Diary of a Gen Z Student: No shame in menstruation. Period

Jane Cowan: 'You will never see me hide a tampon up my sleeve as I walk to the bathroom. Or catch me coughing to disguise the sound of a pad ripping open in a public toilet cubicle.'

Sometimes, I think about how certain things in life must be just so simple for men. There are the obvious things like safely walking alone at night, earning more at work, not pondering things like vaginal prolapse during late-night mental spirals.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not saying they don’t have their own obstacles. I certainly don’t envy the prospect of a receding hairline. But when I start throwing up as part of my monthly menstrual ritual, I would be lying if I said I didn’t feel like I pulled some sort of XX chromosome short straw.

And this isn’t some jealousy born from period shame or anything like that, just to clarify. Shame surrounding my shedding uterus is not something I’ve experienced in a long time.

You’ll never catch me using those archaic expressions to describe the goings-on of my reproductive organs. I do not get a ‘visit from Aunt Flo’, or experience ‘lady troubles’, or have ‘monthlies’. 

No, no, no. I’ll tell you that I am on my period, that I am bleeding from my vagina, that I am at war with my fallopian tube, or that I need cookie dough ice cream on a repeat prescription from the pharmacy.

You will never see me hide a tampon up my sleeve as I walk to the bathroom. Or catch me coughing to disguise the sound of a pad ripping open in a public toilet cubicle. If you catch a glimpse of a tampon string when I’m in a bikini, that is absolutely none of my business. 

I’ll ask my friend if she has a spare tampon like it’s a tissue. And I’ll keep everyone in my life up to date on the details of my menstrual cycle.

Of course, I wasn’t always like this. At 14 I’d silently sweat out the cramps and exercise the utmost discretion when taking a tampon into the bathroom. I treated my period like it was a State secret. You’d have had to waterboard that kind of information out of me.

But now that I’m older and crankier, I feel like this isn’t a weight I should be carrying alone. If I’m suffering, we must all suffer.

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I wish I was one of those women on Instagram that talks about their period like a sacred gift they receive each month. The kind of women that bask in the stabbing pain of ovulation, and use their cycle as an opportunity to nourish their bodies with ginger teas and steamed beetroot or something. 

They tend to keep a journal about their cycle, changing their exercise and diet with each menstrual phase, in order to optimise their lives. Kale and yoga during your period: that kind of vibe.

Unfortunately for me and everyone else in my life, I’m just a little more feral during those desperate few days. One practice of mine that probably doesn’t help is that I refuse to keep track of my cycle or symptoms. I enjoy living in denial. 

And while this is time-saving in the short term, in the long term I always find myself confused by mood swings, forgetting that I might not hate everyone in my life — it might be PMS.

If things are running normally, I will develop my pre-period hormonal acne about seven days in advance of the big day. I will gain the appetite of a small rugby player with five days to go. Three days before the bleeding commences I will start sobbing at bizarre things like old people sitting alone in cafés, or kids with chocolate all over their face. 

Jane Cowan: 'You’ll never catch me using archaic expressions to describe the goings-on of my reproductive organs. I do not get a ‘visit from Aunt Flo’, or experience ‘lady troubles’, or have ‘monthlies’.' Picture: Moya Nolan

And on my fateful last night of freedom I will experience a bout of nausea that should warn me to have my hot water bottle at the ready. But because I am too stubborn to allow my menstrual cycle to consume my thoughts, every month I act like it’s the first time I’ve experienced hormonal acne or nausea.

Last week, I went to the gym with one of my male friends. We both walked in, talking about how long it had been since our last gym session. He mentioned losing muscle and proceeded to lift weights in excess of my body weight. I jogged on the treadmill, felt a bit nauseous, and nearly cried over a 60-second plank.

The next morning: surprise! I woke up bleeding, with a Biblical need for a paracetamol.

And, as has been the case every month for nearly the past decade of my life, everything made sense again. I’m not ashamed of my menstrual cycle, I’m bloody fed up with it.