My Hormones Hate Me

And Other Tales of Endometriosis

I got my first period on Rosh Hashanah when I was 12 years old. Happy New Year to me.

I got out of bed that morning, went to the bathroom, and saw spotting in my underwear. I had been in puberty denial leading up to it, so in the same way I tried to delay shaving my legs and wearing a bra, I put on a fresh pair of underwear, told no one, and went to synagogue with my family, hoping it would just magically disappear.

Of course it didn’t, and after services, I reluctantly told my mom.

“I think I got my period.”

We went into my parents’ bathroom, and she reached under the sink. She held up a maxi pad.

“You’re not going to like this.”

Thank God she’s not one of those mothers who thinks menarche is party-worthy. She was right, of course. From that moment on, I hated my hormones, and they hated me right back.

As the months went by, more and more of my friends started menstruating and I stopped imagining that everyone in the room somehow telepathically knew I had my period each month. The self-consciousness decreased…