I got my period when I was in 9th grade.
I felt that something strange and confusing was happening to my body;
Something I couldn’t control.

I was sitting in the living room that had a bifold door,
So it was never fully closed.
I tried to gesture to my mother to come help me,
But she was busy.
I was nervous,
And when she came over I told her,
“Something is happening,
And I don’t know what it is.”
The look on her face was that of utter disgust.
She motioned with her finger,
And told me not to move.
Then she got me a pad,
And closed the door.

I had a difficult time figuring out how to use the pad,
Which is the easiest thing any mother or even neighbor could teach a girl.
Instead of looking at it in disgust,
And closing the door.

I asked myself why she didn’t bother to take me to the bathroom,
And why she wouldn't stop cleaning,
Or give me 5 minutes of her time.
Why didn’t she take 5 minutes to herself to get rid of that disgusted expression on her face,
Then come give me the pad?

Many years later,
Many questions later,
Many incident later,
And after many years of trying to shake the idea that I’m a disgusting creature,
And that any signs of womanhood should be hidden,
I discovered the answer:
My mother doesn’t allow herself to live.
My mother has never lived,
And I’m sorry to say that she never will.

That’s something I realized when I lived with my father,
And was next to him on his deathbed.
The only moment where I could see life in his eyes,
Was when he looked at me before passing away in the ICU.
I wish my mother would accept me,
And let me live,
So I could cherish my time with her before she dies.
I hope I don’t end up like them.