I remember vividly the second time I got my period. I was 12, and on a school trip to France. We were staying in a pension, in dorms that slept six, and when I woke up on that first morning I was mortified to find that I was drenched, and the bed was sodden, and that there was no way a euphemism was going to cover up what had happened to me.
I peeled myself out of the sheets, waiting in dread for the other five girls in the dorm to eviscerate me. I didn't know if any of them had their periods yet - it wasn't something we talked about. I just assumed I was the only one, and that what I had done was shameful and stupid. Mostly I remember thinking that if I died there and then on the spot, it would be a merciful release.
It has taken me days to figure out how to start this post. I thought about: 'My name is Katy, and I have periods'. What could be more apt than allying myself with anonymous self-help groups? It still seems to be the case that although the world and his wife is happy to talk about vajacials and Brazilian waxing on the 259 to Tooting Bec, we are mortified when it comes to talking about something 50% of the population deal with every single month.
I worried that being so direct might offend people, which is, of course, the problem. I wanted to ignore that nagging voice that was telling me I couldn't jump in so brutally ('talking about your INSIDES! In public!') but it was hard. Then I thought that sharing that story – the hot-faced, head-throbbing panic of realising, when you're still a child, really, that you're not always in control of your body – could be quite powerful. I'm sure you've all got your own versions, too.
Because periods are humiliating, right? That's certainly what we've been lead to believe, since childhood. That's why they're always represented by a thimble-full of thin, blue liquid on telly, and why we have all those euphemisms… but which to pick? 'On the rag', or 'on the blob'? (too gross). 'Having the painters in?' (far too pedestrian). 'The curse'? (too witchy, although to be fair, it does feel like you've been cursed some months). My Italian aunt used to say that 'her little friend' had come for a visit. I pondered using that by way of introduction, but it sounds a bit sinister...
It is such a thorny issue, fraught with purse-lipped stoicism, that it's no wonder the majority of us just opt for silence, scurrying away to the loo with tampons up our sleeves, and surreptitiously checking the backs of our skirts in passing shop windows.
Heather Watson's admission that her period meant that she hadn't played at her best in the Australian Open, and how many people of both sexes objected to what she said, reminded us women to remain silent – that there's still a genuine feeling that periods are too disgusting or graphic or private to talk about openly. We're forced instead to emulate Miranda's mother and her 'what I call 'periods'', and speak in hushed tones with troubling hand gestures as an accompaniment.
The consequence is that we suffer in silence. We've put up with paying tax on our sanitary products since the seventies (17.5% until 2001, when it was cut to 5% - and the tide is turning on this now, too, as this petition shows), we've cancelled smear tests because we 'don't want to embarrass the doctor', and we've pretended that crippling stomach cramps are food poisoning at work.
I struggled to draw a veil of secrecy over my menstrual health. I bleed copiously some months, to the point where I look like I might be single-handedly re-enacting Carrie. Other months I faint inconveniently. I have also been known to throw up, or just generally go around looking like death. I had to abandon the pretence that I was just having an off day, and so has everyone else who encounters me during those times. And it's refreshing, not having to struggle to find new ways of explaining something which is actually very simple and universally understood when it's been talked about openly, rather than alluded to in mysterious terms.
That morning in France, the other girls in my dorm were, thankfully, brilliant, as were the teachers, and the lady who owned the pension. And it dawned on me that all these girls and women had probably either been in my position at one time or another, or were going to be, and that it was okay, actually, because we were all in it together.
I want children – both boys and girls - to learn this before they have their own French dorm room incident, so that they never have to feel stupid, or ashamed, or embarrassed or apologetic about something that's completely normal.