Dear Aunt Flo,
Let’s get straight to the point: you’re not exactly the most popular figure in our lives. Most women don’t look forward to your monthly visit; in fact, your presence is generally met with frustration and annoyance. You bring along a slew of unpleasant symptoms—cramps, bloating, cravings, and mood swings—that make life feel like a never-ending cycle of discomfort. Tampons feel like tiny cotton torments, and while I’ve yet to try those menstrual cups, they sound about as appealing as a medieval torture device.
But for women like me, navigating the maze of infertility, your monthly arrival morphs from a nuisance into a cruel reminder of what we can’t have. I want another child. There, I’ve said it. If merely vocalizing this desire could lift the weight of infertility, I’d be shouting it from the rooftops. Instead, I find myself longing for a baby while managing the demands of my existing family.
I cherish my twin boys; they are everything to me. I know I’m fortunate that modern medicine has allowed them to exist. Still, there’s a part of my heart that yearns for another child. I imagine my boys’ excited faces as they feel a baby kick against my belly or cradle a little sibling in their arms. Yet, the reality is that every month you show up, you remind me of my inability to conceive. Those cramps? They send a message that my body is failing to do what it’s meant to do.
It’s not just the physical discomfort; it’s the mental anguish you inflict. Each month, you toy with my hopes and dreams. Your symptoms mimic those of early pregnancy, leading me to convince myself that maybe, just maybe, this time is different. I trick myself into believing that my cravings are not just the result of your arrival but rather a sign of a baby on the way. The cramps become a false signal of life, and the bloating is somehow interpreted as a surge of pregnancy hormones.
I find myself obsessively searching online for signs of early pregnancy, desperate for any hint of positivity. I map out due dates, envisioning a Christmas child or an autumn baby, and planning how I would announce the news to my family. It’s a vicious cycle of wishful thinking followed by the harsh reality of your arrival, which inevitably crushes my dreams.
This letter is a cathartic release, and I know it may sound a bit extreme. You’re a biological function, not a person, and you certainly can’t read this. But other women who share this struggle can. They understand the frustration and heartache that comes with infertility. It’s essential to express these feelings rather than directing them toward loved ones, which only complicates matters further.
So, Aunt Flo, for all of us who are grappling with infertility, I have one thing to say: Leave us alone.
Summary:
This open letter reflects the frustrations of a woman facing infertility, addressing the challenges and emotional turmoil caused by the monthly arrival of menstruation. The author shares her desire for another child and the pain of recurrent disappointment, emphasizing the cruel irony of the body’s functionality. This letter serves as a voice for those dealing with similar struggles, highlighting the need for open expression of these feelings.
Keyphrase:
Infertility struggles and menstruation