The crisis of a public period, i.e. menstruating in public. Yeah, it happens and it always sucks. But this time it actually defeated me.

Yesterday I cried in public for the first time in a long while.

I don’t often cry. Last time I cried was at my Grandfather’s funeral last autumn. I didn’t cry when the guy I thought I loved and had just moved in with decided to break up with me right after we finished our trip to Montreal; a trip meant to celebrate my 30th birthday. I did cry when one of my ex’s dogs passed away but that wasn’t in public, and it was tears of absence and heartache. But one of my most memorable desperate episodes of crying in public was back in Oslo in the subway station — I was running away from my first boyfriend in the mall. Already crying and sobbing uncontrollably, he found me on the platform, and proceeded to spit me in the face…

Apropos subway, this story is also in the subway, but this time in Toronto.

Warning
This is a story that revolves around menstruation. In public. It’s about feeling bullied in a moment of vulnerability, needing help. Please know the levels of discomfort and shame I’m setting aside to bring to words, and to a public audience, what I just experienced. I could easily downplay and bury this episode along with so many other embarrassing period situations that only I and nobody else knows about. There are many of them. MANY. But this time was different, in a bad way. I’m writing this not just for myself, for sense-making and closure, but also to share a glimpse into the all-too-possible event for fertile females of having a “period situation” in public and how challenging it can be to get proper care sometimes

—

It’s late on a Monday, 10:45pm and I’m in North York Centre where I just finished helping out at the salsa school I volunteer at. I’m satisfied but exhausted and hungry (no time for dinner yet), and my body and feet are aching from almost four hours on heels, dancing and teaching many happy people.

And, needless to say, I am in my period. Notably, it’s also the one day during my period that I’m bleeding the most so I have to go to the washroom almost every hour to keep things in check. Every woman is different. But for me, over the years I have learned that I bleed a lot and must stay vigilant, and it has paid off.

I leave the studio and enter the TTC station, not thinking twice about the washroom — just eager to get home.

Usually I pay my fare with Presto (for the non-Torontonian readers out there, this is a card-payment option for transit which will replace cash and tickets here in Toronto), but for some reason, North York Centre Station won’t be Presto-ready until who-knows-when. So I pay with a token in this station like I always have. And because I get off on the same line and don’t need to transfer to another mode of transit, I do not take a proof of payment.

The subway doesn’t take long to arrive. It’s almost empty because I’m boarding on the second stop of a 30+ minute ride to downtown Toronto. It’s just before 11pm and it’s peaceful at this time of the night.

I get on and find myself a seat in the almost empty train. I sit down and with my Bachata music on, I start grooving to the smooth latin beats. The train is picking up speed, well on its way to the next station, when my eyes suddenly fly open.

I feel a leak, down there.

It is sneaky and fast, the cruel and unexpected kind. Within a split second I feel wetness soak through my underwear and I immediately stand up from my seat. Horror sets in. I’m wearing light-coloured jeans. Damnit. Sitting is not an option anymore. My brain went from zen to running a hundred miles per hour now, surveying the situation, gauging my options. A guy is sitting two seats away from me. I need to turn my rear away from him. From everybody. And when a leak begins, it usually doesn’t stop or solve itself magically. Self-care in a safe, private space is needed for that. It’s a 30 minute ride to King, plus a 20 minute walk home.

I have to get off the train and find a washroom, immediately.

The next station couldn’t come fast enough. I already feel ridiculous sitting down and then getting up so fast again. Looking around me self-consciously, and not knowing the full scope of the “situation down there”, I stand in a way that hides my rear from public sight. The train finally stops and I scurry off. It’s Sheppard Station, a large-ish station known mostly for its transfer to the most absurd little subway extension that consists of a handful of stops, many located in the middle of nowhere. I saw somewhere recently that the line is so rarely used, it actually costs $10 per rider to operate. In comparison, a single ride on the TTC is around $3.50 or something, so it operates on a deficit. In fact, one of its stops along the way, Bessarion Station, is infamously known as “the least used stop” on the entire TTC subway network.

But, I digress.

I am finally off the train. And the feeling of desperation has only started. I find myself stranded in the middle of what now seems like the longest platform ever. With little previous familiarity of the station, I pick one direction and despite my discomfort down there, I walk with my most normal gait due north, deciding to go up the escalators. All the while, my eyes are peeled for a washroom sign, and for people around me. I don’t want anybody around me. Thankfully, it’s late and the station is sparse with people. As I emerge at the top of the escalators, my mind is in visualization mode, envisioning my future self relieved at finding a washroom in what seems like a prominent and surely well-equipped subway station.

At the end of the escalators, I realize I am now on the level where you can catch the Sheppard line, heading west. For the tiny line that it is, there are two dozen or more travellers on the platform, waiting for the next train. I quickly scan the platform but no washroom sign is in sight. I must be blind. Where are the damn washrooms?

As I walk around, I notice a ticket booth with a TTC staff member in it, on the phone. Perfect. I walk as close as I can to the edge of the exit turnstiles. Without actually exiting the station, I put a calm and friendly face on and gesture at the man inside to get his attention. His gaze lands on me and is seemingly ready to receive my inquiry, I begin to formulate my question (“Excuse me, but I was wondering…”) when he suddenly interrupts and overly exaggerates his face as he raises his voice to tell me,

“I CAN’T HEAR YOU.”

Oh, right. He’s standing in the ticket booth, behind thick glass. But though he sounds a bit like being in a fish tank, I hear him surprisingly well. And it’s just a simple question, surely if only I lean in and talk a bit louder — “Sorry, I don’t mean to interrupt but would you be able to…”

“I CAAN’T HEEEEAR YOUUU” he yells, looking at me like my existence is a pure annoyance.

And now I’m just a bit shocked at the way this man is communicating with me. His tone is derogatory, and face contorted. I imagine the way Jim Carrey turns on his “hysterical” mode and begins to over-emphasize all the words in simple sentences. Or Chris Tucker in Rush Hour, with the classic line “DO YOU UNDERSTAND THE WOOOORDS THAT ARE COMING OUT OF MY MOOOOUTH?” This is what was happening, except it was not at all funny. Actually, picture Professor Snape in a rage.

It is also possible that this guy was tired, at the end of his long shift just like me…

“GO THROOOUGH THE TURNSTILES AND…”

But, wait. I don’t want to exit the station. Because I paid my fare with cash and didn’t get a proof of payment, so if I exit, I will have to pay again, no? I remain standing where I am, and I look at him with confusion in my mind.

“…COME TO THE TICKET AREA IF YOU WANT TO TALK.”

I hear his words through the thick glass but I don’t want to go. I don’t know what is paralyzing me so, but for some reason, going through the turnstiles and leaving the station is out of the question. My silly brain is keeping me on this side of the turnstiles. Because I am on a quest. I am trying to find something…

The sudden sensation of more fresh warm wetness spreading down my leg is alarming to say the least. I am visualizing the growth of a crimson red stain. Now I’m desperate and I plead —

“Look, just hear me out, I just have one ques…”

The man violently grabs the thin microphone next to the ticket area and…

“DON’T YOU UNDERSTAND: I CAAAN’T HEEEEEEEAAAAR YOOOUUUUUU… YOU NEED TO COME CLOOOOSER. I CAAAAAAN’T HEEEEEEEEEAR YOUUUUUUUUU. THE GLASS… “

His voice, from being muted but audible in an inoffensive fishbowl-y way, is now suddenly booming sharply from the ticket booth speakers in a disproportionately over-amplified way. His shrill voice rips through me like tsunami waves of shame. It was so loud and startling that the two of us now surely had called the attention of all the people on the entire Sheppard line platform.

And his message to me, a dumb TTC rider incapable of understanding simple English, was now also broadcasted to our new audience.

Great. As if I didn’t have enough to be self-conscious about at the moment.

I couldn’t believe how the situation was escalating so fast. I just want to find a washroom right that instant…

“WHAT IS THE MATTER JUST GO THROOOOUGH THE TURNSTILES…”

His inhospitable, condescending and annoying voice wouldn’t stop coming through the loud speakers. And I am standing there, stiff as a board, trying to take in all the factors of this crazy situation. The blood gushing out of my uterus. The visual evidence of that behind me. The man screaming in front of me, unaware how he was exposing my attempt at a discreet inquiry and humiliating me in front of all these people on the platform, all from the safe confines of his ticket booth bubble.

The desire to just vanish into thin air was real.

I look around and notice that the gate to let strollers and wheelchairs in was wide open. Wait. If that is wide open, it means that I can easily get in and out without paying —

I make a move and slip through the gate, and make my way to the ticket counter. I’m livid at the man’s inability to communicate to me in a more civil manner to say the least, but more urgently…

“Hey. I just had a simple question for you. There is no need to be rude, you could have just directed me to the gate…”

“RUDE???? HOW AM I BEING RUDE WHEN ALL I AM SAYING IS TO UUUUSE THE TUUUURNSTIIIIILES…”

The all-caps is his voice: it is broadcasting through the speakers so loud that it easily delivers his side of the conversation straight into the available ears of the entire station platform area. Now he’s surely just being a bully, because I’m standing close to the ticket area and there is no reason for him to shout into a microphone that amplifies his voice like this. In a moment of argumentativeness, I raise my voice to interject —

“LOOK. All I want to know — “

“HOOOOW. IS. THAT. BEING. RUDE? HUH?”

“OK sorry. I just want to...”

“HOW? HOOOOOW IS THAT RUDE? WHEN ALL I SAID…”

His surreal, louder-than-life interruptions are now making me drown in the black emotional pool of my consciousness containing a toxic liquid mix of feelings I hadn’t felt for a long while. Shame. Humiliation. Harassment. Embarrassment. Unfairness. Aloneness. Helplessness. Hopelessness.

I’m backing off. This guy doesn’t know my situation and is clearly not in a mental state to help me in my quest. I apologetically raise my hand towards him as I walk away.

“You know what? I’m sorry. I’m sorry for bothering you. I’ll figure it out myself. Sorry.”

“HOW AM I BEING RUDE? TELL ME. HOW…”

I can’t get away from that man and that ticket counter fast enough, my heart so violently shaken by the experience.

As I’m walking through the open gate, avoiding eye contact with anybody, I’m consciously trying to focus on the problem at hand, but the welling up of hopelessness mixed with shame at my personal crisis…. No. Not now.

I go down again to the first platform and walk its entire length. The more steps I take, the deeper the feeling of desperation begins to set in. Walking is not what I should be doing right now. I should be in a washroom taking care of this literally bloody mess. What are my other options? Can I find myself an unsupervised, hidden corner of the station and fix my situation in the open? I rummage through my bag for anything. Tissues. Leftover napkins. Soft paper. But my bag is impeccably and annoyingly void of any devices that can soak up blood. And I feel so far away from finding a place of safety.

I gaze up at the screen and it’s 11:11pm. The south end of the platform leads to another escalator going up towards an exit. For sure there must be something at the top of these escalators…

The landing terminates abruptly into a wall of several floor-to-ceiling exit turnstiles, and unmanned ticket booths. Another dead-end.

Uncomfortably I walk down the stairs, not wanting to be caught in a disadvantageous position by strangers on the escalator.

I have been defeated by Sheppard Station.

From my bag I grab my last option, a sweater, and I tie it around my waist, hiding whatever is visible on my rear. Meanwhile, I hear the sound of another departing subway train going downtown that I’m missing.

I’m back to square one.

That fucking TTC guy, what on Earth was wrong with him…

This is where it happens. I am standing on the station platform against a wall, replaying the entire reel of events, and tears are welling up in my eyes. I feel stupid, so stupid. Like, what the fuck just happened? What. The. Fuck. Nothing got solved by this damned runaround. I have an embarrassingly bloody soaked rear, and am still bleeding. I just had a fucked-up encounter with a mental TTC guy. And I’ve been running around feeling like a fugitive, incapable of finding a single public washroom in this entire station where I can hide and fix my embarrassing situation in. And I’m feeling desperate and defeated, exhausted, hungry, incredibly uncomfortable, and avoiding teary eye contact with anybody…

The next train finally arrives and I get in. As I stand during the entire ride to King, I can’t stop the tears from silently falling. Who knew I had so much liquid in my eyes? And as we know, I have no tissues to mop them up with. Just my hands. My bare, dirty hands. And the air-conditioned train to help wick away the moisture on my hands and my face.

—

I am proud to be a woman. And if you know me, I’m a perfectionist and not one to easily show signs of weakness. So this episode kind of messed me up a bit, but I will be fine.

I have no desire to figure out what I could have done better or differently in this situation. There are so many things. But it’s done. Finished. All the things I did, logical or no, made sense to me at the time. I also don’t want to find the TTC guy again and give him crap. It’s all so embarrassing and unnecessary, I don’t ever want to bring it up again.

But writing this has made me realize how little it is that we hear about the real deal on periods in our mainstream media lives as women, let alone as men. As a woman, I find myself always struggling to be the master and not the victim of my own body. It’s an ongoing and all-consuming project of a lifetime. And the environment and circumstance can either help you, or turn against you. It’s usually stacked against you, but when you’ve been swimming against the current all your life…

I don’t want pity. I just feel enraged enough to bring it to the surface so people can have awareness of it.