Pretty, Pink Bow on the Hemorrhage of Female Suffering

Womanhood is grotesque. It is full of pain and secretion and blood and tenderness. We hide it pretty well. We don’t talk about the blood clot the size of a sand dollar that falls into the tub when we sneeze in the shower. We don’t talk about the bleach spots and blood stains in every pair of underwear we own. We don’t talk about the fear that we are going to die from toxic shock syndrome because we forgot to change our tampon before bed. Why would we? It’s gross. No one wants to hear about that. Just how no one wants to hear about how much pain we are in. That we collapse from menstrual cramps. That we experience nausea and fatigue or soreness in our breasts and vulva or cramps in our asshole or migraines caused by birth control. Take some Tylenol.
When we think we have endometriosis, our doctor prescribes a new birth control and assures us our pain is normal. He’s the expert. We don't talk about it because we are told not to. We are given a pretty, pink bandaid to stick on the hemorrhage of female suffering. Consolation comes only from solidarity and the comfort that we don’t suffer alone, consolation tinged with dread. We endure ubiquitous suffering in ubiquitous silence.