Let’s talk about it. Period.

It’s the dull thrum in the base of your stomach that warns you of the days ahead.

It’s the slow workings of the brain that feels like you’re wading through treacle.

It’s the primal urgency to get inside and hide.

And then the pain might come in the form of sharp stabs.

A serrated knife being plunged into the lower abdomen.

Or perhaps that knife will gut you from the sides as your organs shed their unused lining.

Then comes the blood.

Old blood at first, appearing brown and congealed, staining your underwear and bringing with it so many emotions: relief, shame, exhaustion, sadness, anticipatory anxiety.

And so, the monthly ritual begins.

The hiding ourselves away.

The painkillers slipped into handbags.

The tampons up our sleeves.

The sharp pain hidden behind a mask of facade so that we don’t make others feel discomfort.

The blood flows heavier,

brighter,

obscenely red.

The days are peppered with moments of panic.

Standing up from a seat on the bus, from our desks.

Wincing alone in toilet cubicles from the amount of blood we are losing.

Hushed conversations as we explain to an understanding female friend of why we are so tired, why we’re clutching a mug of tea to our bellies, why we look so pale.

A double life for a few days – whilst we swallow our pain and hide our truths.

The shameful connotation ringing in our ears.

The feeling of disgust, perhaps even revulsion, for what our bodies put us through each month.

No one must know how we’re truly suffering.

We can’t look weak.

We can’t be deemed as incompetent.