Female Blessings

Trigger warning – if you are a man, you might want to scroll on by this post, especially if discussing the female anatomy makes you uncomfortable. Because, my friends, we’re going to talk about some things that aren’t talked about nearly enough. Things that are hushed away, glossed over and generally shoved into a “you shouldn’t talk about this” bucket. Well, buckle up, buttercups, because we’re going to tip that bucket on its head. For those of you still reading, we’re going to talk about the difficulty of being a woman, and all the lousy physiological stuff that goes along with it.
 
Girls and boys start out on fairly equal footing. But for females, everything goes to hell in a handbasket when you’re about twelve-years-old.  Society spins that change as something wonderful. Freaking liars. I can remember having the “talk” in school. I’m pretty sure when my 5th grade female classmates and I were all herded into the locker-room of our school gymnasium to learn about the “thing that must not be talked about in public”, we were sold on the beautiful change that was soon to occur in our lives. I think there was a filmstrip or movie with butterflies and flowers blossoming. I believe the booklet we were given was called “Growing Up and Liking It”, or something along those lines (former classmates who may have sat alongside me on those hard wooden benches where the air smelled like sweat and dirty socks, please correct me if my memory fails me on the title). Along with the booklet we were gifted with a little goody bag of supplies we would need when we reached the glorious point of womanhood. Glorious my ass. 

The average age of menstruation is twelve years old. For crying out, you’re still practically a baby and you must deal with that shit. You don’t even get a choice! Your hormones are all out of whack, you laugh, then you cry, sometimes at the same time, and you have no idea why you’re doing either. Your shirts start fitting differently and your mother introduces you to the torture device known as a bra. It might seem a little exciting at first, until you realize you’re expected to wear that chest tourniquet every single day for the rest of your life. Every. Single. Day. Then, while waiting for the anticipated red flood, your abdomen begins cramping like a pair of jaguars are trapped in your innards. How is this fair? And you don’t usually realize in those early days that you’re going to have to deal with that nonsense for the next four decades or so. When that realization hits, you hate your genes, your parents, yourself and anyone else who dares cross your path. 

All this monthly torture exists to set the stage for bearing children. Our female bodies made to procreate. Without us, humans will cease to exist. No pressure on us or anything. And once one of those little swimmers reaches your homeland, you get to wait for your tiny bundle of joy. You anticipate how great it will be to go nine whole months without your monthly visitor. That is, until you swell up like a water buffalo, constantly have to pee (God forbid you laugh or sneeze), can no longer tie your shoes or find a position that is comfortable. None of your clothes fit, you think your ankles are swelling but you can’t be sure because you can no longer see them, and you get kicked, punched and pummeled by the beast....er precious baby inside. Then after what feels like a two-year pregnancy it’s finally time to deliver. The grand finale in which you try to push a watermelon through the eye of a needle. The contractions you experience to push that little angel out leave you begging for a bullet to end your misery while your nether regions are saying, “ain’t no way that oversize beach ball is gonna fit down this narrow hallway”.

But alas, not to worry. Because before you know it, the littles you birthed will be all grown and you’ll be dealing with perimenopause. That idyllic time in your late 30s/early 40s where your body starts preparing for the “big” change. This one isn’t a quick change as this phase can last two to eight years, with the average duration of four years. Four long years of being blessed with hot flashes, weight gain, anxiety, insomnia, headaches, difficulty concentrating, mood swings, memory issues, and so on. The gift of being a woman, the gift that keeps on giving. And this is one of the phases that no one talks about. It’s like the best kept secret. Even most medical professionals don’t discuss it unless you demand answers for why your body is betraying you in this way, and it usually takes several office visits and phone calls to get answers. All the recognition about this time of your life is sitting in that damn “things we don’t talk about” bucket. That really needs to change. We need to have good healthy discussions about it, and we need our doctors to find ways to help us through it. 

Because on the heels of perimenopause, comes menopause and post-menopause. The latter hanging with you till you die. What a cruel joke. Things don’t improve when perimenopause turns into menopause other than your periods start becoming less frequent. Nor do they change when you move into post-menopause. You still have all the horrible symptoms from perimenopause with the added joys of urinary incontinence, bone loss and libido issues. You feel like an old dried-up cow just waiting to die. (Okay, that may be a tad dramatic). But we should be talking about this, supporting each other, demanding help from the medical field, tipping those damn buckets over. We need physical and mental support to navigate this betrayal of our bodies. 

​So, my dear friends, if you need a shoulder to lean on, or an ear to bend, or a heating pad delivered, don’t hesitate to reach out. And I encourage you all to talk about the “things we’re not supposed to talk about” and demand the support you deserve. If you’re a man and you’re still reading this, please love on the females in your life. Support them, demand answers from the medical field for them, and lastly...thank your lucky stars you were born without a uterus.