Period.

Copyright

HQ

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

First published in Great Britain by HQ,

an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2019

Copyright © Emma Barnett 2019

Emma Barnett asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

Droplet image © Shutterstock.com

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins

Source ISBN: 9780008308070

Ebook Edition © 2019 ISBN: 9780008308094

Version: 2019-08-23

Dedication

For my two boys –

the best team I could wish for

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Introduction:

FRESH BLOOD

Chapter One:

FIRST BLOOD

Chapter Two:

HOLY BLOOD

Chapter Three:

BAD BLOOD

Chapter Four:

MAN BLOOD

Chapter Five:

OFFICE BLOOD

Chapter Six:

CLASSROOM BLOOD

Chapter Seven:

POLITICAL BLOOD

Chapter Eight:

POOR BLOOD

Chapter Nine:

RICH BLOOD

Chapter Ten:

SEX BLOOD

Chapter Eleven:

WANTED AND UNWANTED BLOOD

Chapter Twelve:

NO BLOOD

Conclusion:

LAST BLOOD

PERIOD PRIDE MANIFESTO

RIDING THE COTTON UNICORN:

a handy appendix of period euphemisms

A LONG OVERDUE LETTER TO MY PERIOD

Acknowledgements

Praise for Period.

About the Author

About the Publisher

‘Women have been trained to speak softly and carry a lipstick. Those days are over.’

Bella Abzug better known as ‘Battling Bella’, lawyer, activist and a leader of the US Women’s Movement

I loathe my period. Really, I do. I cannot wait for the day it buggers off. For good. But shall I tell you what I loathe even more? Not being able to talk about it. Freely, funnily and honestly. Without women and men wrinkling their noses in disgust as if I’d just pulled my tampon out, swung it in their face and offered it as an hors d’oeuvre.

Don’t get me wrong – I am grateful to my period too. A functioning menstrual cycle is, after all, one half of the reason we are all here in the first place and able to procreate, should we wish to. I may loathe the physical experience of my period but that doesn’t mean I can’t and won’t fight for the right to converse about it without fear of embarrassed sniggers.

Periods really do lay serious claim to the label ‘final taboo’. But why, in the twenty-first century, are they still seen as disgusting and something a woman should endure peacefully, without fuss? This is despite most other ‘off-limits topics’ losing their stigmas and coming into the light, helpfully driven by Generation Overshare. But the sight or sound of blood in pants? Don’t be daft.

Most women don’t even want to talk about them with each other – because there is a deeply rooted idea they are a silent cross to bear, are vile and don’t merit anything more than a passing mention.

From their very first bleed, this occurrence in women’s pants has been treated by most people around them (female and male) as something to be quietly experienced and hidden away. Periods still have a whiff of Victorian England about them; a stiff upper lip is expected when it comes to what’s really going on down below. And women have become so adroit at sparing men’s blushes and shaming each other that they have either wittingly or unwittingly denied themselves the chance to talk about their periods, becoming weirdly active participants in the great global hush-up.

Yet, through my journalism and extremely painful personal experience over the last five years, it slowly started to dawn on me that, although on the surface there is a reticence to discuss periods, there’s actually a shy hunger to do so underneath, which, when prodded, gives way to some of the most extraordinary tales.

Periods have literally followed me around my whole life. I found myself to be one of the few schoolgirls happy to chat about the red stuff – a taboo I continued to enjoy breaking as I headed into adulthood – much to the chagrin and bemusement of those around me. Little did I know I would become the first person in the UK to announce they were menstruating on live television news; that my undiagnosed period condition – endometriosis – would nearly cost me my chance at motherhood; and that I would be secretly shooting up hormones ahead of one of the biggest political interviews of my career. I hope that on these pages I can bring these narratives together, make some sense of them, and crucially offer some hope, solace and wisdom to women about their periods – served up with a healthy dollop of humour and honesty.

The silence and public attitudes towards periods hold women back – often without us realising it.

Unlike pregnancy and childbirth, periods, the only other bodily process reserved exclusively for women, present no ostensible upside for the male species. Men get nada out of our periods (except, you know, the future of mankind secured).

Plus, if we can’t bring ourselves to think our periods merit anything more than a passing lame joke or occasional grumble, it doesn’t require a huge leap of imagination to figure out how many men feel about them, if they consider them at all. Horrified. Appalled. Almost insulted. Even the most enlightened man would probably prefer for women to deal with them without breathing a word. And can you blame them? Most of us do everything we can to hide the horror in our knickers, even struggling to talk about periods amongst ourselves.

Men are never going to be the ones leading the charge to stop periods being treated as gross, difficult events. It’s down to us women to proudly step out of the shadows and not give two hoots about what men think. It’s not going to be easy, and women have to get used to not being everyone’s cup of tea. We must ignore the men – and women – who would rather we stayed quiet and ‘ladylike’ about our periods.

Women censoring themselves from talking about their periods is the final hangover from a time which demanded that we should be seen and not heard; always happy and never complaining; pure and never sullied. It’s ludicrous that women remain slightly horrified by something so natural. These women are actively impeding their own ascent to equality with men, for whom nothing is off limits. Yes, women living in Western countries have equality enshrined in the law and yet, we still aren’t fully equal. No longer are we confined to a special biblical red tent; we’re in your boardrooms, your armoured tanks and we’re even running a few countries. But we still aren’t equal to men in terms of power, public office and, most damagingly, the way we are perceived.

By allowing periods to remain a taboo, women are imprisoning themselves. Even more worryingly, it’s contagious. Girls (and boys) already suffer with low self-esteem and that’s only getting worse in the social media era. When it comes to simple bodily functions, the least we can do is remove a stigma that has damaging consequences on half of the world’s population. Many women already judge themselves to be less than men or suffer with imposter syndrome. If we then conceal something that happens one week of every month (often longer) we are unconsciously turning our periods into a form of disability, as well as failing to confront negative myths and damaging how we view ourselves.

The bogus presumptions about menstruating women are tragically still not confined to the history books – namely that we are weak, dirty, unhinged, less than and just different. At the heart of this lingering stigma is the idea that we are unequal to our male counterparts. Women then ingest these views and appropriate them as our own, inflicting wounds on ourselves and other women around us. And by keeping periods unmentionable, women become unwitting accomplices in perpetuating these myths.

No more I tell thee, dear reader.

Period shame has been stubbornly hanging around since the beginning of womankind and it’s about bloody time for change.

Because if there’s one thing we do know, it’s that a period waits for no woman, so let’s finally allow the period pride to flow.

To be clear, I am not saying women feeling better and bolder about their periods is a secret key to unlocking the door to full equality – if only. It won’t stop at least two women a week dying at the hands of a man in the UK, or suddenly catapult a woman into the White House (as the incumbent, and not the wife who picks out new china and curtains). I’m not naive; nor do I wish to overplay one element of our lives.

But the way periods stubbornly remain taboo, along with all other things we hide with shame and fear, is highly symptomatic of how women have been indoctrinated to believe that a perfectly natural bodily function is totally abnormal. It is this attitude, which too many women, men, religious figures and tampon companies propagate, that ensures we remain ashamed of one of the fundamental signs of womanhood at all ages and stages of life.

Women fear being seen as weak in the workplace, so say nothing about menstruation and any issues they might be having, tacitly reinforcing a view that we are less capable during our time of the month.

Schoolgirls in Britain are missing out on their education because their families cannot afford to buy tampons or pads. Period shame stops them asking for help or admitting why they are skipping school. The same is true of fully grown women who can’t afford pads. They stay in their homes, imprisoned by the fear of someone noticing they are unwillingly leaking through their makeshift sanitary pad (sometimes it’s a sock, other times, loo roll). Nobody knows so nobody helps. A totally unnecessary cycle of period poverty remains unbroken and wreaks havoc. In the UK, the world’s fifth largest economy. Right now.

If we don’t start talking openly about these issues, these perceptions will go unchallenged for yet another generation. Periods should be as natural and as unremarkable as waking up with a headache or needing to pee. And until they are, women and girls will remain relegated – different and unequal within our very selves.

Simply put, periods shouldn’t be seen as a source of shame. Instead a period should be seen as a sign of health, potential fecundity, strength and general bad-assery.

Don’t be revolted, lead the revolt – preferably with a grin on your face and a tampon tucked proudly behind your ear.

There’s nothing else for it. You didn’t realise it and neither did I until recently – but we need a period crusade. For our health, our happiness, and because this bizarre taboo is holding women back.

This book, and the stories within it, is for all women, and not just for the minority who are already comfortable shouting about every part of their existence. But it’s also for men who want to understand what’s really going on in the lives of the women and girls they care about.

My aim is to normalise every aspect of periods, to mention the unmentionable and help you notice things you’ve never considered before. And crucially, to make you laugh along the way. Women, it turns out, can be extremely funny about blood. Periods can be a subject worthy of mirth. Who’d have thought it?

I spotted my personal favourite comment on menstruation upon an e-card, which read: ‘Why periods? Why can’t Mother Nature just text me and be like, “Whaddup, girl? You ain’t pregnant. Have a great week. Talk to ya next month.”’

Ultimately, I’d love to instil within you, my wise, merry readers, a sense of period pride, perspective and some flipping normalcy around menstruation. Because unless we change the way we talk about periods, this silence and shame is here to stay.

So, as my Eastern European pal used to sardonically say each month: the Red Army has arrived.

But the big question is: are you with me?

CHAPTER ONE

‘Girls are superheroes. Who else could bleed for a week and not die?’

(A very true internet meme)

All women remember their first period. Where it happened; who they were with; what raced through their mind and what they did about it. Or didn’t. The sight of blood anywhere is frightening. In your pants, it’s terrifying.

I want to share the story of my first period with you for two reasons. One – quite frankly it would feel rude not to in a book about the red stuff. Two – my mum’s reaction goes some way to explaining why period pride came quite naturally to me.

But even though I have felt pretty confident about busting the period taboo at each stage of my life, to my horror I still utterly failed to achieve a diagnosis for a serious period condition ravaging my insides for more than two decades. I wish to open up to you about this particularly agonising chapter of my life to show that even if you have never spoken about periods aloud before – yours or someone else’s – you can start now. And you should.

Apart from kicking off a much needed cultural shift around the silence that engulfs periods, it was only when I admitted to a friend how much pain I was in each month, that she suggested I might have a proper illness, which prompted me to push for a GP referral to a specialist. More women need to be heard to be believed. And only by talking more about our periods, can we learn what’s normal and what isn’t – and that actually, we’re bleeding superheroes.

I started my period just shy of my eleventh birthday in a cold toilet cubicle in Manchester’s House of Fraser. As I was an only child with a devoted mother, who delighted in my every milestone, I shouted out to her from the cubicle that there was something browny-red in my knickers. She told me, breathlessly, that I had indeed ‘become a woman’ and started my period. I’d just started reading Judy Blume books and had a vague idea this was a good but major thing. And then she left. In a panic. Off she ran around the whole shop floor telling anyone and everyone her little girl was having her first bleed and asking around for a spare pad. Subtle. A few minutes later, I opened the door and watched as she gently stuck a large pad down into my stained pants. Her excitement was infectious.

I remember feeling like I’d done something positive and exceedingly grown up. And when we walked out of the loo, I recall bashfully taking in the smiling faces of the female shop floor staff, as if I’d just won gold in the Woman Olympics. I now know my lovely mum was trying to make up for how her own mother had reacted to her first period. My mother was told, in the swinging sixties no less, that she was ill and put to bed. No explanation was given, but it became clear that it was a subject that was off limits for discussion – the final irony being that her father was a doctor! It was a terribly confusing, scary and negative experience for her.

Mine couldn’t have been more different. On the day of my first period – over a celebratory steaming hot chocolate – as my mum delivered a basic explanation of what had just occurred (something along the lines of ‘this will happen every month and welcome to the woman club’), she was beaming and almost crying with pride. I was excited, but I also remember asking her not to tell my father. I’m not sure why I wanted to keep it from him but it was probably because it concerned something dirty in my pants to do with my vagina and he didn’t have one.

Without even realising it, I was already hard-wired to protect the man in my life from potential female grossness.

Either way, when we got home, she swiftly reneged on our agreement. In fact, we hadn’t even taken our coats off before she proudly told him that I had Become a Woman. Any feelings of anger I had at her big mouth were swiftly cancelled out by his understated but lovely response. Probably a touch confused as to what to say, he sweetly wished me mazel tov (like you do as a northern Jewish father who doesn’t speak that much), and swiftly went back to reading his Manchester Evening News. And that was that.

Except it wasn’t. Life had changed and my first period lasted for nearly three weeks. I don’t remember the pain with that one – that was to come later and to define my whole experience of periods. But the discomfort of large nappy style pads in those long first three weeks still looms large in the mind.

I dimly recall telling a few friends at school ‘I had started’, but I was one of the first to get my flow, so it was only a small number of girls who knew what I was talking about. It was to take one of my closest friends a further four years to get her period so she was oddly quite jealous. Consequently, it didn’t feel right to complain to her about my need to shift my heavy knickers about in a distinctly unladylike way in class, trying to get my new massive nappy into a comfy position and stop the adhesive underside from sticking to my legs. Mum hadn’t really catered for small knickers in her choice of sani pad.

My main period chat was with my mum during this first flow, as she inspected my pad and asked how I had felt before and after school every day of my biblically long bleed. And because of this regular checking in (during which my doctor grandfather was also consulted on the phone as I entered my third week, and I was breezily assured all was well), my first experience, unlike so many women’s, felt OK. Cool even. Mum and I made some daft jokes and I definitely got some extra chocolate. Periods were made to feel like a new inconvenience, but one I could totally handle. Yet so many girls suffer in ignorance and silence during their first period, establishing an embarrassment they carry for the rest of their lives.

My period was also on the conversational menu at school if I wanted it to be. My girls-only school – Manchester High School for Girls, where Emmeline Pankhurst sent her strong-willed daughters – may not have given any of us the full biological low down until we were a bit older, but the largely female staff were always receptive to chats about the red stuff. (Especially the sceptical swimming teachers who listened to our tales of gore, fake and real, as we soon learned the quickest way to dodge the icy school pool was by saying we ‘had a really heavy period’. Finally, a benefit!)

Soon, though, this was a reality for me. After my relatively pain-free maiden bleed, my period quickly became a much darker experience. Clots and crippling cramps were my new norm and I found myself wincing in pain for the first two days of every cycle. My mum, who I soon learned also suffered painful heavy bleeds and was upset that history was repeating itself, was swiftly on the case.

Interestingly, I felt I could openly confide my fears to my mum but I didn’t feel I could, or should, talk about it with most of my friends – and not just because some girls were jealous, I now realise. Whilst I was prescribed contact lenses at a similar age, it felt like something I could openly bitch and moan about, no matter how insecure I felt. My period, not so much. Even when I rushed to the school loos in crippling pain, and tried to explain why to my peers, their blushing cheeks meant that I was already being socialised to keep quiet about my period. If this is what it’s like in a girls-only environment, is it any wonder that we’ve all stayed silent for so long? And I didn’t even get teased by horny pre-pubescent boys about smelling or being frigid because I was ‘on the blob’ – unlike the experiences of so many girls I know who had brothers or went to mixed schools.

Around my twelfth birthday, when the monthly pains really set in, I spoke up again to my mum, refusing to believe my debilitating experience was normal and was swiftly taken to the GP who prescribed strong period-specific painkillers called mefenamic acid. I have vivid memories of both parents soothing me, as I writhed around in my bed and found myself with the runs, hobbling to the loo (yet another side-effect of periods that remains a taboo subject).

The point is, I had the period confidence to do this and suffer openly (at home at least).

I was made to feel proud on the day I bled for the first time, rather than dirty and ashamed.

Periods weren’t taboo with the few adults in my immediate daily life. I realise now, in my early thirties, how enlightened and important that reaction was. Another friend’s parents broke out into a congratulatory song in front of her brother and his pal, when she started. While she was mortified, just as I would be (not because of the subject but actually because I loathe spontaneous group singing) it also instilled within her a sense of happiness and achievement on her first period day.

I was always encouraged to talk about my feelings – something which has stood me in good stead for becoming a broadcaster. But that doesn’t mean my friends and I fully understood our periods, as evidenced by our rather disastrous attempt to help a girl insert her first tampon aged sixteen on a school trip. More of that to come …

However, the open attitudes both at home and in my schooling, and being encouraged from an early age to challenge boys at every opportunity – especially on the school bus when ‘banter’ was at the girls’ expense and was often regarding matters of puberty – led to me possessing something so few women and girls have: period pride.