Othering My Wildfire

A macrocosm of trauma in my womb, which does tend to overflow.

Dear reader,

T. is back in California. I learned of his return the day that he crossed the border. It had been almost two weeks since I’d last heard from him. After my superwoman phase (ovulating, endless energy, abundant joy and patience) passed by without a word, I started to worry that our reunion would fall around the same time that I usually lose my fucking mind.

I make my life transparent in these letters to you; often with more ease than one would expect, but not always. I write candidly about my mother’s Alzheimers, I reveal aspects of the community where I live, and I wear my heart on my sleeve when it comes to my partnership. Being used to sharing myself, I know the difference between pausing to reflect on something before I write about it and hiding it out of shame, out of fear.

Some things aren’t meant to be shared. Artists need secrets, aspects of their practice meant for no one else. The things I keep to myself are the pillars of my craft. Unseen, these secrets work silently to support the bigger picture. They remind me that the only devotion that matters is that which I hold for myself. 

Yesterday, when I finished drafting this letter, I sent it to my landmate Ryan for editing, as I do with almost all of my letters. “Another one coming your way,” I texted. Worriedly, I rapidly drafted a follow up text. “Disclaimer! This one is about my period!” I wrote, but before I hit send, I realized I had a choice. I could perpetuate my being a period apologist, or I could say nothing at all and start to change the conversation. I didn’t send the follow-up.

Why did I feel the need to apologize for addressing the biology that makes it possible for me to bring life into the world? It’s probably the same reason why throughout the 68 letters I’ve so far written, I’ve never once mentioned having a period.

When I avoid finding the words to name or define something personal, something that’s repeatedly noisy and begging to burst from my interior life, I’m not just failing to incorporate something into my writing. I suffocate my own experience, leaving me breathless.

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T. made it stateside and met me in Santa Monica, where I was cat-sitting for Hannah’s parents. To celebrate his return, we bought two tickets to the Rose Bowl Flea Market, which neither of us had been to before. Sunday is often our day off together and we enjoy using it to rifle through other people’s junk. It made sense to opt in to the LA version, given that the surf was down.

Dear reader, the Rose Bowl Flea, or any place where hundreds of people are sorting through thousands of Hard Rock Cafe t-shirts to find a reasonably priced French chore coat, is not the place to go during your luteal phase.

My love for vintage clothing runs deep. I ache at the sight of a perfectly worn threadbare raglan, or a buttery soft bandana that’s faded from the sun. But my love was no match for the crowds, or the competing speakers blasting music, or the smugness of a 22-year-old vintage dealer who refers to everything as “a really special piece” in order to justify his $400 price tag.

There we were, T. and I, under the sun, picking through a pile of ugly clothes strewn about on the hot asphalt. I made a self-deprecating joke about keeping him up all night talking about my doubts and worries, something I often feel the need to do in the days leading up to my period. I was self-conscious about it already, but when T.’s response insinuated that he agreed there were better ways to spend our time, I felt the hellmouth open up. 

“The Devil” - 2021, graphite on found paper

Who benefits when I pretend like I don’t have a period, or that it doesn’t impact me as severely as it does? It feels dishonest to show myself as an artist, writer, and business owner and not speak directly to the fact that I do it all as somebody who bleeds. Having my period is incredibly disruptive to the flow of my work and the harmony in my relationships. Every. Single. Month. 

I’ve been led to believe that my period isn’t a big deal. I’ve been led to believe that I shouldn’t talk about it, especially not at work. But I don’t want to be part of perpetuating the self harm and internalized misogyny that’s created when women hide themselves, especially from other women.

I've avoided writing about my period because, unfortunately, I haven’t found any examples that I relate to. It seems like nobody writes about their period in an honest way. There’s no canonical map or anything to draw inspiration from.

There are some book titles that don’t seem entirely motivated by the patriarchy, but there’s a plethora of books centered on menstruation that specialize on helping people out of their periods. One popular book makes claims on how to “harness your hormones and get your cycle working for you.” Another book promises to “unlock your hormonal advantage and revolutionize your life.” And there’s a book that chose to put this sentence on its cover: “Life hack your cycle and own your power all month long.” 

I have added and subtracted a myriad of foods, teas, rest periods, and exercises in order to circumvent the emotional shitstorm created by my hormones every month. I have stayed disciplined. I have paid attention to the calendar. I have loaded my body with chickpeas and seeds during certain windows of time. I have sometimes fasted, avoiding food altogether. I have abstained from alcohol. I have eaten more protein and less sugar. I have implemented a proper sleep schedule. I have paid extra for good magnesium. I have avoided HIIT training before a bleed. Despite going to great lengths, I still haven’t been able to “life hack” my period.

Untitled - 2023, graphite and color pencil on found paper

T. and I barely spoke for the rest of the morning while we ambled through stalls of Moroccan rugs and mid-century coffee tables. One comment had derailed the entire day — I was making sure of it. I cried during the car ride home as we eked our way through late afternoon bumper-to-bumper traffic on the freeway. At one point, I felt so overwhelmed that I yelled. I hate it when I yell. Yelling always makes me cry even more. 

Because nobody writes about their period the way I seem to experience mine, I have blamed myself. I have felt crazy. My symptoms are like wildfire. No matter how many times I’ve brought water to the forest, the flames remain uncontained. The thoughts in my head turn from friend to foe in the week before I bleed and I lose sight of the option to let them pass by like a lazy boat on a river. They spin a web, and I get caught in it.

Right before my period, everything feels like rejection. A comment made in passing at the flea market doesn’t fall on my generally rational, forgiving, or even uninterested ears. Instead, it is a call heard by the lost child inside of me who was made to feel worthless by her father and brother. My only recourse is gasoline — a lot of it. 

During other times of my cycle, things don’t really bother me. If they do, I’m able to get a hold of my trigger before it gets a hold of me. But in my luteal phase, my faculties are shot. The ability to stop a runaway train carrying shame, guilt, or fear falls completely outside of my jurisdiction. 

My outlook changes too. My efforts at home or at work feel stupid at best, and generally hopeless. I look around at the studio and instead of feeling pride, I ask myself, What the fuck are you thinking? In my relationship, a common fight or miscommunication becomes grounds for termination. My only real desire is to end everything. 

I’ve been scared enough by my PMS that I’ve tried to “other” it. I claim to be possessed by somebody else during this time, but the truth is, it’s still me. I just haven’t accepted this part of myself, or considered the possibility of  sharing it, until now.

Dear reader, I’m not looking for advice, tips, or remedies that might ease my troubles. I don’t want to be stuck in the How to Fix My Period conversation anymore. I’m writing about my period because it’s part of who I am. Even if I think it’s an ugly part, I’d rather reveal it than be somebody whose success is only based on her supposed “good” side.

photo by Bradley West

Where is the ancient mythology about what having a period does to the psyche? Where is the tale of the shapeshifter whose constitution is changed overnight in a way that is rattling and disconcerting? Where is the untold history of what it means to be able to bring life into this world? Where is the narrative arc of its emotional cost?

The problem is not my menstrual cycle. The problem is that I don’t have any ancestral stories to support me through the worst parts of a natural process. The problem is not the emotions that surface during my cycle. The problem is that we live in a grief-phobic culture that fails to give suffering the spotlight it needs in order to be alleviated.

I don’t want to beat my menstrual cycle into submission. I want to give up the idea that what happens to me during my luteal phase is something I can fix or modify. I want to write a story for future generations where my character is allowed to go to the depths of her suffering every month. I won’t pretend like the suffering isn’t detrimental — it is never easy — but my body says it’s here for a reason. Why am I trying to get rid of it instead of making sure it has a benevolent cave to explode in?

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I don’t need to outsmart my cycle. I don’t need to be a woman who has read enough wellness propaganda to separate herself from her body. I don’t need to be a woman without a cycle. I don’t need to be a man.

I don’t want to optimize my body and revolutionize something that isn’t broken to begin with. I want to have my period and honor what the cost of that looks like by being able to write about it. I want to have my period and be accepted. I want to have my period and feel respected.

There’s a reality in which I can imagine the intense emotions that surface during this time as necessary aspects of my — and possibly the collective’s — humanity. I do such a good job keeping it all inside the other 26 days of the month. We all do. Maybe I should be having regular meltdowns. Maybe we all should. 

Love,

Anna