Self-awareness doesn’t affect it, anticipation doesn’t smooth it out — each month the fertility cycle spins on without control or influence, grabbing the wheel too drunk to drive, careening towards the cliffs and swerving past trees, a white-knuckled wild ride enthralled with the power of tri-hormone fuel.
It feels like I'm being used. Like I'm a conduit, the vehicle. The heavy brew flows down through me, but it is not me. It's like a possession by an outer power, the strong arm of something reaching through from beyond, shifting the gears, laying on the lead foot, cranking the tunes to a terrible song.
Why must this happen? Where is the plan that included this as good idea, so good it must be repeated every 28 days? Where is the biological imperative in this, what purpose is served by this syndrome of deeply personal breakdown? Where is the evolutionary benefit of clouded thinking and compromised functioning?
Or — is this simply crystal clear thinking that is no longer able to tolerate compromise? Or — is this a force designed to right the wrongs, snap us all into shape, a pull no punches full force correction on everything that needs a swift smack back into alignment?
Some say the power of monthly dilation is divine, a sacred impulse, a gift.
Well, I don’t think so. I think it’s a mistake. A huge evolutionary mistake. We are the only mammals who drop an egg every month. Most animals have the sense to time ovulation when the conditions are right, when there is enough food, a reliable mate, safety. Ovulation is spread out across a seasonally sensible rhythm, and fertility is suppressed when conditions are bad.
Not humans. Those eggs pop out of ripening follicles with military time, left, right, left, right, ovary, ovary. Not enough food, too bad, here it comes. The stress of moving or traveling seems to encourage the little things, so does tragedy and loss. The cycle of human fertility has no decency, periods show up even in the worst possible moments. In fact, you can count on it. Big trip to the tropics on the calendar? A wedding? The blood bath adjusts itself to arrive on the worst possible day, when bathrooms are public and dirty, outfits are tight and unforgiving, and the rush of excitement and emotion is fueled with a trio of chemical accelerants.
At the very least, you think evolution would have employed the most basic trigger for ovulation suppression, but no. Women who are trapped in the snare of an abuser, who’s very life is being threatened by the man trying to impregnate her. Even then, in this extreme, life threatening situation, the eggs drop, passing the genes of the monster along while tightening the noose around the mothers neck.
The blood. You can capture it in precious cups and pour in your gardens. You can paint your thighs and your canvas, and photograph the art of bright red stains. Hang the blotted sheets for all to see and celebrate the mysteries of the moon as she reflects our waxing and waning waistlines.
But I’m sticking with my theory that this is an error, an unfortunate hiccup in an otherwise perfect world.
Take a look around, consult a few graphs, the population of the humans here on earth has outpaced what is reasonable or sustainable. Our overactive ovaries and ceaselessly dropping eggs have cracked a fragile balance, there’s too many of us now. Pull the shades on the shop please, shut it down, leave us in peace, enough with the rollercoaster hormone egg dropping machine, enough.
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An excerpt from Written WhileBleeding