There is nothing that could make a young girl jump out of her skin faster than blood in her underwear.
The sheer weight of shame, the tonnage of responsibilities and expectations and fear that bears in on a girl–excuse me, a woman–in that moment could bring a man, a lesser being to their knees.
Always, the first instinct is to hide. To obscure. Throw away the underwear, scrub until your knuckles are raw, clutch your abdomen silently on the bathroom floor as you decide that Death has come early for you.
But never let anyone know. Not until they find out on their own.
Everything hurts.
Of course it does.
And usually, it’s not the cramps or the blood that takes you down, it’s the knowledge that now you’re a woman. Another Eve in a world built for Adams. A woman, a woman, a woman.
The woman of 1 in 4 women have been raped, the woman of women make 82 cents to the man’s dollar, the woman of go make me a sandwich, woman. You miss when you were just you. A girl with pigtails and missing front teeth, who liked reading and catching frogs in her backyard.
But now, you are woman. And there is nothing you can do but hide it.