If Your Period Was A Horror Story (Because It Kind Of Is)


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Nice Move


The lights flicker on and off as the wind howls through the limbs of the trees. You hear a wolf howling at the full moon as the thunder and lightning shakes you to your core. There you are, lying in your pitch dark room staring at the ceiling, flinching every time you start to dose off. Your heart beats faster, your palms get sweaty, and then in an instant, the moment you feared the most happens.

It’s not a nightmare. The axe murderer, that is your period, enters the building.

*24 hours earlier*

You know something isn’t right. You feel anxious. Something, or someone is following you. You can feel it breathing down your neck. It’s whispering in your ear, “text your ex, you know you really miss him.”

“Eat the second sleeve of Oreos; you’ve been stressed at work.”

“That boy blew you off because you have a terrible personality and you aren’t pretty enough.”

“That woman next to you is breathing really loudly. You should bitch her out.”

You become overwhelmed with emotion. You don’t know where to turn or why this is happening. All you know is that you are being tortured. Stalked. You want to cry and pull your hair out, but you try to pull yourself together, knowing in your heart that this is not you, and that something is psychologically tormenting you to the extent of ugly tears.

*24 hours later*

The psycho killer arrives. That haunting spirit causes a murder scene in your underwear, and now the pressure is at an all-time high. The torment is getting stronger, and now you’re starting to cave.

“Maybe I do miss my ex. Sure, he was emotionally abusive, but he watched the Game Show Network with me every night. Watching Family Feud alone and getting pissed at all the idiot contestants isn’t the same without him. I. NEED. HIM.”

“Give me all the Oreos I own. Go to the store and buy all the Oreos available on the shelves. Eat them all in one sitting. And then go back and see if they’ve restocked. You’re still hungry.”

“Man, that boy did blow me off because I have a terrible personality and I’m not pretty enough.”

“Can this woman stop wheezing like she’s 105 in my ear!? Does she need an oxygen tank!? How many times do I have to roll my eyes before she stops breathing on me!?”

The psychological plague has set in. As if that wasn’t enough, your serial killer Aunt Flo has to physically torture you as well.

“Wanna play a game?” she asks.


But all the begging and pleading won’t get you out of her demented games. First, she goes in for your lower back. She enforces just enough pain to make walking, living, and breathing, uncomfortable. Not enough to keep you down and out, but enough to strike your nerves. Then, your legs. Sharp, little pains in the tops of your legs, like little jolts of electrocution. Not all at once, but periodically, just to remind you of her presence; of her domination over you. Finally, she goes in for the kill and she slaughters your uterus. Your insides look like a dead deer being skinned for its meat. Your ovaries are set on fire and stabbed simultaneously. She then takes a razor blade and starts scraping the insides of your uterus laughing the entire time.

*3-5 days later*

You can see the light at the end of the tunnel. You know your pain has not been for nothing, and the break of day is coming on the other side. You go 6 hours without having to shove a stick of toilet paper up your vagina. Then, just like the ex-boyfriend you thought was gone forever, she sneaks back in and ruins a pair of underwear that was not “period designated.” Then you have to walk around with a tampon up your vag even though you’re not heavily menstruating. Leaving your vagina feeling violated, sad, and rubbed raw.

You’re weary. You’re scared. You’re scorned. You don’t remember what it’s like to live a normal life without the fear of Aunt Flo coming back to take you as a prisoner again. All the fear piles up at once, until you remember, this means you’re not pregnant. Now it all doesn’t seem so bad.

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