There comes a period every month where I encounter existential dread on a level that outweighs the trauma I incur when the Starbucks in the library furnishes me with a beverage containing chunky almond milk.  It’s my “time of the month” or as my mom attempts to pressure me into phrasing, “my women sickness,” (it flows better in farsi, I promise.) But if we’re being real here, it’s the week I’m involuntarily inflicted with the equivalency of being stabbed in the vagina five-thousand times and hormonal imbalances that amplify my already severe emo-ness.  There’s no room to sugarcoat this shit when I’m being compelled through my hormones to cry off notable amounts of my Diorshow mascara every hour.  I now have gone through an entire month’s worth of mascara in a week, have two dollars to my name, and am experiencing the emotion “ugly” for the first time since puberty.

Periods are a disaster in themselves and finding a reason to cry or complain even in the most comfortable position imaginable is not difficult in the slightest.  It’s not fair that women are forced to continue to participate in life while being tortured to these distressing extents.  It’s not fair that even after attempting to overdose on extra-strength tylenol, I’m still being stabbed.  It’s also not fair that I’m expected to withhold from openly speaking about my pain in order to avoid discomforting men.  Why is it a societal norm for women to steer clear of vocalizing the abysmal but natural experience menstrual cycles acquaint them with to ensure other people’s comfort?  What if complaining is what comforts ME?  Am I not the one in pain?

In an attempt to expose the “period shamers” in attendance at Stony Brook University, I questioned multiple men on their views towards women vocalizing their period dilemmas.

Odean Jilzene, a 19 year old football player said, “if I’m not your man, I shouldn’t know that.  That’s a female thing.  It’s not about your comfortability, it’s about mine.”

Well Odean, the next time you get kicked in the balls (hopefully by me) and you’re on the floor screaming in agony cupping your junk, I’ll be there to remind you that since your balls are a “male thing,” you should shut the fuck up and deal with it quietly to avoid discomforting me. After all, I shouldn’t know this. I’m not your man. It’s about my comfortability, not yours.



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