I remember quite well the day I menstruated for the first time. It was a regular weekend, and I was practicing piano lessons alone in my room. I think I practiced D minor and hated all the minors, by the way. I was sitting on a cushioned chair when suddenly I felt warm “Plop!” in my underwear. I thought I peed myself, but it was different. It came naturally, without effort, not a sting.
I lowered my eyes to peek inside right in time to see dark red blood landing on my briefs. My clothes and the cushion pillow were ruined. I called my mom. She briefly cheered me and rushed to give me a pad.
By the time I reached puberty, I already knew the skills girls should’ve known. When my period came at thirteen, it was the final revelation of a simple truth: now, I could not escape the destiny of being a woman, and contrary to what my parents had taught me before, I could not do it all. In fact, now, as a woman, I had way fewer coulds and plenty of shoulds.
My mom and I were the only menstruating women in our family of five. Very few things were said about what period was, and close to nothing on what phases of the cycle were and their importance, and influence on physical and emotional health.
My mother knew little herself and could not teach me much. Her mother never talked about it, and period-related silent shame transcended from their generation to mine. Bloody days meant I was not pregnant, and days around ovulation were risky times – that was all I learned. So little I knew about the cycle when I first bled, and nothing about cyclical life.
Later, on my own, I searched for info on the menstrual cycle. The articles I read were limited and quite depressing: medical terms and hormone levels, fibroids, clots, pain and more pain, PMS, PMDD. This subject seemed too complex to understand, to control, or influence in any way for the next forty years or so. Powerless and lost – that was how I felt in my early womanhood.
While my cycle was establishing their rhythm, I closely observed my mother. Her periods were irregular and excruciating due to underlying medical conditions that had never been treated. With a palpable myoma, endometriosis, and fibroids, her periods were heavy and torturous since I can recall. I remember her crying from pain every month on days of bleeding, crawling her way to the bed with a hot water bag. Later, she told me how defeated and humiliated she felt during her menstruation and how she would blame herself for losing in that bloody game, while there was no fault of her own.
As for me, I was blessed with what is called period-related “mood swings”, part of PMS, or premenstrual syndrome, even though I wasn’t familiar with that expression yet. My moods became more volatile; I never stayed in one emotional state for too long: I was eating, then overeating; I was too social, then not enough. I would go from crying to smiling, obsessing with my to-do lists, or staying behind closed doors crying over my ex. I thought it all was random, that moods had no order, no sequence. That I could never predict. Luckily, I was wrong.
As for physical pain, compared to my mother, there was almost none besides occasional cramp, a pulling ache in my lower stomach, and raw, tearing pain on the inside of my vagina, a sensation hard to describe.
I didn’t want to be judged for mood swings, so I learned how to self-gaslight. I told myself that I was dramatic and overreacting. I adopted a ‘fix it’ mindset and dreamed about a magic pill that could cure the way I felt – to be less moody, less me, as I thought I was too much.
I learned to laugh at sexist mood swing jokes and to make ones myself. I became part of the mood swings stigma formed by women and men. And I was making that stigma stronger with each “I am sorry for having mood swings.”
Learning To Be a Good Girl
By the age of fourteen, I realized that my life would keep turning around my gender role for the rest of my life, and I must behave as I was taught at home, school, and beyond.
I adored my school. It taught me the power of teamwork, nourished my curiosity for the world, and showed me how to care for the environment long before it became mainstream. It also taught ‘yeses’ and ‘noes’ of male and female gender roles. Those lessons were not subtle: many times, I felt like I was being groomed and tamed to be docile and to obey.
When I was fifteen, girls had to attend the sewing and baking class while boys were working with tools. Next year, we were encouraged to take a typewriting class while boys learned how to drive.
But there was one class I will never forget; it was held for both girls and boys at once. It was a safety class given by a middle-aged man about how to handle rape, and it was directed to girls as future victims of men. As not if but when.
To the girls as victims of rape, the instructor was giving advice: “Aim for the balls and scream ‘Fire!’ At the end of the class, he decided to joke: “If your abuser is stronger than you and you do not have a chance to escape, just lay back and try to enjoy…”
I remember I almost threw up. I was told to lay back while a man raped me, leaving bruises and wounds, leaving traumas behind, destroying my sense of self. I was told to pretend to be OK with the inevitable act of rape because there was nothing I could do about it. I was told to pretend to be OK as if I allowed it to happen, as if I wanted it to happen, and even looked forward to it. Maybe I was expected to compliment a rapist on his performance after all, but that teacher did not say.
That phrase, intended to sound like a joke, highlighted (once again) the essence of the man-centered world into which I was born: men rule the world, and you lay back and try to enjoy, even if it kills you.
Sadly, not once during the class did the instructor address boys. It seemed like there was no intention to educate them on dealing with sexual urges, on a ‘no violence’, on impulse control, or the legal consequences of rape. The boys, almost young men, only giggled. I believe they felt uncomfortable, too, but no one spoke up. Maybe there were classes for boys as victims of something, too, but I never heard of it then.
It was heartbreaking to realize that girls and women are condemned to live from the perspective of man’s convenience while pretending to be OK. “Just lay back and try to enjoy….” still buzzes in my ears sometimes.
Yet, it wasn’t always like that. Once in history, women were goddesses and queens, warriors, and priests, not limited to a household and defined only by men.
Together, women and men shared the world, needing and helping each other, and together we thrived. But, once resources began to pile up, women were sent inside, their independence was taken away, and the idea of a homey wife became appealing to men worldwide. The man-made world took over, and the balance of feminine and masculine was broken. Much of the feminine was overlooked, while the masculine was universally praised. Women’s voices were taken away for generations to come. When women warriors, traders, and queens would appear and rise again, it was deemed an outstanding exception, not a rule in the world governed by men.
Over four hundred generations of men cheering for men, rooting for men, and celebrating men shaped our perspective on what is right and wrong, convenient or not. Women had no chance to share their voice, not because they did not have one, but they were hushed from public life, weren’t taught to write, were inaudible to all, with silent beauty left.
It was men who decided what was good and evil. On things, they knew so well, and on things they thought they knew, like women’s joy and health. Maybe it was assumed that women had the same needs as men or that we do not have needs at all; now, it is hard to know.
Internilizing misogyny
While my school was instructing me on how to be a good victim of rape, I learned to fear men’s bad moods. Soon enough, life taught me that the best way to avoid a man’s bad mood and be safe was to adopt sexist and misogynistic ways.
Learned misogyny is to think that man’s ways are always righteous and they have the right to more.
Learned misogyny is to justify men’s cruelty and to believe that women are the reason for their problems
Learned misogyny is to think that sons mean more than daughters.
Learned misogyny is to believe that I have nothing to offer and that a man will fix it all.
Learned misogyny is to feel grateful for being chosen by a man and feel bad about selecting a man.
Learned misogyny is to accept sacrificing myself under a romantic veil.
Learned misogyny is to wonder if I am a wife, or not wife material.
Learned misogyny is to think that I deserve a man’s bad mood.
Learned misogyny is to fear losing a man for telling my personal truth and to think that having an opinion makes me less attractive for them.
Learned misogyny is to think of myself as a precious reward and to fear not pleasing a man.
Learned misogyny is to feel guilty for assuming that pleasure and happiness are important, too.
Learned misogyny is to develop a man-oriented taste and to build life out of man’s convenience and joy.
Learned misogyny is to judge my looks, accomplishments, and hopes by the opinions of men.
Learned misogyny is to praise self-betrayal for men’s sake in big and little things.
Learned misogyny is faking smiles and laughing at jokes that hurt.
Learned misogyny is to think that problems will go away once I get a man.
Learned misogyny is to think that feeling too much is no bueno and that my feelings are mostly BS.
Then, I relize that learned misogyny is also to say how sorry I am for being a woman and apologize for having mood swings.
Finally, learned misogyny is to pass along the same lessons for the convenience of men.