2:45 am. I can’t sleep. I woke up from a dream – not a nightmare, but unsettling too. I keep trying to recall my dream, but it is gone – lost in the corners of my mind. I just know that I was wrong about something. I did the worst one can do when unable to sleep; I took my phone and checked notifications. I was on Twitter and on a whim, I unfollowed a couple of accounts, the one of my former favourite band too – turns out they are a bunch of pretentious bellends. It took me almost 20 years to see it. I still appreciate their music; it was the soundtrack of my life, and yet… I really don’t like the people they became. Or is it me?
Am I drifting away from the person I used to be? I feel empty and overflowing. Sad and happy. Tired and wide awake.
How did that happen? When did everything change?
In a little more than 2 hours my alarm will go off, and I need to go to work. Early shift. I like that – if only it started later, lol.
Birds are beginning to chirp outside (the window is open); my husband is snoring next to me, and my mind is thinking too loud.
Dear readers, if women and their monthly ordeal is nothing you want to read about, then please skip this post. If you are curious, don’t say you haven’t been warned; this is about a woman’s period.
I am a 36-year-old woman who gave birth to three children — the natural way. (Maybe I will write about the births of my kids one day – spoiler: fucking hell, it hurt!)
Every woman is blessed (cursed) with a week of menstrual flow each month. For me, it started when I was 11 years old. I remember the day very well, even 25 years later. I wonder if every woman does. I had my first period the day that I was allowed to go shopping with my sister on my own for the first time. We met with her friend and two guys. I even know that I wore jeans and a T-shirt with Michaelangelo’s painting of the Sistine Chapel. One of the guys pointed out that there was a naked dude on my shirt… Lol, he was only 15, of course, he was shocked, and I felt very grown up.
I started with using pads, but I didn’t like it: the mess and all; it was a lot to handle, and I was still a child. I was reluctant to use tampons at first… The thought about inserting anything “down there” was not something I could imagine. But once I started using them, I actually preferred them to pads. I felt better with them. More secure. And if they are worn correctly, you don’t even feel that there is something inside your body. I was blessed to have a light flow without cramps before I gave birth for the first time. (PMS, though that has been a tough one from the beginning, and I am full of cravings for chocolate, even though I don’t usually have a sweet tooth) My cycle was never just 28 days long as you learn in school, but that’s okay; I got used to it quickly. I was on the pill for quite a while, but I definitely stopped taking any hormones after the birth of my second child. Everything in my body was rebellious, and nothing was normal anymore… After a birth like the second, who can blame it?! I was in labour for 5 hours and only had one real contraction before the girl was born. After that, I had a laughing fit. Between child two and three, I didn’t really care about contraception. And after my second daughter (and last child) was born, I got an IUD. Currently, the one I have is made of gold. Lol… Not even kidding. Because I am worth it!
With the IUD, my monthly flow became more prominent, lasting longer, and I also developed cramps and other pains. PMS stayed the same… I am really very angry and irritated the day before I get my period; and chocolate! Who ate my chocolate?!
A couple of months ago, I began thinking about all the pads and tampons that I used and will use in my life. (I get those brainfarts once in a while.) I mean, I probably have 15 more years to go before menopause will start (or more). Sanitary products are expensive and a massive source of plastic waste. I am not someone who is militant about protecting the environment – I admit it, but I try to live a conscious life and to teach my children to live conscious lives too. I want to leave a good planet for my kids and grandkids. And just all that monthly trash – it is a lot. To think that I have two daughters and sooner rather than later, they will need pads or tampons too, they will make more waste and spend more money on hygienic products too. Is that really worth it? There must be something else.
I was searching the almighty and all-knowing interwebs to find a solution, and I found the menstrual cup. I was sceptical. I found out that there are two sizes – for women who have given birth and for those who haven’t. There are various materials available, and contradictory information too. I read a lot about it and did my research (I always do), but something that kept me personally from getting such a cup on the spot was the fact that I am wearing an IUD. A couple of sites advise against using a cup and an IUD because the cup is held in place with a vacuum. They are concerned that once you remove the cup without removing the vacuum, the IUD could come loose.
I decided to ask my gynaecologist about it, and she explained to me that it is practically impossible to pull the IUD out with the vacuum. Needless to say, I was relieved. She gave me a couple of tips and a brand of menstrual cups that is silicone free. I ordered one right away online and began using it this week. And this brings me here, to this moment. I never thought that I would write about my period one day, but I am so excited this month, that I want to share it. Honestly though, who cares? Who cares that the cup is so much easier to use than I ever thought? No leaks, no spills, nothing. I don’t feel that it is there at all. The only disadvantage I experienced until now is the fact that the toilet looks as if I slaughtered an animal when I empty the cup (It can take up to 12 hours worth of flow… Three times as much as a tampon for me… Cost effective!) I have yet to find a way to make it less messy. Because no matter how you do it, you will come in contact with your blood; you will have to touch and insert your fingers into your vagina to loosen the cup or to put it in. If you are uncomfortable with that, the cup is not for you. Definitely. But honestly, this is your body, nothing about it should be gross, even less something that happens every month. It is another way of getting to know yourself better.
What I like, is that I don’t have to think about changing a tampon at work or when I am not home. I don’t have to think about leaks or spills – on heavy flow days I have to change my tampon every three hours (and I am using big ones, lol), the cup took six hours and more, with ease before I emptied it. I will not have to worry if I carry tampons in my handbag or if I forgot them. I will not have to worry anymore if I have what I need at home, in case the period starts earlier than expected. (When I was younger, I had to count the days on the calendar to know when my period was due. Since 2011, I am using an app on my phone that has a countdown. I love it. Very easy.) The cup seems to be the right solution for me right now.
I can recommend the menstrual cup wholeheartedly. If you are tired of pads and tampons; if you believe that it is a waste of money and doesn’t do any good for the planet, then consider a menstrual cup. That said, the first days I used a pad because I didn’t trust the cup. I was paranoid about leaks and blood stains on my clothes.
I cannot make any promises to you about how you will feel with the cup, but since I am a person who likes everything fast and easy and simple, and the cup is just that for me; maybe it is an alternative worth thinking about for you too. And hey, if it is not, then there was no harm done.
So, that was it. My ode to the menstrual cup. It is 3:46 in the morning, I have a migraine (again), I am tired, and I can’t sleep because of RLS (restless legs syndrome) – I wasn’t bothered with that in a while… Maybe my tired mind just wanted to get rid of all these thoughts, and this post will be incredibly embarrassing in the morning when I get up. Maybe not. Maybe it was necessary to write something like this for once — an other genre of stream of consciousness.
I sit, and I wait. Sitting and waiting. And I hope that no one will ask what I am waiting for. I would answer “Life”, and they would quote John Lennon “Life is what happens while you’re busy making other plans”. And they wouldn’t even know that it’s not a simple quote but that this sentence is a line of lyrics from a song he wrote for his beautiful, beautiful, beautiful, beautiful boy Julian. And I would bite my tongue because information like that is plenty in my brain. It’s just – no one cares about it. And that’s why I keep sitting and waiting. For life to happen. And to understand it. But that is not entirely true. Because from my place, I have a nice view. I observe and analyse, and I keep to myself. The things I know, are not the things I need to share. But on the other hand, all the half-truths and snippets of misinformation I know, are not the ones others want to hear. It’s a circle. And if I don’t find the right corner to get off, I will stumble, and my clumsy attempt to catch myself will end with me lying face down enduring the spiral, the slipstream that brought this upon me. Upwards or downwards? Which way does it go? Maybe just sideways? Either way, I will end up puking on the floor and emptying what little is inside me. All of it, until the heaving is dry and the acrid smell of bile chases everyone away. Everyone left the building. Including me. I need to pay attention to the little things. Hold on tight to the pillars of this meagre existence, to keep myself from stumbling. And while I am doing just that, all these unfiltered thoughts are rushing down onto the screen.
I put the cigarette to my lips and inhale. No filter. Rolled with my own shaky hands. Because – yes, why? Because it is edgy. Cool people roll their cigarettes themselves. It’s all pretending anyway. Oh yes, I’m a great pretender. Who gives a crap about my cigarettes and my thoughts. But I keep writing. Someday, the romantic voice inside of my head suggests, someone will read the mix of weirdness and eclecticism my brain produces. They will beg me to publish a book – a memoir – a biography of this writer and all will be good. At least, I have dreams. The other possibility, far more probable, is that the words stay unread. I will die in a stuffy room with overflowing ashtrays and too many empty bottles.
Maybe a cat or two. Sheets of papers with the start of the next big novel is strewn across the floor and the bed — music loud and on repeat. And in the centre of it all; me. Picture me like Jimi Hendrix, suffocated on my own vomit. A rock star death. Don’t be alarmed, though. I am not a rock star. I don’t play the guitar well enough and all in all, I am just a coward who never did any drugs. On second thought, aren’t most rock stars ridden with anxiety? Isn’t that why they turn to alcohol and drugs and whatnot? Always on the hunt for the next high? But one day your brain (and your soul too), are just too used to the girls screaming your name and the papers printing your photographs, your name in the headlines. And while you pretend to crave your privacy, the thought of being left alone and forgotten scares you to death. And so you power on, with some chemical help, because you couldn’t do all the shows and interviews and all that other crap that comes with being famous, without it. I don’t envy these people at all — not one bit.
And so I stare out onto the lake. The sky is grey; the water is too. And I wait for the next idea to come up. A real writer wouldn’t wait. They would write. Or am I wrong and a real writer would draw charts and write every idea down? Being organised? Where’s the fun in that? So – no labelling my ideas. Just sitting. Waiting. Staring. Smoking. And while I am doing that, the music plays softly in the background. It’s not loud enough to drown out the voices that keep telling me that I am a waste of talent. I can still hear them judging me and how I spend the days. For them, I am doing nothing. For me, I am savouring the moment. It’s as a friend told me once: We need time to understand who we are before someone else comes along and makes us into the version they want us to be. So maybe – just maybe, my answer to the question “What are you waiting for”, would not be “Life”, but maybe the truer answer would be “To understand”. I guess the reaction would be close to the same. They would urge me to get up and do something.
But, if they don’t see it, does that really mean that I am not doing anything? Because in my mind, eccentric as it may be, I am doing a whole lot. I am not giving up.
Written in March 2016.
I haven’t had a cigarette this year… And, I don’t know how you feel about it, but I think that the last paragraph in this piece of writing is the most important thing I have ever written. Whenever I encounter people who are struggling with their mental health, whenever I am struggling myself, I remember these words. I am not giving up, even if people are not seeing that I am fighting.
She was fifteen when she first heard the song that changed her life and became path and direction of her journey. Music had been a distraction and a companion for most of her isolated childhood and youth. Being subject to emotional abuse, she had found somewhere safe to hide in her mind when music was playing. When silence reigned in her bedroom, thoughts threatened to destroy her fragile mind. Once in a while, her older sister took her to the city. They browsed stores for clothes and, her favourite part, for music. Their shopping spree always ended with an obligatory trip to the newsstand. Her sister bought the latest teen magazine, and she invested the last of her money in music magazines that came with free CDs.
On the bus home, both girls looked out of the window, trying to find ways to ignore what was awaiting them at home. The older one retreated to her own bedroom as soon as they walked through the door; the younger one was greeted with new chores that were added to her list and verbal abuse when she was not able to do the things she was commanded to do. She was not innocent though, she replied to every insult thrown at her with another insult. Inside, she broke apart, but she refused to show it to the outside. They would love to see her cry, and she was not willing to grant them this victory. Once done with everything, she too found her way to her sanctuary, where the first thing she did was putting on some music. But the music she listened to made her angry. Angrier than she already was. Her friends had suggested those bands, and for once, she had wanted to fit in, and something was appealing too, but she was beginning to see that those friends were morons who weren’t able to see past shallow lyrics and worshipped ugly minds and ideas. This was not her. She was too open-minded and free-spirited for this hate and ugliness. She had enough of those at home already, and she wanted more; needed more. Somehow she always knew that she deserved more.
She unpacked what she had bought, new CDs to put in the stand next to her stereo and listen to one after the other; a new black top with a large white and silvery bird, and the magazines from the newsstand. She wanted to give the new music on the free sampler attached to the magazine a listen first. Awaiting rejection, she knocked on her sister’s door to ask for the laptop they were sharing. With relief she saw that the older girl was not using it and with a warning to bring it back within an hour, she could take it. Once everything was plugged in and mounted, she was in for a surprise.
4 minutes and 42 seconds were about to change her life. The CD started on its own accord, and the first sounds she heard was an acoustic song by a band that was unknown to her. She didn’t know much about music, but she knew when she was touched by something good. She looked at the screen in front of her and was intrigued by the two men she saw with their guitars. One was sitting on a chair, strumming and singing; head slightly bowed. The other lay on the bed cradling his guitar like a lover; eyes closed. A myriad of emotions ran through her mind and body, too many emotions to place them and all she was capable of doing was sigh and smile. Wow! The song ended. The screen faded to black and she, she released another long breath. She was mesmerised by what she had heard and seen. Before the next song came on, she had to play this one again. The repeat button was the only option there was. This time, the smile was there from the beginning. As soon as the song had ended a second time, she knew she needed more; more of this beautiful and sad music. She was greedy, but this music, these lyrics, and the men somehow too, they had touched something deep inside her. Something was born and awoken in those few minutes of having listened to the song. In a frantic nearly obsessed way she browsed the internet to find out who this band was. They were brothers and part of a band. The clip of them in the hotel room was made to advertise their newest release. This British band had been around for a while, and she made a point to purchase as much of their back catalogue the next time she would go to her preferred record store. It was 1998; she was fifteen and deep inside, she knew that this band had just changed her entire life and thoughts.
She was twenty-six when an unexpected bout of depression hit her. It was the first time she felt helpless, hopeless, obsolete. Friends had long gone; only a couple had survived and morphed into adult friendships. Life had changed; she had moved on with a family of her own. She had a house, a husband, and two kids. Her mind had changed too; of course, it had, she was not a child anymore but an educated and intelligent woman. The music she listened to had changed, as well as the meaning it had in her life now. The band that had changed her life in her youth was still there and had stayed the same; more or less, releasing new music regularly.
It was 2009, and everything looked good on the outside; to some her life was perfect. But inside; inside everything was different; she had lost hope. She had forgotten how to have hope for a better future. She had no dreams, no goals, no future. She was existing, but not living. No one had ever promised anything to her. No one had ever punished her for dreaming. And yet, she was bruised by the daily struggles. Hurt by her own high expectations and standards; and yet she couldn’t change. She was powerless. Hope was lost.
She sat in front of the computer. It was silent in her room. Just she and her tormenting thoughts that became louder and more vicious with every passing sleepless night. She clicked YouTube links by the dozen to distract herself from the noise in her brain, but the music didn’t bring her peace anymore. The songs were filled with melancholy, and they all made her want to cry and hide from the world even more. Until seemingly out of nowhere, the song came on that had changed her life a decade ago appeared in a random playlist. The exact same version. With both men in a hotel room and the camera focusing on the guitarist who lay flat on his back playing the intro to the song. Forgotten Hopes.
The song that had changed so much such a long time ago was doing it again. She didn’t smile once when it played. She just watched. Frozen. Her mind was empty, devoid of thoughts. This hadn’t happened in a very long time. And when the screen faded to black to begin playing a new song, she paused the playlist and buried her face in her hands. She finally cried. She cried the tears she had kept in for years, and when she was all cried out, she felt freer than she had ever felt. Snot was running down her nose, and dark dots that used to be warm tears adorned her shirt, but it was okay. Her head hurt from the sudden release of those locked up emotions. But that too was okay. And once again, this song, this band that was ever-present in her life, had changed her train of thoughts. It was okay. It was okay, and everything would be okay. Music was healing her mind.
She was thirty-two in 2015, and after supporting one of the musicians of the band that had been her longtime companion in a crowd-funding campaign, she received a personalised song. It was the most unique gift she could ever receive. Forgotten Hopes, and it was sung just for her. It took her a couple of tries and a lot of headshaking and worrying, but in the end, she dared to send an email to the man whose lyrics had guided her through her life and whose words were inspiring her own creative mind. She thanked him and told him briefly how much she owed to him, his lyrics and his passion. He had touched her in all the right places, and now she wanted to touch him too. Give back a little. And by doing so, her life changed again. And maybe, his did too. For her, it was Important that he knew and understood that his presence on this earth had saved her, that it mattered. In her mind, every artist deserved to know that their light gave hope.
Forgotten Hopes. A vivid reminder to her to never lose hope.
With exclamation marks… I am not sure what happened, but when the notifications say “your stats are booming” something must be happening. 80 views in one day… I am used to 3 views or maybe 10 on a good day.
Currently, I am reading River Dixon’s Colder. I like his poetry – maybe it because it reminds me of my own once in a while? Either way, it’s touching work… Check out his blog: https://thestoriesinbetween.com
Second book on my bedside table is The Shining Girls by Lauren Beukes. I am not far in, I cannot say anything about it yet… So far thought, the writing is good and easy to read for non-native English speakers (like me).
Other than that…
Thank You and Good Night,
PS: I believe that a good writer needs to read a lot to understand words and their impact…
The year draws to a close, and we tend to look back on what was and try to imagine what will be.
I wanted to share the above picture with you. Those are my stats on this blog since its creation. As you can see 2013 and 2014 had many views and not many visitors. During those years Jamie and I shared a lot of music, and I often sent links to my blog here. So… He is to blame for the views. He passed away in 2015. Up until the end of 2016, I did not tag my posts. And when I did, everything went up. I also wrote a lot more. As you can see 2018 is by far the best year when it comes to my writing. Ironically, I have not sold a book through the button on this site. I am not even sure if it works. But that’s okay.
I owe you a big THANK YOU.
People from 62 different countries have visited me – Catherine Micqu. You know who you are. And I know some of you too.
I want to give special thanks to a handful of fellow bloggers. Nate, because you reached out when I needed it most. Your message came at the right time. Paul, because you always make me smile and I like your thoughts. Jeff, your love and dedication to music are amazing, your thoughts are deep, I appreciate that a lot. River Dixon because you are always the first to vote on whatever I share, and last but not least, Robert, because without you I wouldn’t write at all. Thank you.
No women? you ask. Well, apparently not. I just noticed this too. I went to look at my reader, and I saw that I don’t follow any blogs written by women and that are still active.
Either way, thank you all for your support and encouragement, silent or outspoken. See you on the other side. ❤