I remember when I got my period for the first time.
I didn’t understand what was going on.
I thought I had hurt myself when I saw the blood.
The only thing my mother said when I told her was,
“Here, take this and put it in your underwear. This will happen every month. Don’t wear white or any light colors so that nothing shows. And don’t let your father or brother see anything!”
I was disgusted at the blood coming out of me.
I saw it the way they did: dirty blood.
Blood that forbade me from praying.
Blood that meant a woman couldn’t sleep with a man—or so say they say.
Blood that I tried to hide.
Hide the fact that I was on my period.
Hide the pads.
Hide the stains on my clothes.
Hide the stained bedsheets.
Hide myself when I’m bloated on the first day.
Then, I decided to stop hiding its existence.
I shamelessly bought pads and refused to accept them in a black bag.
I left pads lying around in the bathroom, because they were nothing to be ashamed of.
Everyone knows that women get periods. It’s not like it’s a secret.
When I reached my thirties, I stopped caring about hiding or showing it.
Things were just what they were.
One time I accidentally touched some period blood while changing my pad, and I realized I didn’t feel disgusted.
I didn’t run to wash my hands.
This blood isn’t disgusting.
It’s my own blood.