Womanhood

I’ve always had this unshakeable fear of growing up. When I saw the spotting signs of my first period, I cried. I cried because I had biologically become a woman. No longer a child. No longer a girl. My body forced me to keep moving on, and I felt betrayed. There was little room to lie to myself, so I faced my reality by running to my Mother. I searched for comfort during my murderous cry, tears streaming down my red cheeks because someone had taken her from me. 

My Mother’s surprise shifted quickly to concern. Am I not supposed to feel like this? Is it normal to celebrate the blood that ties me to my womanhood? The kindness in my Mother’s eyes shed a little warmth on the situation at hand, but it didn’t deter me from the fact that it happened. That it couldn’t un-happen. 

This change was permanent, and no textbook warned me of its emotional impact, only the physical side ‘effects that may occur.’ And even then,  it’s subjective. Every new moon, I get an unexpected punch to the stomach, my lower back, hips, breasts, or god knows what. It always hints at the kind of hell I’ll encounter through the rest of the week.

Don’t get me wrong; I’ve learned to love being a woman. 

But I miss being a girl.