Force of Nature

Storms and Menstrual Cycles: To Witness and Not Wield

My parents drove five hours to stay with me in Melbourne for Father’s Day. Sadly, on Saturday, I was bed bound until noon. An excruciating migraine drove me to the bathroom, where I emptied the contents of my stomach into the toilet bowl before collapsing back into bed. Curious as to the origins of this monstrous headache, I checked my tracking app. My period was due in a week, meaning my oestrogen and progesterone had dropped sharply. Could that be the culprit? Just last month, I struggled immensely before my period. I was physically fatigued and couldn’t combat my brain fog to attend meaningfully to my work. I went home a bit earlier, fell into bed, utterly depleted, and proceeded to sleep for the next 14 hours.

As I reread this piece, I almost feel the need to apologise for my reflections on this topic. As well as sounding whiny, my revelations about periods seem irritatingly blatant. But despite their apparent obviousness now, I was ignorant and intolerant of these ideas for many years. Perhaps that’s precisely why it is worth writing about. What I say may sound obvious, but it’s hardly acknowledged — even by the people who experience these hormonal storms.

My contemplation on the matter was instigated by the exhibition Einder at the Melbourne Town Hall. An installation by Dutch artist and composer Boris Acket, Einder simulates a storm with textiles, light, and sound. It’s a sensorial experience which reminds us that some forces “can only be witnessed, not wielded.” The sentiment seemed a binary one, so I considered the concepts of Yin and Yang, feminine and masculine. Symbolised by aspects such as water and the moon, the feminine speaks of softness, intuition, and surrender. Its masculine counterpart speaks of self-sufficiency, aggression, independence, and the sun.

Undoubtedly, alongside many other women, I have existed in a perpetual state of masculine energy. I’ve chased exponential progress and greater accolades in school, extracurriculars, university, and my career. This was exhausting, and every relative flaw or set back became evidence toward my lack. As I lay on my beanbag in the Melbourne Town Hall, immersed in Einder, I realised how much peace and clarity I achieved when I stopped attempting to wield storms in my life. When I embraced the feminine, witnessing the moon, and all its cycles. Specifically, the menstrual cycle.

The society and culture we inhabit seem to favour a masculine approach to healthcare. We are prescribed formulas which we wield with precision or attempt to override with stubborn determination. We are prescribed eight hours of sleep and strive to attain it, or overcome it with caffeine, other stimulants, or brute strength. We are prescribed two fruits and five vegetables which we dismiss, comply with, or supplement with green powders and juices. We are prescribed three meals a day. We are prescribed ten minutes of sunlight. We are prescribed exercise. We are prescribed creams. We are prescribed pills. We aggressively conform, or aggressively manhandle ourselves and our bodies. In the mainstream, there is little encouragement to soften and listen to what your own body is telling you. While my experience with my reproductive health has been challenging, I’m surprisingly grateful for the journey that has taught me that sometimes you simply don’t possess any power to wield. You have to relinquish the masculine, and surrender to the feminine.

I was 11-years-old when I first bled. For the next four years, there was no discernible cycle to track, no rhythm, or routine to which I could attune. This was traumatic (I’m not even joking). I can’t fly Singapore Airlines without a pang of guilt and vivid memory of the Victoria Secret underwear and Adidas tracksuit pants my mum had to buy me at the airport when an unexpected visitor arrived somewhere over the pacific ocean when I was 12 years old. At 14, I was prescribed an oral contraceptive with which to wrangle my uterus into submission. But around 19, I felt strongly that I didn’t want to rely on a strange pill to regulate my cycle, until the day I needed to stop, and rely on another strange pill to regulate my ovulation. I wanted to become an active participant in my body so I stopped Yaz cold turkey (which, with hindsight, I wouldn’t recommend).

My mood plummeted, I developed the most horrific hormonal acne, and completely lost my period. These symptoms persisted until, and beyond, the point I was inevitably put back on the pill. Seeking medical advice during this time proved to be an endeavour fraught with misfortune. I’ve had a maternal instinct since I left the womb, so my fertility was of great importance, and I wanted to achieve understanding and clarity around my reproductive health. Multiple doctors, both male and female, dismissed or ridiculed my concerns. One doctor, to whom I expressed my fears of infertility, tried to convince me otherwise. My father was one of five children and my mother one of four, she pointed out. Also, I had a feminine figure with “big breasts”. As if my family tree and cup size had anything to do with my biological prospects of becoming a mother. I was mortified!

Eventually, a competent doctor referred me for blood tests which confirmed my hyperandrogenism (excess male hormones: ka-pow). Then I was probed with an internal ultrasound which established that I had polycystic ovaries (fantastic). With the addition of my chronic anovulation, I had achieved all three criteria for a diagnosis of classic polycystic ovary syndrome (PCOS). Still, this doctor broached no conversation of symptom management without the pill and denied me a script of antibiotics for my skin, asserting it would just give me thrush (it didn’t).

This happened repeatedly over the subsequent years: doctors disregarded my treatment preferences in favour of their own. They weren’t exercising their medical expertise, because the treatment that one doctor would deny me, another would dole out like candy. These doctors weren’t listening to me and opted to make decisions about which risks I should be willing to take with my own body. There was little consideration and care taken in consultations about my fertility. Again, I was dismissed for being a single young woman with no intention of falling pregnant any time soon, but who desperately wanted to understand how I could set myself up for success in the future. Could I? Was there anything I could start doing now?

The disconnection I experienced with my body in the present extrapolated far into the future. The pill promised control, but it left me feeling powerless. So, at 23, I braced for round two. This time, I spent a year in preparation, consulting with a doctor and naturopath before ceasing the pill. My cycle returned immediately and regulated itself over the next two years. Only for me to completely lose my period again when I experienced an onset of intense personal stressors. Frustrating, sure. But a curious instance in which the loss I had experienced in reality, was reflected in my body.

As the storms settled, I was afforded a closer look at my natural hormone fluctuations. Without any identifiable changes to my environment, circumstance, or routine, I noticed being suddenly plagued with an immense fatigue and a sense of impending doom. Every time I was come upon with this horrid dread, I would check my tracking app, and without fail, it would signal that my period was due in about a week. Again, I think I have my sensitivity to the significant dips and peaks of my progesterone and oestrogen levels to thank for that. I observed and noted the pattern for about a year before consulting my doctor, who indicated that on a scale of premenstrual stress (PMS) to premenstrual dysphoria disorder (PMDD), I was edging towards the latter.

I was astounded at the variations I tracked each month. “She must be on her period” is a cheap joke or insult, but even I was struggling to take myself seriously. It sounded ridiculous — if not lazy and weak — to purport that I was physically and mentally unable to perform in life like I was the week prior. “I’m in my luteal phase” seemed a derisible excuse. My impression was that I was to live and work through sheer force of will, unsusceptible to cycles of nature. But these fluctuations could not be denied.

During my follicular and ovulatory phases, I was extremely high-functioning. My luteal and menstrual phases are an altogether different story. I’ve fortunately been spared the significant pain of endometriosis, but during my period, relative dull aches or stabbing pains still distract from anything I’m required, or would like, to do. Another symptom of my PCOS, heavy menstrual bleeding (HMB), has left me iron deficient due to losing almost double the amount of blood someone else would during their period. I am liable to suffer fatigue, poor concentration, headaches, and light-headedness due to this. Not forgetting the aforementioned dread and doom that makes me feel so uncomfortable, as though I’m wearing the wrong skin and somehow dropped into the wrong life. During my luteal phase, there’s an unshakeable fear that everything is wrong. I want to wipe the slate clean and start fresh, but I can’t. And so I’m irritable, I’m sad, I’m tired, I’m hungry, I’m in physical pain, suffering breast tenderness and severe migraines.

I’m not selling periods here. But this is my reality. My body. My nature. At times during Einder the music was haunting, the lights flashed uncomfortably bright, and the illusion of the storm was menacing. We’ve just entered spring in Melbourne. Winter and autumn were characterised by cloudy, grey, and rainy days. We’ve no power to wield over these meteorological phenomena, and we’re not expected to. We simply manage as best we can. We rug up in warm clothes. We rely on tools like windscreen wipers. We shelter undercover. But sometimes the wind is so strong, all I’ll accomplish by attempting to wield human power is an inverted umbrella. So then I have to surrender to the elements. I walk slower along wet roads and simply endure the pelt of the rain and wind.

I have been forced to connect and surrender to my body in a way I probably wouldn’t otherwise have if it weren’t for my reproductive ill health. I’m in a position now where I get to be conscious and curious about the fluctuations I experience. I accept that sometimes the sun is shining. I have an abundance of energy, clarity, and joy. I am learning to lean into the cycle, optimising the highs.

Other times, the smallest of tasks present as the greatest of challenges. Perhaps it’s difficult to fully comprehend without experiencing how little change you can effect during these times. Initially, it made me feel out of control. Yet when I conceded to nature, it was liberating. I am gentler, more gracious, and less existential during my lows. I know this time will pass as the seasons do.

Menstrual cycles and associated disorders such as PCOS, PMDD, or endometriosis is still poorly understood, and their often debilitating impact hardly acknowledged. When someone travels through a downpour, we do not blame them for being wet. So why are women held personally responsible for weathering hormonal storms outside their control? Can we be offered tools to wield in our symptom management, or granted permission to witness a storm that will pass?

With the peace I achieved in my own life, I can’t help but wonder: what could life be like, if we collectively release the expectation on women to be fine-tuned machines, acknowledging that we are, ultimately, forces of nature?