We need to talk about periods.
Statistically in England, it takes 7.5 years to get a diagnosis for endometriosis, which is much better than it used to be but still not good enough. I am a big believer that there is a huge issue with the lack of conversations about periods. We do have sex education in school, delivered by the most incredible teachers who really do try their best. However, with all the will in the world, a PhD in the Benin Bronzes with an emphasis on the ongoing debate on the right to withhold them from their country of origin leaves teachers woefully unprepared to discuss the pros and cons of the IUD vs. the patch or the dangers of leaving a tampon in too long. I have worked with many incredible members of the teaching community, but if they were the sole providers of my sexual health and period understanding, I would be royally and utterly misinformed. If we do not start to have these conversations, we are doing millions of women a disservice.
10% of women world wide have endometriosis - that’s 176 million worldwide. Endometriosis UK Facts and Figures
I can vividly remember my Year 5 classroom: sitting on the carpet, the sun streaming in on us, the excitement of the newly installed Smart Boards that worked for that glorious week in 2005, waiting for our first-ever sex lesson. The giggles, the smirks being exchanged by the three students in class who knew what sex was, the rest of us hoping that we were not asked any questions. Now, while I would love to say that I remember every aspect of that lesson, that would be giving Ms. Year 5 Teacher far too much credit. A conversation arose on how to keep ourselves safe in public, a fantastically important conversation, and looking back now, I am happy to say boys and girls remained together for this lesson so we could be taught not only how to not be assaulted but also how to not assault other people, a lesson that seems to often be lacking.
While this conversation was buzzing, in full swing, our 9-year-old selves jumping out of our chairs to give mind-blowing answers that had never been heard—‘check to see if people look at you more than once’—revolutionary, the word ‘rape’ was introduced. It was in this conversation that I hid. I was the thickest 9-year-old ever; look at all these students listening and nodding along, they all have life sussed, I have no idea what rape means (I am not even sure I knew what sex was), and so the conversation passed me by and not one nugget of information remained in my head. It was only years later, now having my own 9-year-old and two that I borrow at the weekends, that I see I was not to blame here. This is not well-trodden territory and nor should it be in Year 5. These teachers chucked out words that we could not understand and had no clue of the magnitude of the conversations so as to feel that a box had been ticked and the national curriculum expectations for hours of PSHE/RSE/(fill in whatever other acronym used by your school) were required.
Now, having gone on to be a teacher, form tutor, and head of year, I see that our children are being given fractional amounts of information on the largest topic that can ever be taught in schools: their wellbeing and life. My next takeaway from this ‘lesson’ was the period talk. I remember one statement from this whole experience, and it came crashing back to me four years later at the age of 13 when my period made its first appearance. Now ladies, gents, if you are reading this, it is because you have or know someone who has endometriosis (if this doesn't apply to you, I applaud your wide variety of reading material), and so buckle up and hold onto your butts, because this is the line I remember: ‘There is not a lot of blood, maybe a tablespoon full.’ I am awfully sorry, but what?! A tablespoon? Either this woman had one experience of periods (her own, apparently dream-like periods) or I have been following cooking recipes wrong my entire life.
When my period first graced me with its presence, I felt so betrayed. Each month I would clear up the murder scene that was my bathroom. I would roll up balls of tissue paper to get through double science and still be checking the chairs as I stood up, and that voice—‘one tablespoon’—would run through my head. So why did I never know there was something wrong? Why did I not consider that my level of pain and bleeding was abnormal? Why did I never speak to someone and say, “mine isn’t a tablespoon’s worth, is yours?” The narrative around periods seems to have been that women need to get on with it, and while it is difficult, everyone is in the same boat. It is definitely time to acknowledge that while we may all be in the same boat, we are most definitely not in the same storm.
