The Menstrual Plot Twist No One Warned Me About

I thought I was done. I thought I had graduated. My last period was in May. M-A-Y. Do you know how good that felt? I wasn’t sad. I wasn’t wistful. I wasn’t clinging to some symbolic loss of womanhood. I was ecstatic. I was strutting around like I had completed a fucking boss level. "She’s crispy now," I said. “She has transcended.”

I pulled out my light-colored fish sheets.

I wore cute pajama pants with reckless abandon.

I sat on soft surfaces without a care in the goddamn world.

And then...Sunday.

Out of nowhere, this demon of a cycle decided to come swinging in like it just returned from a sabbatical in the seventh circle of hell. And I? I am the collateral damage.

Bleeding through menstrual cups. Every two hours.  Trips to the bathroom so frequent, I’ve formed an emotional attachment to my toilet seat.

Office chair? Ruined.

Sheets? Blood-splattered crime scene.

Couch cushions? We are gathered here today to mourn their innocence.

I don’t even own enough laundry detergent to deal with this kind of betrayal.

Add in cramps that feel like a demon is trying to tunnel out of my uterus with a rusted spoon, spontaneous gastrointestinal events that would humble a seasoned paramedic, and TWO—count them—TWO migraines complete with aura because why the hell not, and you’ve got a perfect hormonal hurricane.

I didn’t ask for this.

I didn’t summon this.

I wasn’t out here mocking the period gods or rubbing my crispy status in anyone’s face.

All I did was believe the hype.

Perimenopause, you filthy liar. You temptress. You shifty, scheming biological scamming bitch goddess.

Because nobody warns you. Nobody says, “Hey, congrats on being in your forties! Here’s a little gift: now your cycle will be invisible for months and then strike like a goddamn sniper in the night.”

And of course, of course, this all happens on a week when I had shit to do. When I had plans. When I was supposed to be functioning. But no, now I’m hobbling around the house like a Victorian invalid with a hot pack shoved down my pants and an aura-induced blind spot the size of a small county.

And you know what? I am allowed to be pissed.

I am allowed to mourn the days of semi-predictable bleeding and hormonal rage on a schedule. I am allowed to scream into the void about the betrayal of my own body. I am allowed to throw out my sheets and cry because no, I don’t want to use the “ugly” towel this time. I want peace. I want rest. I want clean upholstery.

Instead, I’ve got a uterus with a grudge.

So no, I’m not “crispy.” I’m deep-fried.

I’m grilled and gutted and bleeding on furniture like a B-horror movie extra.

But I’m still here.

Still typing.

Still flipping off the sky with one hand while holding a heating pad with the other.

And when this hell ride finally ends, when the bleeding slows and the migraines slink off to wherever they hibernate, I’m going to burn sage over my ruined desk chair, buy more cute underwear, and go back to pretending I’ve transcended.

Until next time, uterus.

May you choke on your own chaos.