The first time I got my period was the first time I truly understood where my vagina was located.
I was twelve. It happened over summer break before I went into Grade 8. Timing was a huge relief. I had dreaded being struck at school, clueless, with my first period. I didn’t want to end up like Mary, the girl from Mrs. Turner’s class, who tried ignoring her period until it went away, wearing blood-soaked jeans to school for a week. Every. Month. Those unfortunate stories stick with you for years.
Ah yes, I remember it well. One morning I awoke with a rusty stain in my panties. “She who sleeps with itchy bum…,” I thought, and went upon my day thinking nothing of my soiled undergarments. (The logic of a pre-menstrual 12 year old). Later that day, I visited the washroom and saw that the rusty stain had become a red splotch. In that moment, I knew what it was, despite the fact that not once had mom warned me about my monthly. I timidly approached her, close to tears and confessed that I’d started my period.
The only knowledge I’d accumulated before entering the realm of womanhood were from snippets of conversation I’d eavesdropped from the few of my friends who had started their period. The only inkling I had about my menses was that I didn’t have it. This was both a relief and a source of envy. I felt excluded from this rite of passage, but relieved at the same time. The day would soon come and I was terrified.
By terrified, I mean confused.
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:P