February 5, 2017

A letter to my Uterus.

Dear Uterus,

You are seriously the most vengeful, vindictive and mean b*tch I’ve ever had the good fortune to be associated with. What sadistic pleasure do you derive from torturing me every month? Who gave you the right to waste a few days of my life each month battling your bloodied tyranny?

You live in me, and I pander to your mood swings and endless cravings, yet this is your way of showing me gratitude? You are the only one who can reduce a strong woman into a ball, curled into a fetal position, weeping for no reason at all.

Yes, so I played “Boss” at work yesterday, ignoring your battle cries on the first day. Seems gritting my teeth and getting on with the endless demands at work, while paying no heed to the mayhem you had begun causing, didn’t go down well with you did it? So you decided to show me who’s “Boss” by waging a full-fledged war when I got home. You even connived with sleep and sent her off to an all-night party, leaving me to succumb to your bloody confrontation, screaming the night away, curled and cold despite the hot water bottle and three blankets.

Even those darn painkillers are like placebos that lull me into believing I’ve won, only to have you attacking me with brutal force again a few hours later—punishing me with the gory floods of blood. Why is it that you decide to begin your cruelty only on days where I have the most to do and cannot afford to lose a single minute? I’m tired of calling in sick every month complaining of a fever when the real culprit is you. Why can we not co-exist please?

What is it with you and your love of surprises? When I’m least expecting you to start, even though I meticulously chart your comings and goings, you decide to catch me unaware. It’s because of you I’ve learned to always be prepared for anything and everything, which is why in my bag, desk drawer and cupboard there can always be found a horde of the choicest sanitary products.

I find women who sugarcoat facts—and act as if you are one of their best friends and have a wonderful relationship with you—very annoying. They probably have never had a period as painful and gruesome as the ones you choose to inflict on me month after month. The pills the gynecologist recommends to tame your fury only work if you keep taking them month after month without fail. I find dealing with their side-effects more harrowing than surrendering myself to your wrath.

Another thing you love is finding ways to embarrass me. Like the countless times you have taken it upon yourself to stain whatever I’m sitting on. Despite wearing heavy-duty armour, woe betide me if I have back-to-back meetings or calls for a couple of hours and am unable to get up and honour my hourly routine of changing my armour. You will take advantage of that fact and make your presence felt by leaving your mark on my seat, regardless of the fact that it’s going to be noticed by all and sundry.

My only solution is to place a cushion on my seat, as washing the cushion cover every so often is easier than to have everyone staring at you while you attempt to erase evidence. Worse still is enduring the knowing glances of housekeeping surveying you as prime suspect at the crime scene. You know I even dread coughing or sneezing when you are around lest an avalanche of blood is let loose.

My worst nightmare is the combination of the force of gravity and a huge sneeze on the days you display your anger with me by starting a downpour of huge clots. Those are days I dread any movement and prefer to be hiding in a blanket at home—bedsheet reinforced by a Mackintosh.

The most irritating aspect though is planning my life around you! Why can’t you just go into hibernation when I’m on a holiday? You just love being the first one to pack your bags and come along with me and ruin everything—even if you are days away. I’m pretty sure you’re the one thing even Superwoman is afraid of. Unless she banishes you to Alaska with those pills, which I warn you: I’ll try them too if you keep this up! Go get a life uterus, or better still, find someone else to torture, i.e., men!

{Smirks dreaming about what would happen if she could tinker with genetics and make that happen, but passes out, assailed by another painful cramp.}

Maybe I’ll have a better opinion of you when we’ve had kids, or the time comes when I’ll finally bid you goodbye, but ’til then, I hate you, period!




Author: Vyomi Malik

Image: Flickr/Hey Paul Studios

Editor: Travis May

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