I’m Perimenopausal, and I Feel Sad. So, I Did a Little Ritual.
What if women decided to speak up about their natural bodily functions?
At the supermarket, I saw the array of sanitary napkins in colorful plastic wraps — which I no longer need. A wave of deep sadness engulfed me and took me by surprise.
In the past, I looked at those products with contempt. I couldn’t wait for the monthly bleeding fest to be over. Now, at 50, my periods were finally waning. I have perimenopause, which is the lead-up to menopause when a woman is no longer fertile.
I thought the transition would be a welcome solace, yet I find myself taking a trip down memory lane as if I’m trying to relive it, as though I’m grieving the loss of a friend. It’s a crass reminder of my fading beauty and inevitable mortality.
And I feel alone, even though I know many women before me have gone through this. Yet, I feel like I should be quiet about it, reminding me of my period.
For 40 years, I lived as if my period was something to hide and be ashamed of. As I transition to another phase of my cycle — perimenopause — I’m realizing I can’t keep quiet about this, too.
The end of your period is a big transition.
And so I did a little ritual.
Taboo
I grew up in the 80s, learning that period talk was a no-no.
When I was 12, I cried out from the toilet. “Mooom! There’s blood on my underwear!”
Mom showed me how to put the sanitary pad — the kind I saw in the commercial. Then we went outside for a stroll.
“All girls get it,” Mom said, pointing to a random woman on the street. “See, she may have it, but no one can tell.”
Mom never told me why I had to bleed, though. At my Catholic school run by nuns, they skirted around the talk of sexual reproduction. I knew something resembling tadpoles swam towards the egg, and when it didn’t fertilize, we bled. When it was successful, a baby was made.
Still, I had no idea where those tadpoles came from. My girlfriends said they heard it came from boys. But how did that happen, and when? I had no idea. Oddly, in biology class, we were shown a video of a baby’s head coming out of stretched vagina like some freak show — perhaps that was our anti-sex education?
One time, I had bad period cramps and wasn’t up for basketball practice. I told the coach I wasn’t feeling well. She said, “You’re in school, aren’t you? C’mon, you can do a few laps.”
“I…I’m…uh…” I couldn’t bring myself to tell her the simple truth that I was menstruating. I ended up doing laps and collapsed on the court. The school nurse gave me an earful. “You shouldn’t be exercising when you have your period!”
Looking back, I don’t know why I felt like I had to keep something so natural a secret. Having a period is an indication of a healthy woman. It’s why at the doctor’s office, you’re asked when you had your last period. It’s what makes a new life. It’s something to cherish and honor.
But I had it better than my Nepali cousins.
I grew up in Japan, and my mom never banished me into a ‘period room’ during my period.
My menstruating cousins were considered to bring their family bad luck or ill health. They couldn’t touch anything or anyone and weren’t permitted to enter a kitchen or prepare food for others.
This practice, called Chauppadi, was only banished 18 years ago in 2005.
Crazy, right? It’s still a thing in some rural villages in Nepal, and it’s not an isolated case. All over the world, period is still stigmatized.
Social media has made period talk less taboo, no doubt (although Instagram has banned period photos), but what connects girls worldwide is that menstrual blood is managed in secret. It’s an illness to hide.
This extends to perimenopause, then menopause. It’s like a woman’s whole existence is shrouded in secrecy.
Beauty and the Perimenopause
No one ever told me about perimenopause — that it’s the years before menopause when your bleeding becomes lighter and then stops.
I had no idea my horrible symptoms were perimenopausal. I never studied it in school — my all-girls school, mind you. My mom never told me, either.
One day, I had a pounding headache. I had to ask my husband to help me walk because I felt dizzy. For days, I had brain fog and couldn’t remember what I said a few minutes ago. An innocent comment from my husband would set me off in anger or make me cry.
I thought it was early-onset dementia since my dad had succumbed to it. It was only when I started getting hot flashes that I suspected menopause. My doctor confirmed perimenopause, and now I’m on hormone replacement therapy (HRT), which instantly alleviated all my symptoms.
Many women suffer silently because they don’t have enough information or education and keep it to themselves.
I would have waited a month to see my gynecologist if I hadn't read this Medium article by
Kelly Eden | Essayist | Writing Coach
. I had the guts to call him back and insist on an immediate appointment because my symptoms were unbearable.
I went in armed with information that hormone replacement therapy (HRT) is now considered safe to take. I wasn’t leaving that doctor’s office without it.
Unfortunately, a woman has to advocate for her health because women’s pain isn’t believed by doctors. No matter where you’re from, this is a universal fact.
Feminist activist Gloria Steinem published a satirical piece in Ms. Magazine in 1978. She envisioned what it’d be like if men got their periods.
“…Men would brag about how long and how much. Boys would mark the onset of menses, that longed-for proof of manhood, with religious ritual and stag parties. Congress would fund a National Institute of Dysmenorrhea to help stamp out monthly discomforts. Sanitary supplies would be federally funded and free…”
It’s so true, isn’t it? Girls aren’t raised like boys.
Women are told to minimize themselves — be sweet, agreeable, and sorry. And yes, don’t tell anyone you have your period, or you’re menopausal, or make a fuss about it.
Getting older is a crime in our society. Films and TV poke fun at menopausal women going through hot flashes. They laugh at her hysterical antics. She’s made to be the butt of the joke.
Not bleeding anymore is a reminder that we’re getting old. I don’t recognize the woman in the mirror with aging spots, droopy eyelids, and sagging cheeks.
I can’t fit into my size 12 jeans. I’m sick and tired of coloring my roots every three weeks. I wear bifocals and have to raise my head to read the small fonts on the book.
I’m reminded that nothing lasts forever. One day, even Angelina Jolie would succumb to aging, her once high cheeks falling from grace. Even with all the procedures she may opt for, nothing will make her look like she did again.
One day, I’ll be burnt to ashes, the breeze carrying me to lands I’ve never been. It hits me harder because I’m a mother to a soon-to-be 5-year-old boy. Yes, I’m an older mom. I know how lucky I am to be one because the stats say otherwise.
I cheated nature.
While most menopausal women are empty nesters, I’m nesting. I want to be around when my son is 20, 30, and hopefully 40. And my husband is 17 years younger than me. I used to be a hot cougar. Now I wonder if my husband would still find me attractive when I’m 60.
Aging is scary for a woman because, in this society, our worth is measured in facial symmetry — big eyes, pointy nose, and pouty lips. And smooth skin, of course. The circumference of our waist in comparison to our butts. How perky our twins are.
I’m no longer as concerned about such things, but I am a woman. I want to be pretty and stay pretty forever. I don’t want to fade into oblivion. I don’t want to be invisible.
But, in the end, the sparkle in my eyes would be the only reminder of my once youthful days.
Hear me roar
Fourteen years ago, I was saying goodbye to my comatose mom in a hospital bed. The cancer had ravaged her insides, and she was dying.
I crawled next to her and hugged her tight as her chest moved up and down. I whispered into her warm ears. I thanked her for all the love and care. For her unconditional love. For taking care of me.
I gave her permission to go, “It’s okay, mammy. I’ll be fine here.”
That’s how I’ll remember my period, too.
It’s been my most trusted companion. It loved me unconditionally, even when I didn’t. It stayed faithful till the very end, giving me the most precious gift of all, my son. I’m letting it go, thankful to be alive for five decades.
I brought my palms together in prayer to the makeshift temple I made for this little ritual. I wrote a thank you letter to my period:
“I won’t betray you. I’ll speak up boldly about being perimenopausal. I’ll stand tall. I won’t hide. I’ll help other women by writing about it, speaking about it. Thank you for being my most loyal friend.”
My throat tightened, and a puddle formed in my eyes. I put the photos I had selected on top of the new sanitary pads that didn’t quite make the cut.
Each photo symbolized something: my toothless smile, my first school play, dressing up as a twin with my best friend, my high school basketball team, my graduation party, and more.
I’m proud of the woman I’ve become and look forward to the next chapter of my life.
You’re gonna hear me roar.
