Adventures on the Pill

One of my favourite books from my formative years is The Secret Diary Of Adrian Mole, Aged 13 ¾. In it there's a bit where Adrian discusses Waiting for Godot, remarking that the names Vladimir and Estragon sound like contraceptive pills.

Perhaps they'd get on well with Femodene and Microgynon, and who knows, spawn little contraceptive pills of their own – were that not such a paradox. And were it not for the fact that Waiting for Godot is a play where according to one French critic “nothing happens – twice”.

For this is a tale where something does indeed happen, and has been happening every month to me since I was nine. And it will keep happening every month until I get to about 50. That's if I don't happen to get pregnant first.

As tales go, it's not a pretty one. It's sticky, prickly and grubby, a tale of blood, grease, hormones, heat and embarrassment. Of flat hair, spots and granny pants. Of dominance and imprisonment. Of no escape.

I like to think of Femodene and Microgynon as characters from a sci-fi cartoon strip, high-kicking, karate-chopping replicants or fembots, futuristic heroines in the aforesaid granny pants (over their tights). In reality of course, they are brand names for formulations of the pill, which I was astounded to discover was invented by a Catholic – bafflingly – rather like a Muslim inventing booze.

Apparently his intention was not to suppress ovulation, rather to regulate the menstrual cycle, to provide relief from cramps and bleeding. Personally lobbying the Pope to endorse it for those reasons, he even replicated the rhythm of natural periods by building seven days of pill-less bleeding into the cycle, a “phantom” period. Nevertheless, the Pope didn't agree. Surprise, surprise.

It was for these reasons, however, that I first tried the pill back in 1993, when I was 19. A student at the time, I wanted to go clubbing and maintain my hedonistic lifestyle without having to worry about the blood-soaked mattress between my legs – or indeed on my bed frame (at that time I was flooding and shedding everywhere). My aim was to control and lessen the extreme physical and emotional symptoms I had to endure.

The nice ladies at the family planning clinic on Sheffield's Ecclesall Road prescribed Femodene, “the most popular and successful pill, the one we start everyone off with”. I was told to start taking it on the first day of my next period, and to expect prolonged bleeding – anything up to two weeks, or even beyond. Apprehensively, I gave it a go.

I didn't take it for very long. After two weeks – a long time in university terms, and valuable clubbing time - I stopped mid-flow. There was no knowing how much longer the bleeding was going to last, and the constant grottiness and dribbling got me down. My usual symptoms were magnified and I was going a little loopy.

Fifteen years and 180 periods later, I decided to try the pill again. Hopeful of advances in medical technology, even changes in my own bio-chemistry, I figured this time there may be something out there for me. What happened showed that, apart from my own trial-and-error methods for managing my monthly ordeal, little had evolved at all.

While a colleague referred to her period as her “visitor”, over the years I've come to characterise mine as my sinister “gentleman caller”, a highwayman who rides up in the dark from afar, clamps his gloved hand over my mouth and leers, "You're mine!", holding me hostage for one full week in four – twelve weeks a year. He's needy and petulant, like a child who needs pacifying. Far from a delicious experience.

Symptoms include paranoid guilt over the non-existent; mild agrophobia, the desire to retreat and withdraw, to curl up as the walls close in; deep cynicism about human nature; profuse, spontaneous sobbing; despair and hopelessness, strong delusions of inadequacy and incompetence, and temporary swelling and weight gain – I often look pregnant. It's as if part of my body has changed state, my abdomen lurches and gurgles, chimes and throbs like those Chinese worry balls with weights inside. The urge to sleep is immense, so I usually give in.

At least my erratic food habits provide amusement. The change from my usual healthy fare – grilled fish, steamed vegetables, salad, sprouts and fruit – to the sort of food men eat on the way home after chucking-out time, is sudden and drastic: burgers, chips, cheese, fried breakfasts, Twixes and cola, things I'd never eat normally, but which I absolutely must have now, at all costs, and damn the consequences.

Then there's the blood. There's loads of it. I can smell it before it comes, earthy, like warm compost. Soaking my sanitary towels in my bucket, it swirls in the water, billowing crimson clouds, puffs and spirals, clustered with blackcurranty, iron-smelling clots. If there's any consolation amid the devastation and frustration, it's here. Now I make my own reusable towels I can harvest the flood and use it on the garden. I plan to grow as many red plants as possible – roses, geraniums, a Japanese maple tree. Our shrubs have already benefited – or at least I like to think so.

At 34, I no longer live the life of a hedonistic 19 year-old student. Being with my husband, writing and baking are what bring me joy now, but the monthly emotional terrorism continues to throw my life into chaos. And after 25 years I'm tired of periods, tired of the dread, the slowly-approaching clouds darkening on the horizon, the feeling of being hunted. The mood swings are so drastic it's a bit like having a mini bi-polar crisis every 21 days.

What I crave now is not to throw myself around sweaty nightclubs without feeling bloated and cumbersome, rather balance and calm, consistent energy levels and moods all month round. Surely that's not too much to ask? I had to try again, if only to be able to tell myself that at least I did try.

With the same fanfare flourish that accompanied Femodene, I was prescribed Microgynon. And this time I stuck with it. Arming myself with more home-made sanitary towels, I made it through the two-week bleed. I made it through the uncertainty, the worries about side-effects. After the long bleed, I took the rest of the month's pills and made it through the next seven-day bleed, enduring the morning paralysis in bed, the psychological stalking, the sobbing in the kitchen while stirring soup or curled up on the floor in front of the TV. I made it through all that and put myself through it again in the hope things would get easier as my body got used to it and things settled down.

They didn't. Again, I had to stop. I couldn't face the thought of taking another pack, let alone experimenting with other pills in the hope that there's one out there that might help - at least, not just yet. Not that I've never been one for pills in general anyway, recreational or medicinal. I don't even take Paracetamol for headaches if I can help it – I prefer camomile tea. And thus it will continue.

Which is just as well. All I can do is look to myself, listen to my body, and choose my battles, indulging it with the food it craves, or challenging it with long walks and distracting it with work. Sleep is a good temporary escape. Another colleague once told me that, circumstances permitting, she'd sleep through the whole first day of her period. I've been known to do the same.

The point of me taking the pill was an attempt to reclaim myself, my body and my sanity, to arm myself against hysteria and emotional terrorism. Each time I have a period my authentic self is inaccessible, I lose my way and change into a person I don't like. You can tell yourself it's just hormones and that it will all pass, but it makes no difference. My sinister gentleman caller sticks two fingers up to logic and common sense. He has no time for futuristic super heroines, and probably won't stand for HRT, either.

After the bloat of my stomach and the five o'clock spot on my chin have faded, every month is a fresh start with nicer pants. For the next three weeks, anyway. As far as affective treatment is concerned I'll be waiting for as long as Vladimir and Estragon were waiting for Godot. Or at least the menopause.