Trigger warning: Menstrual Blood(graphic), Self Esteem, and Healthcare Access (no diet or IWL references)
It's okay if you are not in a space to read this post. You are loved.
my mustache gave me my pcos diagnosis.
I was 18, and finally got a prescription for my first ever birth control pills. Right before leaving the room, my doctor mentioned so casually how my noticeable facial hair is a symptom of Poly-Cystic Ovarian Syndrome.
She went on to describe what that meant I assume, but like some dramatic movie, what she said faded away and my own thoughts were filling my headspace so fast I could barely keep up.
This wasn’t the first time I’d heard about PCOS. I’d been 13, curled in bed, searching about why I have a mustache in the first place. I’d found it again at 14 when I laid on the floor all day in the same spot, a heating pad underneath me and a vomit bowl in front of me, as I'd later identify a cyst burst inside me. And once again at 15 when I’d asked a friend for a pad and they handed me a pantyliner that I bled through in less than 20 minutes. Every year seemed to hit me with a new symptom that made being a teenage girl in Utah even worse than it already was.
“It’s okay!” is the first thing I’d actually comprehended from my doctor. I noticed that I was crying, and quite uncontrollably. I still don’t really know why, maybe it was the validation of the thing I’d known all along; maybe it was the doom and gloom of a chronic diagnosis. But I’d no sooner dried my outburst of tears before she was sending me out to the receptionist to set up an ultrasound for confirmation.
I didn’t go to that appointment.
Instead, I booked an entire face wax and started using sandstone soap to forcibly scrub the hyperpigmentation off of my neck, arms, and face. I ignored those four letters as much as I could as long as I could. It was pretty easy, instead of having my body loudly judged and demeaned in school, adults just kind of stare a little too long at you. I kept my hair long and my shirt collars high to hide as much as possible. And with periods that only came 3 times a year, it wasn’t hard to put it all out of sight out of mind.
Ignorance was not bliss. This period of time where I running away from being officially labeled for something I knew deep down, was my personal dark ages. I stopped letting my wife look at my face for too long, convincing myself she was staring at the hair I missed during a wax, or my bright, shiny acne breakouts that were near constant. I didn’t have a single photo of myself without a snapchat filter and I learned how to use concealer from a YouTube video.
I started going to therapy and in early 2020 decided to actually make that appointment for the PCOS ultrasound. The ultrasound was over quickly, but the wait for the results felt like years. Early March of 2020, I got the test results.
53
27 on my left ovary and 26 on my right.
My string of pearls.
PCOS symptoms are often the first thing people see when they look at me - my size, my shape, my body hair, and my acne. That used to terrify me and I did everything in my power to shrink and hide. So what changed? Representation. When I started tattooing, I strengthened my art style - more big bodies, soft rolls, and unapologetic boldness. I added leg hair, facial hair, stomach hair, thinning hair, stretch marks, and acne to the bodies I drew. Shame had such a grasp on me growing up, and I’m continually healing and shedding it little bits at a time. I’m no longer carrying shame about my body. I’m highlighting the beauty and power in just letting yourself be. Caring for yourself never needs to involve shame.
My visual PCOS characteristics no longer made me feel nauseous, but instead just feel like a part of me and who I am. I still shave my face sometimes, if I feel up to it. I’m more comfortable with how I look and being able to make no and low influenced decisions about my body and its presentation. I love who I am and my PCOS has been a part of me my whole existence, so I will celebrate my string of pearls just as much as I celebrate the rest of me.
PCOS Flash:
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Blood, Sweat, and Pearls
Just a few cycles ago, I was the person hiding the box of pads under something else in my hand so no one I’d never met before and would probably never see again would know that I menstruate.
Period stigma isn’t just harmful to emotional health, but physical as well. I was 21 years old before I found out I needed to have 4 or more periods per year. I’d only ever had 2-3 and now I take medication to induce one if it’s not looking like I’ll make my quota toward the end of the year. I’d always admired period art and efforts of other artists to normalize talking about menstruation. My original plan for this photoshoot was to use red paint, but every day this week, I’d bled through each pair of pants I wore. I’d gone out and ran a whole day of errands with a 3 inch visible blood stain and didn’t notice until I was home for the day. Since my pomegranate juice wanted to be seen so badly this week, I decided to join the ranks of artists who aren’t afraid to be known as someone who menstruates.
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