My period arrives. After every monthly pain I forget. I forget the backache. I forget the sickness and the
shooting pains. Lying awake at night, a hand clamped over my constricting womb. That intense, crippling
cramp in my stomach. This is the physical pain. Yet there is the tension in my head the week before,
annoyance and snapping at trivialities, depressed and down and floating in the mundane. A time for suicidal
and murderous thoughts. A time when I feel most horny and need to touch myself, relieve my tension through
orgasms. Then a monthly concentration of pain on the first day. Blood seeps, drips, then rolls down my inner
thighs; a concentration of agony. Sometimes the blood is so thick it is black. Sometimes bright, oxygenated
red. It chafes, wet between my thighs and makes my skin sore. Then, the following days, the pain is dispersed.
And the weeks in between, still nervousness, sadness, fear and anger. The neurosis is there, dispersed into
fleeting clouds and transformations of mood. My emotions changeable, a microcosm of the fluxing skies
above, changes of mood, moon and universe.
After every monthly pain I forget. I forget how I lie doubled-up and cursing. The anguish is sometimes almost
too much to bear. I curse. I curse at this woman's curse. I ask myself,Why is life so hard? How can I carry
on? For how many more years can I endure this pain? The pain of life, of the first concentration, agony. How
can I endure life's agony? Is it all pain? Will it always be pain? If only I could desensitise myself just to carry
on.
I lie doubled up and cursing. How dare men complain about their ills? How dare they complain at all? Like,
ever. They can never feel, never understand this monthly torment. They only feel it when we lash out at them.
How can they understand? They just think we are crazy. Society ignores the menstrual cycle. Ignores and
disrespects our monthly pain. I am bleeding, wrapped up in a bubble, floating in menstrual consciousness and
painkillers. This is a different level from ordinary, everyday consciousness, a female dimension. After every
monthly pain we forget.
Days pass. Pain is dispersed yet Carly still feels cursed. Men have put a curse on her. Bad men. She sees
faces of ex-lovers in the crowds. The kick boxer, his face appears in the city crowds. She sees him working
behind a bar, driving a bus, and looking at her among the crowd. Aaron, she smells leather, sees him driving
past in a pimpy car. The client that came to her door: now the sight of any bald-headed man sends a chill
down her spine. The smell of massage oil, almond oil. Makes her sick to the stomach. It is a spell; a wicked
spell.
Her father haunts her, taunts her. She sees him walking past her, hears echoes of his voice. She is mourning.
She is grieving for the death of her parents; her previous perception of them. Usually a death means a death,
the end. But not this kind of death. She is grieving for lots of things, most of them still alive. She knows that
her father still lives. He still sits in the same armchair watching television.
There would still be a frown shielding the expression in his eyes. What was he thinking? Would there be a
slap, a spark of anger next? Or would he want to play? She was eleven when it finally stopped. Then he
hardly touched her at all. Apart from making up after a row. A hug. A kiss. And he would say, "You are just
like me." At other times, like her mother, she would pull away. Like her sister, would walk from the room
when she was left alone with him
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