Sonasi ValiyevaI fell off my bike, but that’s ok. Everyone falls at least once in their life. Some from the chair, some from the bed, others slip and fall. I should feel lucky for not getting injured. But what about the pain that l have under my belly. Pain like heat. And I, unable to find any poetic, metaphorical expressions to define this heat, would like to use the medical term “burning pain”, though the first article in my Google search relates it to nerve problems. I also have the feeling that this painful heat is melting something inside me and releasing it out of my body. Could it be a watery discharge or vaginal fluid? Maybe it is white. You know, doctors say a stressed body increases vaginal discharge. Maybe it is red. White then l should feel lucky. Red, then be prepared for bad scenarios. What kind of bad scenarios are they? Well, I know a few of them.
Red comes because your hymen rips. Red comes because your hymen gets torn. And the worst scenario is that it might break into two pieces. Like Moses divided the sea into two parts. But parted sea saved his people. My torn hymen could drown me in the sea. That’s what my grandparents told me.
But in a covert way, implying carefully, using politeness strategies for not losing their faces. Avoid splits, squats, challenging workouts, be alert when you run or ride a bike, and try not to fall, they say. They actually mean that if you don’t act carefully, your hymen might break and if it breaks, you are a worthless piece of shit. No one would believe your slip-fall accident stories. Everyone will question your morality and tell your face that you are not clean. That’s why I am afraid to use my hands to check my underwear. What if my hands will get all bloody. My grandparents delicately warned me about the consequences of falling. However, it is better to pull my pants down to see whether there are bloodstains on my underwear. I want to do this not because I have “I don’t care your stinking mentality” bravery inside me. It is my curious indecisive nature infused with the spinning visions of red and white blood, dirt, filthy fluid, mucus in my head that forced me to act in this way. I feel like a woman on the edge of unwanted pregnancy and whose life depends upon the number of red lines on the testing device. What if I am exaggerating everything, acting unnecessarily hysterical.
But this is how we are all constructed. Mechanisms perceiving red as an alarm and doomed to automatic hysteria. While all these thoughts wandered in my head, I gave a quick glance at my underwear. No need to lie to yourself. There are some blood spots on my underwear. What if l am on my period. Is it possible to have two periods in a month? What if the body got stressed, and instead of the white discharge comes the red one. Why does my mechanically hysterical self always relate it to hymen break? Should l tell about the accident to my mother? No! It is better to wait till the evening and check my underwear constantly.
Amid all the confusion, I suddenly remember the teenage girl who was poisoned by “your only aim should be to keep your virginity clean” advice. Actually, it was a threat more than advice. The first time her period came, she was having the worst day of her life. Because she had never perceived red as part of healthy growth or womanhood. Red is a colour of disgrace, a tool to measure purity and cleanliness. So, under the influence of purity stories, this poor girl washed herself almost every 30 minutes to hide blood period, put a small hand towel dipped into the water on her underwear, and walked around with soaked wet underwear throughout the day. In the end, this harmless habit led to some genital problems. I should pity her. But l am in no better situation than her. Though she lived in a village with a conservative family while I lived in a city my whole life where everyone is pretending to be modern by imitating the west, we were told the same stories. Red is a taboo isolated from the dictionary of self-expression in both urban and rural discourses.
I still can’t decide whether I should tell or not tell my mother about the blood spots on my underwear. If l told my mum about the bleeding, she probably wouldn’t ask how l felt after the accident or if there was any damage to my internal organs. Instead, her initial reaction will be, “Bleeding? God, what if it is the hymen! Why do I even expect her to worry about my health if I don’t care about myself?
I fell off my bike, but that’s ok. Everyone falls at least once in their life. Some from the chair, some from the bed, others slip and fall. Should l feel lucky for not getting injured?
