Sunday, November 22, 2015

photo: pinterest
Three months ago, before blooming to the woman I was dreadful of, I became a Crime Scene Investigator. I did not know that my first crime scene would be to investigate my own death. It felt like a rite of passage.
There was blood on the bedsheets, on the floor trailing the path I had taken to the bathroom, and on the toilet seat. I surveyed the scene evaluating, making mental notes of the biological evidence present. But it got messier the more I walked around. That’s how I knew that the red pockmarks staining the floor were coming from me.
I hugged myself and pain shot through me from my boobs. Were they the ones bleeding? I undressed and checked. They were OK. Arms? Check. Neck? Check. Back? Check. Waist? Check. Legs?—it happened before I could check. Blood gushed forth out of me, seeped through the pantie, and dripped on the floor like the tear of an orphan.
I stood there vividly picturing myself stomping into an emergency room and screaming at the nurses to prioritize my crisis before I bled to death, or being wheeled into the emergency room and a doctor examining what was wrong with my vagina. But before I made a fool of myself, I realized what was happening.
In my delusion that the day was never coming I had argued that pads would feel like diapers, but at that moment I did not care. Actually it felt exhilarating going back to being a baby, and wearing diapers. If my mother was a constant in my life she would show me how to insert tampons, but I did not want to risk putting it in the wrong hole.

Well, I survived my first crime scene, but I never overcame the shock of discovering it would happen every month. I can’t wait for menopause to relieve me. 


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