By Megan Durham
My mother insisted that tampons were practically a gift from the gods. Pads were like diapers, she said, itchy and immature. I got the distinct impression that real women wore tampons, that this was just another trial that I had to undergo in my quest towards adulthood. Blood wasn’t enough in itself.
So I proudly took the box that she had given me and trotted off to the bathroom where I barricaded myself in. It was such a pretty box, full of directions illustrated with peaceful figures that calmly smiled, frozen in mid-ceremony. It all seemed so simple: unwrap, crouch, insert. Their smiles insisted that this was the easiest thing in the world. The tubes themselves were non-threatening, wrapped in paper decorated with curling script. Shiny and slick unwrapped, I tested one just to see what it was like and marveled at how little pressure was necessary to make the applicator open. I took a deep breath and smiled in the mirror, trying to mimic the look on the models’ faces.
Unwrap. (Such a small string, what if it gets lost inside me?) Crouch. (This is the normal thing to do, the polite thing. Proper ladies hide their blood away inside themselves.) Insert.
Insert. I pressed harder, much harder than I had when I tested it. But it wouldn’t come out, it wouldn’t slide in like it was supposed to, slick and smooth. There was something blocking it. I glanced at the models again, tried to mimic more than just their faces. Crouch. Breathe. Insert. Nothing! I pushed harder, trying to force it into me. I could feel the pressure, but the tampon remained reluctant to comply. I glared at the strange thing I held in my hand. No more than a quarter of an inch had escaped the applicator, the pure white tip stained lightly with blood. Wasn’t it supposed to sit inside me?
I tossed into the trash. Defective, I thought to myself. I pulled another from the steel blue box and took deep breaths. Relax. Unwrap. Breathe. Crouch. Breathe. Insert. Argh!!! What was I doing wrong? I could feel the pressure, down where it was supposed to slide like silk into me. But I couldn’t open up to it. My fingers left red prints up and down the smooth white tube as I tried different grips. I contorted my body, trying to find the position that would allow it to slip easily within me. On top of the toilet, one leg up on the tub, sitting on the counter with both legs in the air. Why was my body being troublesome? I muttered a quick prayer and threw the stained thing to join its brother in the trash.
Buttoning my robe I went and quietly consulted my mother. Was it supposed to be painful? She reminded me that there might be a hymen there, but remarked that it should only be the work of a moment to find a way through it. She looked worried, which made me worried. Was there something wrong with me? I rushed back to the bathroom, grabbing a mirror as I went.
I examined myself as best I could. That was the place, I was sure of it! But there wasn’t any hymen, there wasn’t anything. Just a space where tampons refused to go.
I tried again and again, shoving and pushing until the tender muscles screamed at me to stop. The most I could get in was a half an inch, only half an inch! There had to be something wrong with my body.
I begged God, let me do this! Please, I want to be a real woman! I don’t want to let my mother down. The tears started to flow like the redness between my fingers, salt joining salt upon the applicators and on my face where I tried to wipe my streaming eyes.
In the end the tampons all arrived in the trash, alongside the torn up instructions, cursed and abused. I would wait three years for the Pap smear I knew would come at 18, always worried that the doctor would tell me that something was horribly wrong with me. In the end it wasn’t much, merely that I was incredibly tiny, too tiny for the doctor to even use the speculums. Eventually I would stretch far enough to use them.
But I still leave the tampons where I found them: alone and unused, their surfaces reflecting the fairy script on their perfect white wrappers.