על ידי אנונימי » 19 נובמבר 2006, 01:31
Fresh Blood
I awoke this morning to discover my shorts saturated in my blood. I felt a little surprised, I usually have a solid sense of when my bleeding is going to begin, give or take a day. As my mind took in this early morning reality, I felt joyful. I had cut out a pattern to make a new menstrual pad the night before and now I would have a chance to test the pattern out before making more. And a small tiny percentage of my joy, actually it was closer to relief, was the knowledge of being the only soul in my body as my uterus shed its coat.
Once upon a time, not so very long ago I would have felt squeamish and awkward with the words I find myself now writing. I want to know what this shift was and where it came from. A couple years ago, when I shared one bathroom with five other roommates, I stuck tampons into my vagina several times a day to keep my flow from flowing. I learned how to practice the utmost discretion and god forbid, that little string hangs out the bottoms of a bikini.
I think I bought my last box of tampons around two years ago. I was living in Oregon, in an intentionally community when I first heard about cloth pads from Tracie, an herbalist, who also lived there. She reminded me over and over again to be in touch with my body and to practice self-care. The problem wasn't remembering to, the problem was knowing how to, something I still haven't mastered. The last few disposable blood catchers I bought showed signs of my pending shift, organic cotton from the health food store rather than a Tampax ultra-hyper-super-glider with a continent plastic applicator.
A tampon is like a cork, or a plug. The fluid is absorbed and discarded without a second thought except for, ew, gross. I compare it to the eating of packaged or processed meat. The connection between body and action has been severed. Tampons make it possible to keep a woman's blood so contained and disposed that there is no connection with her cycle. The dominant culture dictates that blood and body parts are in fact, disgusting. I won't lie, the sight of blood make me turn my head. My friend recently split his head open, a good two inches long and 1/4 inch deep. My thought is this: that oozing blood is supposed to be INSIDE your body, not dripping through your hair. And still, I want to look. Some very human instinct called morbid fascination draws my eyes back to the cracked open head. Fresh blood.
Even without research, my critical mind (now) can look at a tampon and it raises a few questions. First, where did it come from? In that, I mean what material is it made of and where has it been before it was a tampon? Non-organic cotton is typically given various doses of herbicides and pesticides. If I choose to eat organic food, which makes it way through my body, wouldn't I also choose to put organic matter in my vagina, one of the most sensitive and absorbent areas of my body? Was the cotton raised locally? Or is if from Egypt, or china? Were the workers given fair wages? What sort of machinery was used to harvest and process it? How much fossil fuel went into the entire process from cotton seed to tampon-in-my-hand? Looking at this tampon from a different angle, I begin to have other questions, in regards to my body. What affects does it have on my body physically, after one use? After one cycle? After thirty years of fertility? Are the chemicals used on the plants in my body? What affect do I have on my environment by choosing to flush this bloody plug down the toilet and into the sewer system? The kotex lurking in the purses and bathroom cabinets begin to look less innocent than their pink and lavender wrappers let on.
Returning to my own body and my choice to leave out the tampons, I have a confession. At the time when I made my own pads, I was more broke than I had been since I was maybe 12. Tampons, even the generic kind, run four or more bucks for a small box that last a cycle or so. And organic ones are even more. So rather than buying another box to flush my money down the toilet, I went to St. Vinny's and bought two flannel baby blankets. I did a short internet search and came up with a free pattern for pads. It was a very simple pattern; anyone with basic reading comprehension skills could do it.
I was excited- the pads were cutesy, some blue with clouds, others with colorful stars. I found an old bottle to soak the pads in after use. And then, dear aunt flow arrived. With confidence, I snapped my new pad on, wondering how long it would hold. Not so long. Great in theory, but it needed fine tuning. My flow, especially in the first two days, was heavier than the pads could handle. It was okay when I was near my home, I could easily go and change. It was a bit messy. The bloody pads were a bit stinky, especially if I neglected them for a day or forgot to change the water.
Since buying my organic throw-away tampons, I had noticed another product used in the vagina that was not disposable. It was made of rubber and cup shaped and cost a third of my monthly stipend. My clan sister had tried such thing without luck but I felt I had to try it. And like the pads, there was a learning period, figuring out how to get it in and out, how to use it in a public bathroom, and how full it could be before overflow occurred. There were moments where it felt uncomfortable but it seemed to be worth it.
Some might say that any internal menstrual product is disconnecting. I respect this approach but notice that for me, seeing a little cup full of my own fluid is striking. It's thick, smooth, and deep maroon with little globs swimming around. Strong odors of dank earth waft upwards as I pour it out into the porcelain bowl and it instantly dies the water pomegranate red. My little rubber cup treated me well, connected me more to my cycle and led me to my next step. Sponges.
Believe it or not, it was my partner's mother who randomly offered me my first sponge. In a slightly more natural state than a rubber cup, the idea is the sponge sits inside like a tampon, and absorbs the menses. To empty it, simply remove, rinse and ring. Sounds easy enough, right? It's like natures tampon with no applicator and no string. Ever tried to find something inside your own yoni more than a couple inches? Soft unlike a rigid cup, a sponge sits nearly forgot in my yoni. Because toilets or privacy isn't always available and because sometimes I flake on rinsing, I continue to wear my pads as back up to the sponge. This process has given me even more chance to know myself and my lunar cycle. I have heard some women tie dental floss to a sponge so finding it is easier. I have chosen to simply bear down and stick my fingers up there, searching around and nudging it out.
My blood runs through my fingers and into the sink as I shed the old and my body prepares for another cycle, another time to know myself as a full-fresh-blooded woman.
[h=3]Fresh Blood[/h]
I awoke this morning to discover my shorts saturated in my blood. I felt a little surprised, I usually have a solid sense of when my bleeding is going to begin, give or take a day. As my mind took in this early morning reality, I felt joyful. I had cut out a pattern to make a new menstrual pad the night before and now I would have a chance to test the pattern out before making more. And a small tiny percentage of my joy, actually it was closer to relief, was the knowledge of being the only soul in my body as my uterus shed its coat.
Once upon a time, not so very long ago I would have felt squeamish and awkward with the words I find myself now writing. I want to know what this shift was and where it came from. A couple years ago, when I shared one bathroom with five other roommates, I stuck tampons into my vagina several times a day to keep my flow from flowing. I learned how to practice the utmost discretion and god forbid, that little string hangs out the bottoms of a bikini.
I think I bought my last box of tampons around two years ago. I was living in Oregon, in an intentionally community when I first heard about cloth pads from Tracie, an herbalist, who also lived there. She reminded me over and over again to be in touch with my body and to practice self-care. The problem wasn't remembering to, the problem was knowing how to, something I still haven't mastered. The last few disposable blood catchers I bought showed signs of my pending shift, organic cotton from the health food store rather than a Tampax ultra-hyper-super-glider with a continent plastic applicator.
A tampon is like a cork, or a plug. The fluid is absorbed and discarded without a second thought except for, ew, gross. I compare it to the eating of packaged or processed meat. The connection between body and action has been severed. Tampons make it possible to keep a woman's blood so contained and disposed that there is no connection with her cycle. The dominant culture dictates that blood and body parts are in fact, disgusting. I won't lie, the sight of blood make me turn my head. My friend recently split his head open, a good two inches long and 1/4 inch deep. My thought is this: that oozing blood is supposed to be INSIDE your body, not dripping through your hair. And still, I want to look. Some very human instinct called morbid fascination draws my eyes back to the cracked open head. Fresh blood.
Even without research, my critical mind (now) can look at a tampon and it raises a few questions. First, where did it come from? In that, I mean what material is it made of and where has it been before it was a tampon? Non-organic cotton is typically given various doses of herbicides and pesticides. If I choose to eat organic food, which makes it way through my body, wouldn't I also choose to put organic matter in my vagina, one of the most sensitive and absorbent areas of my body? Was the cotton raised locally? Or is if from Egypt, or china? Were the workers given fair wages? What sort of machinery was used to harvest and process it? How much fossil fuel went into the entire process from cotton seed to tampon-in-my-hand? Looking at this tampon from a different angle, I begin to have other questions, in regards to my body. What affects does it have on my body physically, after one use? After one cycle? After thirty years of fertility? Are the chemicals used on the plants in my body? What affect do I have on my environment by choosing to flush this bloody plug down the toilet and into the sewer system? The kotex lurking in the purses and bathroom cabinets begin to look less innocent than their pink and lavender wrappers let on.
Returning to my own body and my choice to leave out the tampons, I have a confession. At the time when I made my own pads, I was more broke than I had been since I was maybe 12. Tampons, even the generic kind, run four or more bucks for a small box that last a cycle or so. And organic ones are even more. So rather than buying another box to flush my money down the toilet, I went to St. Vinny's and bought two flannel baby blankets. I did a short internet search and came up with a free pattern for pads. It was a very simple pattern; anyone with basic reading comprehension skills could do it.
I was excited- the pads were cutesy, some blue with clouds, others with colorful stars. I found an old bottle to soak the pads in after use. And then, dear aunt flow arrived. With confidence, I snapped my new pad on, wondering how long it would hold. Not so long. Great in theory, but it needed fine tuning. My flow, especially in the first two days, was heavier than the pads could handle. It was okay when I was near my home, I could easily go and change. It was a bit messy. The bloody pads were a bit stinky, especially if I neglected them for a day or forgot to change the water.
Since buying my organic throw-away tampons, I had noticed another product used in the vagina that was not disposable. It was made of rubber and cup shaped and cost a third of my monthly stipend. My clan sister had tried such thing without luck but I felt I had to try it. And like the pads, there was a learning period, figuring out how to get it in and out, how to use it in a public bathroom, and how full it could be before overflow occurred. There were moments where it felt uncomfortable but it seemed to be worth it.
Some might say that any internal menstrual product is disconnecting. I respect this approach but notice that for me, seeing a little cup full of my own fluid is striking. It's thick, smooth, and deep maroon with little globs swimming around. Strong odors of dank earth waft upwards as I pour it out into the porcelain bowl and it instantly dies the water pomegranate red. My little rubber cup treated me well, connected me more to my cycle and led me to my next step. Sponges.
Believe it or not, it was my partner's mother who randomly offered me my first sponge. In a slightly more natural state than a rubber cup, the idea is the sponge sits inside like a tampon, and absorbs the menses. To empty it, simply remove, rinse and ring. Sounds easy enough, right? It's like natures tampon with no applicator and no string. Ever tried to find something inside your own yoni more than a couple inches? Soft unlike a rigid cup, a sponge sits nearly forgot in my yoni. Because toilets or privacy isn't always available and because sometimes I flake on rinsing, I continue to wear my pads as back up to the sponge. This process has given me even more chance to know myself and my lunar cycle. I have heard some women tie dental floss to a sponge so finding it is easier. I have chosen to simply bear down and stick my fingers up there, searching around and nudging it out.
My blood runs through my fingers and into the sink as I shed the old and my body prepares for another cycle, another time to know myself as a full-fresh-blooded woman.