My Bloodied Panties.

panties

Yes, we all bleed.

I am not ashamed of the fact.

I just don’t think it is necessary for me to celebrate it by bleeding all over the place so that other women will feel more powerful. Neither do I particularly want to see other women bleed. I accept other women’s word that they bleed. I don’t need to see their underwear or their bed sheets. I don’t polygraph women I meet so that I can sort my friends into “bleeders” and “non-bleeders” and relegate the “non-bleeders” into the ineffective, powerless women pile.

We read about periods all the way back in the Bible and other texts of the time where it was the practice to have women remove themselves from the other people and go off and live in a tent until their period was over. If the Nasty Bleeder’s Movement (aka the Women’s Movement) had been involved, they would have been angry about them being segregated.  They would have fought for the rights of these women to be able to powerfully bleed anywhere they wanted to, including all over the town, the people and their families. Then there would be no need for all this fuss today because we probably wouldn’t even be here. Blood contains germs that can cause serious infections and while women may have experienced euphoric episodes that could be described as powerful, they probably would have wiped out the rest of their people with some kind of plague.  You know .. the heat, no big box of sanitary pads, not a lot of opportunities to bathe … that kind of thing. BUT you can’t argue that efforts to have women celebrate themselves and assert their right to equality by bleeding everywhere would have been more “fair” to the women. Who likes to have to go to a separate tent for a week or more? That seems pretty cruel. After all, apply the Nasty Bleeder’s Movement primary litmus test to the problem and they have a point. Men don’t have to do it.  Go on, say it with a whine.  It sounds much more realistic that way.  Remember, above all else, all women want everything a man has and more.  We want to bleed publicly. Continue reading

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I Bled on My Favourite Panties.

a-woman

I am a woman.

I had periods and bled on sheets.

But my voice does not matter, my voice was not wanted. My message fit in with those who were told they were not welcome to march with the women of the world, so while the march spoke out for women “everywhere,” I sat at home.

I sit with many women who chose a different path than many of those who marched. That choice, evidently makes us all now, women who do not matter. We do not have a place at the table. Our input into important issues is not permitted. We are the women, who are sent to the outer tents when we bleed. We are not allowed to contaminate the others, except our exile is not for one week of the month . . . ours is permanent.

There can be no doubt that we are women. We had mothers and fathers who loved us, we played with dolls, we did all the girl things with the other girls. We went to university or got a job. We married and some divorced, we had kids and some of us grand babies and even great grand babies. We have careers or stayed home. We met situations that were difficult and yes, some of us were raped, some of us abused. Some of us were/are paid far less than we are worth. Some of us have been horribly discriminated against. Some of us are religious. We are rich and poor, overweight and underweight. We are varying degrees of attractive. Some of us conquer mountains, some of us conquer diapers. We are women no different than those who marched. But they told us we were not the right kind of women, and so we couldn’t join them. While they said they wanted “everyone’s” support – that did not include ours. Had we marched, had we said anything, our voice would have been “booed,” because these women are not about love and inclusion … this is just one big mean girl’s party. Continue reading