in the sun. I read. I wrote. I considered the month that passed and the month ahead.
And I didn’t feel shame, I didn’t feel weak, I didn’t feel unproductive (how could I possibly?! I’m bleeding! My body is producing real, tangible stuff! It’s doing WORK!).
I felt sexy and alive and feminine and powerful and new.
Today was not a sick day. It was a very very well day. So well that just as this bright June moon started to shift into full, my capable body knew it was time to shift, too. The moon and me, light and dark.
And I realize: I have a luxury that many working women do not have. The luxury to stay home and not have to explain a thing. The truth is, the business world is one that was designed by men for men. Other countries are recognizing the need to change their ways to accommodate the 50% of human bodies that bleed. Italy is set to become the first country with paid menstrual leave. When will the US catch up? Can you even imagine? Can you imagine how something like that would be used against us? As a further sign of inferiority instead of a small sign of bodily respect for the gender that carries future life?