Being a woman is a challenge within itself.
As you stare at your own reflection under the heat lamps in the bathroom mirror, you ponder the day ahead of you. Although the light directly above your stance in front of the vanity allowed you precision, it was admittedly the primary cause behind your lethargy.
You feel dizzy.
You walk toward the toilet seat with your hand outstretched, feeling your way around the tiled room. A fingertip on the surface of the cold hard wall becomes interrupted by the sensation of damp from a freshly used towel.
The towel in question does not belong to you.
You imagine your husband drying his arse crack with it.
You remove it instantaneously and wipe your tainted fingers on the thighs of your pants.
You take refuge on the toilet seat.
Feeling the hard plastic under you, you begin to recollect your composure.
Looking around the small room, you catch a glimpse of your sombre and jaded eyes reflected in the shower screen.
It is that moment you realise that no amount of eye makeup will conceal the frustration behind your gaze.
You sit hunched over the toilet bowl clutching the hot water bottle close to your ovaries. The smell of hot rubber against flannelette was beginning to make you nauseous.
Dry reaching, you pull your hair away from your face. The strands of which, cling to your skin, wet with perspiration.
You sense hot tears streaming down your pale and clammy exterior. You witness each salty drop evaporate into nothingness onto your bare thighs. In doing this, you realise you are well overdue for a leg wax. You feel it vital that you tackle this urban jungle of yours with a whipper snipper first, in order to give the beautician some form of a fighting chance in hell.
Perhaps save yourself the embarrassment of being charged extra.
Your pyjama pants around your ankles deem you unable to move, you long for just a moment of relief.
You sit, rocking back and forth in an attempt to lull the ache into a dormant state.
You have consumed all the pain medication suggested on the label yet continue to suffer throughout the agony of nature’s self-cleansing.
All the while you are well aware of the fact that no amount of pain medication will lull the ache that is embedded deep within your soul.
You feel that Mother Nature in your case has a real chip on her shoulder and is now, quite frankly really starting to piss you off.
You ask yourself why?
Why not me?
When is it going to be my turn?
What are we doing wrong?
You welcome the darkness into your heart and let it utterly consume you.
You feel a well making its way to your eyeballs from the pit of your twisted stomach.
You cry tears of loss, the tears of despair, and the tears of extreme anxiety.
Another cycle is gone, another chance for baby, vainly gone with it.
Find more posts from the fabulous Romina (and now Mother of four) over at Martyrhood.
Follow on Facebook
Follow on Twitter