So it’s- you know, that week. The week that, usually, I hate being a woman with every tiny fiber of my mad little soul. I mean, I really hate it. I feel physically disgusting and spiritually unclean and I don’t want anyone to even touch me. And I complain as a coping mechanism, so everyone in a three-mile radius knows just how much I hate it.
A few weeks ago- and I don’t even remember the circumstances of this conversation anymore, but Ian and Lanthir say I was talking to both of them- I decided I was tired of spending a quarter of my life hating my body, hating my assigned sex, and hating myself. We’d had many discussions ranting about how menstruation, as a societal construct, is so annoyingly ~feminine~, and how some of us who have to put up with it don’t want to have to buy pastel-colored pads and spend a week being stereotypically- and negatively- womanly. You know what I mean- hormonal, bitchy, full of mood swings, prone to crying and eating lots of chocolate, that whole shebang. And I realized, during all this ranting, that I’m never more unhappy with my female body than when I’m bleeding from parts of it.
And then I thought, well, instead of spending the week wishing I were a man, maybe I can be one. Put the “men” in menstruation, sort of thing. You know that saying about never trusting something that bleeds for a week and doesn’t die, well, I’m deciding that something that can do that is badass. And hey, why shouldn’t menstruation be a strong and manly time? It is a warrior week! A week of blood and rage!
So this week, my first official Blood and Rage Week, I’m reclaiming my masculinity. I’m going to wear pants and be enthusiastic as hell and get lots of stuff done while I’m not worrying about that pesky sex drive getting in the way. And, okay, I’m still going to complain when the back pain kicks in, because a warrior doesn’t have to be a stoic. But it’s day two and I don’t hate my body, so I’m calling it a good start.