*** Trigger Warning – mentions sexual assault and precocious puberty as it pertains to the menstrual cycle which some readers may find graphic in detail
Unraveling
The beginning of my real menstrual cycle was the unraveling of my anger. I had already had a breakthrough period, but it had not lasted very long. Once the real one came, I began having a series of problems that progressively worsened over time. The only recourse was a visit to the doctor to find out the problem and the solution.
The doctor’s visit was a trigger for me. The visit triggered an unhidden anger that seemed to have been lying in wait. In retrospect, I realize now that there was an inner rage, sadness, and hurt so deep that those emotions could no longer be contained during a time when my body (unlike my mind) remembered so much about the sexual assault against me.
The doctor’s visit, in fact, was so much more for me. So much was said that I took in and held within my heart. That single doctor’s visit did not necessarily change the course of my life, but it solidified and confirmed my life’s journey. Even as an 11 year old, at the time, I intuitively knew and understood that my life was going to be very different as a woman, but I was yet to grasp what this truly meant on a much deeper level.
My journey was not going to be an easy one, and it was definitely not going to be one that others understood. It was and is a journey that has been intensely lonely at times and very unique to me. In fact, I cannot think of anyone who has even tried to walk a day in my shoes regarding my journey. Perhaps, the reason is because I have been surrounded by so many people that lack empathy.
Nonetheless, I found myself unraveling emotionally, and there was no way to stop it. I did not know it then, but I was walking into another stage of posttraumatic stress. This stage had me transfixed about the need for justice, but inwardly, I was not aware of this need. I was simply an angry child expressing rage. I was deeply hurt, and I was triggered by a doctor’s visit that felt more like a violation.
The Medical Examination
I will never forget this specific doctor’s visit. The physician was a well-known town family doctor. I had been to him many times before but for other ailments. This specific doctor was also a minister, but I never knew specifically if he presided over an actual church. I did know that he was known for praying for patients, but interestingly, he never prayed for me.
On this particular occasion, I was scheduled for an appointment regarding my irregular and heavy periods. I remember being so anxious because I did not know what to expect. I even remember some of the faces of the visitors in the waiting room. It just so happens that the mother of the narcissist I almost married years later was in the waiting room as well. There was no conversation between us though. She only looked at me and smiled while I sat flipping through magazines. My mother and grandmother sat talking about whatever.
When the nurse finally came out and called me back to one of the rooms, my mother and grandmother came with me. I was not sure of what to expect. I knew, however, that in order to understand what was going on with my cycles, the doctor was going to have to check my girly parts. I had read this much in the book my aunt gave me called Our Bodies, Ourselves. I was very apprehensive about the examination – more apprehensive than I felt that I needed to be. Somewhere inside of me I was bracing myself, and I was very afraid.
I had an overwhelming dread as I stepped into the small room where the nurse led me. In that room, the nurse checked my weight and vitals, collected a urine sample, and then told me to disrobe. Then she talked me through the way to position myself on the gynecological examination table. I had to climb up on the table and position myself with my bottom scooted all the way down to the edge of the table. Then, I had to place my feet within stirrups.
I remember it vividly being the most uncomfortable position for me because I had to wait for the doctor. Plus, it was highly embarrassing with my mother and grandmother sitting off to the side. I had specifically requested not to be stared at because their eyes seemed extra prying. Plus, I was still on my menstrual cycle. Fortunately, the nurse seemed unmoved by it or at least she did not show she was moved by it. She did place some type of padding on the floor to prevent a mess.
Then the nurse mentioned to my mother and grandmother that she did not know if the doctor would even be able to perform the exam because of the bleeding. She also did not know if the exam could be performed because I was so young. She explained that pelvic exams were generally not completed on such young patients – at least not until the patient reached the age of 13 or 14 during that time. I was 11, and I was hoping that my case would be an exception because I was desperate for the bleeding to stop.
Once the doctor came into the room, the nurse took her place by his side, and the examination began. The formality of it was all so cold and isolating. I was just a specimen on the table. The doctor did not seem to speak directly to me at all. In fact, the only time he acknowledged me was when he said, “Hey little lady. I see we’ve started our period but things aren’t going very well with it.” Otherwise, he only spoke to my mother and grandmother. I felt irrelevant even though the exam was all about me.
Specifically, I found this doctor’s lack of conversation with me bothersome simply because it was my body and my experience. There was no better expert in the room to explain what was happening to my body but me. My mother rarely even talked to me about my periods except to complain about constantly having to pick me up from school early, constantly doing my laundry, and constantly buying me pads. I gathered that I was nothing more than a mere nuisance as if my mother did not care.
Yet, for public presentation in the doctor’s office, my mother played the part of a doting and loving mother quite well. The doctor did not play, however. He did not play his part well. I was the patient, but he was not treating as if I even existed as his patient. I seemed to be merely a body that he was “working on”, and as I was lying on my back on the table listening to the nurse’s directives as she gently caressed my arm, I became angry.
I was angry because I felt like nothing while the doctor gruffly and brutally used tools to peer into and maneuver my feminine parts. Something within my body remembered trauma, and an intense anger began to unravel that could not be stopped. I unraveled in shades of anger.
Stay tuned for the next post to find out what happened.
My Voice Unchained 