I am a Girl.

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Please forgive the vent. . . I just couldn't help myself today.

I think this often lately, yet it's one of the subjects I try not to talk or write about. . .

It's uncomfortable. . . Slightly embarrassing (not just for me, but sometimes for the reader/listener, I am sure). . . Kinda personal. . . Occasionally disgusting. . . Downright unpleasant. . .

Yet, I know I am not the only one who currently struggles with this — or has or will have to deal with it, for that matter.

It is a fact of life.

Keep scrolling or click away if you must. . . Or keep reading if you're curious, I suppose — just don't say I didn't warn you.

The problem is the fact that I am a girl. . . That's what my grandmother would call it, anyway. . .

It sucks. (Image from morgueFile.com)

“Reta Jayne, are you a girl today??” It was her way of asking if it was “that time of the month.”

“Aunt Flo's visit.” It's not pleasant for any of us, I am sure.

The thing is, I used to be like clockwork. Twenty-eight days & –Boom! I knew to expect her visit. . . Then, once she arrived, I knew I could count five days out — nearly to the hour — & I knew I could count on her to go the Hell away.

It was a bitch-&-a-half still — of course — but, it was my body's way of telling me all was well & working right & that there wasn't a kid up in there! LOL.

But, now?

Now, it's my body's way of telling me it's still all kinds of fucked up since last year's miscarriage, really.

We found out we were pregnant mid-April & by mid-May — on our one-year anniversary (UGH!) — my body told me something was wrong. It was so convincing, we ended that night in the local emergency room. Since that night, my body has not gone back to normal — & I am beginning to doubt it ever will.

We got the okay the beginning of September from my doctor. . . He said my HCG levels had gone back to “normal” & that my body should soon too — but that it could take up to 18 months for some people.

Obviously, that was six months ago. . . Sure, I am closer to normal, but not normal enough. . .

Aunt Flo's visit ranges from feeling-like-I-am-going-to-die-horrific to so-barely-there-it's-annoying-to-even-have-to-deal-with-it. . . From a “mere” three days to a dreadful six days. . . From a only 23 days in between to about 30. . . From “regular” to “super,” if you know what I mean. . .

So, according to the doctor, I could have another year of this shit? Seriously?!

Just, ugh.

Of course, there's the added depression uncertainty annoyance that I am dealing with her visit at all — you know, with the handsome husband & I hoping to add to our family. . . But that's a (slightly) separate story. . .

I guess I just miss actually knowing my own body. . . At 33-years-old, I think that is a reasonable thing to want & to have. . . Yet, since last May, I don't even recognize the body I am in any more — & it's not just because I'm a lot more plump than I used to be.

It sucks. There's no other way to put it.

Just rip it all out & let's be done with this bullshit.

Okay. Maybe not. But, I think I've made my point clear. . . & if you've read this far: Sorry. . . & thanks for “letting” me vent, I guess.