The Legend Of The Little Pad
Legend has it most women do not regularly wear pantyliners, filling the garbage suspisciously with tiny, wasted wrappers. I was not aware of such a FACT until embarrassingly recently. I thought the ways I used to suppress my body were the same habits other, similarly less-confident women had adopted. Besides, over the years, they had become something of a weird comfort blanket, something I became defensive over anytime someone felt the need to point it out.
Let me explain how all this began: a few weeks before I started my first period, a similar journey into womanhood began; I got my first yeast infection. Only, I didn't know what it was, and my descriptions of it to my mom were just vague enough that she wasn't able to pinpoint it, either. So, she bought me little pads, or pantyliners, to at least save my underwear while we waited to see if it went away...but it never went away.
But I was too shy, most of the time, to try to talk more about it with my mom. Talking about my body seemed forbidden in my mind, like I didn't deserve the answer to my health because it regarded a filthy part of my body. I didn't want to think about it, ever; but it was always there reminding me, itching, burning, and making most school days nearly unbearable.
And then there were the times when it came for me to ask for replenishment on my little pads. My family was always stretching funds and trying to get by the best they could; so when I suddenly had a new personal expense, it caused a firm level of tension between my parents and I. Every time I needed another box, the same cycle repeated: I would casually ask for more while I noticed a list being made, they would ask why I needed to add this $3 purchase to our load, I would awkwardly re-explain (the best I could) what was happening to my body and why I needed the fuckers in the first place, a small argument would break out until I was either too pissed to talk or about to cry, then they would finally give up and put it on the list. It was humiliating and frustrating.
I felt stuck in my own body, taken captive by the one part of me that I wanted to ignore the most. And I felt alone in my battle because we were too broke to talk about doctors, not to mention the weird stigma that always hung around my asking to see a gynecologist. I just wanted it to be better, but I didn't even have a name to put to this illness--this condition.
So, I kept wearing those damn little pads. For years. After high school and into college, I still bought them for myself instead of finally finding my answers. At that point, I was too scared, and it had become a habit, too. I hated spending so much money on something I used once and then threw away, but I still felt trapped. The path of the little pad was the safe path, and my auto-piloted brain couldn't be convinced off that false security.
Finally, at age 25, after having left the church for a year or so, I got up the courage to drive myself over to Planned Parenthood and get my answers, as well as some birth control. This experience was my first stepping stone into self love, I know now. It was uncomfortable (I had never been naked except to shower), awkward, and at points I almost cried; but I knew I needed this experience if I wanted the progress I craved in my life. Planned Parenthood rocks, by the way. For how skittish I was in there, they helped me feel secure and cared for and, for the first time, informed on my sexual health.
Still, I wore the little pads. At this point, I just assumed that this was how every woman lived. Why wouldn't you want to save your nice panties from the awful ick coming out of there 24/7? After taking a couple prescription pills for the yeast, it went away for about a week before it slowly sidled back. This cycle, it turned out, was a recurring one. Even after I found a gynecologist I preferred, saw her fairly regularly, and keep up on my prescriptions (I took several doses over the course of a few years), I still had problems with yeast.
It wasn't until this good (or not so good) year of 2016 that I was doing personal research on some toe fungus I've had since I was a little girl that I learned this is the source of my yeast problems. 28 years, people. It took me 28 years (well, closer to 15-20) to figure this bullshit out. So, I treat my toes with lavender oil regularly and have stopped wearing those damning little pads; and guess what! The yeast is finally going away! All it took was a courageous step into the dark, removal of the little pad, and letting myself breathe. I can't say I'm completely better, yet; but, shit, I'm working on it.
Let me explain how all this began: a few weeks before I started my first period, a similar journey into womanhood began; I got my first yeast infection. Only, I didn't know what it was, and my descriptions of it to my mom were just vague enough that she wasn't able to pinpoint it, either. So, she bought me little pads, or pantyliners, to at least save my underwear while we waited to see if it went away...but it never went away.
But I was too shy, most of the time, to try to talk more about it with my mom. Talking about my body seemed forbidden in my mind, like I didn't deserve the answer to my health because it regarded a filthy part of my body. I didn't want to think about it, ever; but it was always there reminding me, itching, burning, and making most school days nearly unbearable.
And then there were the times when it came for me to ask for replenishment on my little pads. My family was always stretching funds and trying to get by the best they could; so when I suddenly had a new personal expense, it caused a firm level of tension between my parents and I. Every time I needed another box, the same cycle repeated: I would casually ask for more while I noticed a list being made, they would ask why I needed to add this $3 purchase to our load, I would awkwardly re-explain (the best I could) what was happening to my body and why I needed the fuckers in the first place, a small argument would break out until I was either too pissed to talk or about to cry, then they would finally give up and put it on the list. It was humiliating and frustrating.
I felt stuck in my own body, taken captive by the one part of me that I wanted to ignore the most. And I felt alone in my battle because we were too broke to talk about doctors, not to mention the weird stigma that always hung around my asking to see a gynecologist. I just wanted it to be better, but I didn't even have a name to put to this illness--this condition.
So, I kept wearing those damn little pads. For years. After high school and into college, I still bought them for myself instead of finally finding my answers. At that point, I was too scared, and it had become a habit, too. I hated spending so much money on something I used once and then threw away, but I still felt trapped. The path of the little pad was the safe path, and my auto-piloted brain couldn't be convinced off that false security.
Finally, at age 25, after having left the church for a year or so, I got up the courage to drive myself over to Planned Parenthood and get my answers, as well as some birth control. This experience was my first stepping stone into self love, I know now. It was uncomfortable (I had never been naked except to shower), awkward, and at points I almost cried; but I knew I needed this experience if I wanted the progress I craved in my life. Planned Parenthood rocks, by the way. For how skittish I was in there, they helped me feel secure and cared for and, for the first time, informed on my sexual health.
Still, I wore the little pads. At this point, I just assumed that this was how every woman lived. Why wouldn't you want to save your nice panties from the awful ick coming out of there 24/7? After taking a couple prescription pills for the yeast, it went away for about a week before it slowly sidled back. This cycle, it turned out, was a recurring one. Even after I found a gynecologist I preferred, saw her fairly regularly, and keep up on my prescriptions (I took several doses over the course of a few years), I still had problems with yeast.
It wasn't until this good (or not so good) year of 2016 that I was doing personal research on some toe fungus I've had since I was a little girl that I learned this is the source of my yeast problems. 28 years, people. It took me 28 years (well, closer to 15-20) to figure this bullshit out. So, I treat my toes with lavender oil regularly and have stopped wearing those damning little pads; and guess what! The yeast is finally going away! All it took was a courageous step into the dark, removal of the little pad, and letting myself breathe. I can't say I'm completely better, yet; but, shit, I'm working on it.
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