Don’t attempt to slice bread when hungry, is what I learned today.
I’ve sliced a few layers of skin from the middle of my left index finger. Part of me (the part that sliced dead pig for a living) was impressed by the sharpness of the knife. The rest of me was just pissed off. And, in the case of my finger, bleeding unreasonably quickly.
Also, cheap plasters are not worth buying. The cut wasn’t big, but it goes across the finger rather than through it – less serious, but impossible to close – and when the cheap plaster fell off as I washed my hands, it ripped off whatever I’d managed to grow back under there. The result: more blood, more pain, more anger.
I have therefore had to bandage my finger. This is infuriating, because it is seriously interfering with my ability to touch type, and my ability to crochet. Not pleasing, as I’ve been trying to write a crochet pattern this evening.
Ah, first world problems….
I am a grumpy bastard. Why?
- I’m bleeding.
- I’m trying to use more emotional energy than I actually have, resulting in tears before bedtime.
- My eating patterns are all out of sync, so I feel crap.
- Have you tried revising while hungry, grumpy and tearful? Not good.
- FOR THE LOVE OF CEILING CAT, J, I TRIED TO CARE ABOUT YOUR COMPUTER DYING, BUT YOU KNOW WHAT? WE HAVE BOOKS! READ A BOOK! (You also have models to make, and photographs to sort.)
- FLATMATE! CLEANING THE BATHROOM IS NOT SOMETHING FOR WHICH YOU SHOULD RECEIVE A COOKIE! (Also, I would have noticed it was clean all by myself. Because the dust was gone.)
Something that is true of me: I bite my nails. My, aren’t we learning a lot about Rachel these days? If I carry on like this I’ll end up with the equivalent of one of those stupid chain emails (“what are you REALLY like?! write back and tell all your friends!!!) on the blog.
Well, never mind. Some things are worth sharing.
So. My advice is this: if you are somebody who has periods, and who bites their nails, and who isn’t colourblind, you know what’s a really good – if a little traumatizing – way to stop?
Paint your nails blood-red whilst you’re on your period.
Seriously. No matter how small and stumpy your bitten nails are. Do that, and I can pretty much guarantee that the first (and second, and… and eleventybillionth) time you raise your newly colourful hands to your mouth, you’ll catch sight of the red, and your immediate response will be “aaaaargh!!!”
Not only will the terror make you want to have nothing to do with your hands ever again, nail polish is not a good taste. And tiny chips of nail polish are hard to get off your teeth. True story. (Of course, when I was a child, my mum once painted my nails with that nail varnish that deliberately tastes foul, and all that happened was that I brushed my tongue with my toothbrush after biting my nails. So the taste thing won’t work for everybody. Or on its own. Now, if that foul-tasting varnish had been coloured brown, maybe…)
I’ve now repainted my nails purple, which – as you might be able to tell from the font colour – is more of a “me” shade. But I’m still going “aaaargh!”. Mainly because my hands, newly feminine, don’t look like mine anymore. Although they are quite cool, and occasionally I find myself holding my hands up so that I can admire them. Who knows – perhaps this will be the year I finally learn how to use nail clippers.
My blood donor records now have a special note on them, asking whichever nurse I see to make sure I lie down for 5 minutes after I’ve finished donating, lest I do what I did the first time and collapse twice.
I was very well behaved this time round, and didn’t feel faint once. That came later, when I was in a bookshop, having convinced myself that I was fine this time. I think perhaps I destroyed my feminine credentials by immediately dropping everything I was holding and sitting down on the floor. In the fantasy section. Which wasn’t decorated in pink.
So, this morning I have been following links. And this continued until I reached a post entitled: “blaah owwww aughh fuck meee uurgh an overshare“. How could anybody not want to know what the hell that’s about?!
And I read it, and it is about periods. Specifically, really nasty periods. The kind of periods described are the ones that make me rather unhelpfully think “thank fuck that’s not me!”. The whole post is definitely worth a read, including the comments, which are hillarious. And true:
“The most popular narratives are about how periods are really no big deal (and have become even less of one since the writer started using menstrual cups/got in touch with her inner moon goddess/stopped eating hormone-laden meat)” – Colleen
So this is me, jumping on the bandwagon:
I don’t give a flying fuck about my inner moon goddess. And, given that I take the pill and am therefore not at all following my “moon cycle”, I don’t think she really cares about me, either. I also don’t give a flying fuck about using disposable pads and tampons. You know, I’m pretty big on recycling – to the intense irritation of my housemates, I might add. So yes, I’ll wash out my milk cartons and recycle my cardboard boxes and tins and so on and so forth… but I absolutely will not feel bad about not using cloth pads.
Why? Well, because tampons and disposable pads are just that – disposable. I can get rid of them quickly and easily. Also, I don’t think it’s a problem to flush a wad of blood-soaked cotton down the toilet. I have not blocked a toilet yet, and I reckon any toilet that can cope with excrement can cope with tampons. Pads of course go in the bin, because they are clearly not biodegradeable.
If I were to use cloth pads, I’d have two choices: either I’d have to wash them out, by hand, every day, or I’d have to leave them for up to two weeks until I did my regular wash in the laundrette. And you know, regardless of how clean menstrual fluid is when it leaves my body (and it is, in fact, pretty clean), after two weeks, that would smell. And I do not want my room to smell of old blood. Also, when I am on my period, the last thing I want to do is unnecessary washing. I don’t even want to do the washing up, for goodness sake! I’m lucky enough to have pretty light periods now that I’m on the pill, which means I no longer have that horrible pooling sensation when I wake up on the first day of my period. I’m going to go out on a limb and assume that most people reading this will know what I mean, but for those that don’t – it’s that feeling when you wake up that you’ve already bled over your pyjamas/ duvet/ sheet, that your thighs are covered in blood, and that, furthermore, the moment you stand up, it will gush. Because the only thing that’s stopped you bleeding more is gravity. And when you stand up, gravity will not be working in your favour.
Anyway, the point is, I don’t get that anymore. I don’t have to shuffle to the bathroom with my legs together and my bloodstained pyjamas sticking to me, hoping that I won’t encounter my father en route, I don’t have to wash my sheets three times in my period week, and I don’t have to try to rinse the blood out of said bloodstained pyjamas when I’m half-asleep and hurting. I don’t want to have to revisit those days, not even a little bit. So no, I don’t want to have to wash out cloth pads.
It occurs to me now that if ever I had a problem with feminism, this would be it: that we police each others’ moral standards. Well, I mean, apart from the rather unsavoury history of bigotry that has plagued feminism and causes some women to identify as womanists/ humanists instead. But seriously, what are we thinking?
What have we achieved if we get society to back the fuck off from the idea that all periods are icky, but at the cost of pretending that none of them are? What have we achieved if we get society to acknowledge that a woman’s choices are none of their damned business, only to create our own hierarchy of who is the “most feminist” based on what kind of period controls one uses?
Isn’t the point of feminism to understand that women are human, and complex, and different, and that one woman’s choice will not work for another, and that one woman’s inner moon goddess is another woman’s fairy tale? Don’t we know yet that we’re not, and shouldn’t aim to be, a hive mind?
And, while I’m on a roll, what’s up with treating women like they all have periods? What about the women that don’t? What kind of a message are they getting? Do they get to embrace their inner moon goddess too, or is that a privilege reserved for the women that bleed? Aren’t we just creating another hierarchy, one which places women who bleed above women who don’t? And why? Is it coincidence that these discussions are prioritising women who show signs of being able to concieve? This, to me, is a pretty fucking uncomfortable thing to think.
I’m not saying that we shouldn’t be talking about periods. I’m also not saying that we shouldn’t be challenging the notion that periods are icky because they’re a woman thing. I am saying that we need to think about who our period discussions are including, and who they’re leaving behind, whether that’s women who have periods that don’t conform to the comforting “oh, periods aren’t that bad really” narrative, or whether that’s women who don’t have them at all.
Something I’ve learned is that we can all be blinkered, and insular, and yes, privileged, no matter what privileges we don’t have, no matter how much we’ve learned. And if we want to gain allies, and if we want to avoid alienating people, we need to be asking ourselves uncomfortable questions. And then we need to be doing something about it.