woman sitting on brown wooden box

Photo by Matheus Viana on Pexels.com

Warning: Not my usual kind of writing. Read at your own risk.

I woke this afternoon from my nap feeling gross. My body is going through a period of change. In the erratic swinging of hormones, I find myself raging relentlessly. Sometimes I rage physically, my voice reaching octaves higher than normal. Some days, I sit in the corner of my bathroom raising the middle finger to the world. I am angry all the time. Most days though, I am exhausted, physically and mentally trying to figure this change that seems like no one has a handle on.

I talk to my Amma. I talk to other friends who have either gone through perimenopause or menopause. They sound wise and practical. The only thing in common they all have is that it is unpredictable, uncomfortable and unpleasant. The other thing is that it lasts years.

I think about all the changes a girl’s body goes through beginning with puberty. I don’t remember anyone telling anything other than there will be blood. No one told me about the pain that preceded it or the exhaustion that had me sleepy and weepy all day. I dealt with the pain because I was told it is how it was. I assumed everybody shared my experience because it was one of those things we do not talk about.

In the run-up to marriage and by extension sex, all I was equipped with was whatever I had gleaned from books. There was no sex education at school or at home. There were plenty of lewd jokes, raucous laughter and plenty of innuendos. Nobody talked about pleasure or pain. It was not until years later that chance, sporadic conversation with my women friends detailed the breadth of experiences. Not one person who shared talked about pleasure, they had a lot to say about what was painful, what was uncomfortable and what was unwanted. We never hear about this because it is something we do not talk about.

The babymaking process strips away fear and shame. It makes you comfortable with your legs in stirrups, strange men and women inserting ice-cold metal speculum inside you. You deal with it. You figure everyone you know went through it. You figure this is how it is done. You also figure once the baby is out of you, all of this is in the past.

No one talks about episiotomy or cerclages. There is not a whisper about preeclampsia or gestational diabetes. No one talks about how after a C-Section you lose sensation in the lower half of your abdomen. There is not a word of all the things that could go wrong. No one tells you about hemorrhoids or the incontinence that follows first-time motherhood. There is nary a word about mastitis or the excruciating pain that goes with it. The postpartum mood swings, the deep funk you cannot name, the fear, the irrational, paranoid fear for the child you just birthed. The absence of the all-consuming love you were promised. There is so much we don’t know when we make that joyous pregnancy announcement. We don’t talk about these things. We don’t.

Just when you think the hardest part is over, your body betrays you again. Your cycles are erratic. You carry pads and tampons with you at all times. You figure at least menopause means the end of the blood and gore, but no sirree, not in a hurry. You have years of palpitations, hot flashes, spectacular raging, irregular periods, heavy bleeding, light bleeding, unexplained discharges and the specter of cancer that will linger for years before the actual relief from the menstrual cycle only to be greeted with thinning and brittle bones, increased risk for cardiovascular events as they call it. We don’t talk about it.

We don’t talk about anything that matters.

Mom to three. Open adoption advocate. Writer.

14 Comment on “Things We Don’t Talk About

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.

%d bloggers like this: