A Picture of Red

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On the third day of my period, I took a trip to the Hague to apply for a new passport.

I was tired, my skin oily, my face the colour of sad potato grey. The only place I could fathom being in was my bed, dressed in sweatpants and gigantic period underwear. But sometimes life calls, so here I was, at the embassy, pretending to be a person. 

As I stood in a long line to the window in a small, crowded room, I pondered melodramatically on how miserable I felt. My cramps were like a dull anchor pulling me down to the ground. My head was pounding. My mind was mush.

I calculated the hours to guesstimate when my tampon would leak, and whether the embassy toilet was a good base for a quick change of ammunition. It didn’t seem so. One toilet in the middle of this busy room offered no real anonymity and certainly not enough time before the next person started knocking. Maybe I’ll make it a few more hours. 

On the wall beside me was an illustration of a campsite encouraging Polish families to entertain their children in nature. I winced at the thought. Period by the lake? In a tent? Most summertime pleasures are out of reach for us heavy flow girls.

I distracted myself with thoughts of how pretty my new passport will look once I survive this hardship. Some days earlier, in the prime of my luteal phase, I sat down to take photos. Best outfit, fresh makeup, hair as smooth and majestic as a theatre curtain. I was glowing, reflecting light. What a stark contrast to the distressed parsnip I resembled now. 

I reached down my bag for a comforting look at my passport photo. A glimpse into who I once was. Then, I reached again. Both times my hand was met with emptiness. I searched around frantically a few more times but I knew my bag was too small for surprises. 

The exact whereabouts of my photo were slowly dawning in on me. Amsterdam. On the table. Where I left it that morning in a menstrual daze so that I wouldn’t forget to pack it.

“Next!” called the administrator. I walked up to the window, angry disappointment building up in every step, mixed with a dose of incoming hormonal tears.

“My passport expired and I’m here to apply for a new one. The only thing is, I forgot to bring my photo. Could I mail it in?” I wanted her to see the urgency in my eyes. To understand that this photo could seriously change my standard of travelling. I could mail it in, right? We can bend the rules this one time, right? You know how it is.

With a swift movement the administrator handed me a business card, “There’s a photographer down the road. Go quickly and come back so that you don’t miss your appointment. The next one is in two weeks.”

Thanking her through clenched teeth I left the building and commenced walking. I couldn’t have been more annoyed. I mean - it just had to be, hadn’t it? Having a good passport photo was far too fortunate. It was basically playing god. I was being put in my place and doomed to capture my most mortal iteration. On the heaviest day of my period with only a few drops of energy keeping me alive. 

Of course, right as I got to the photographer, my tampon leaked. For fuck’s sake, I thought, reaching down inconspicuously to assess the damage and make sure that I’m not paranoid. Sure enough. There it was. A period stain. Masked, thankfully, by the black fabric of my trousers, but prominent nevertheless.  

When I sat down to take the photo, all I could think of was - will I leak onto the chair? Will I get up to a puddle of blood beneath me? Do I look horrendous with a tired face and a halo of dry hair sticking out like antennas around my head? I asked the photographer if she could retouch the bags under my eyes. She smirked condescendingly. What a vain little thing I must have seemed to her. 

The photo was taken. A look of absolute menstrual stress was commemorated that day to haunt me for the next ten years. At least it has a story. At least I got up to a clean chair. Small victories. 

New photo in hand, bags and all, I waddled back to the embassy, fixed myself at the end of the line and began strategizing. I could feel my tampon urgently drowning inside me. Glancing at the single bathroom door I knew it might be my only option. Otherwise, visions of blood streaming down my leg and onto the white marble floor seemed like a real probability. Could I turn this into performance art? I thought, trying to romanticise the fear away. A bloody stance against the [edit: now former] Polish government and its misogynistic laws. You want to take my rights? Watch me free bleed on your floor like the powerful woman I am. 

“Next!” yelled the administrator, snapping me back into the scene. I approached her, looking stressed and far too suspicious for someone filing for a passport. The appointment dragged on. Paper signing, fingerprint scanning - after an eternity I was free to go. I bit the bullet and ran into the lavatory.

What happened next was a theatrical turmoil of - blood clot, accidentally on the floor, accidentally stepping on it with my shoe, accidentally leaving murderous bloody footprints all over the floor, running out of toilet paper trying to clear the crime scene, not putting in another tampon due to time and the occasional knocking, stress, hot flashes… At last, in sheer panic, I was done. The bathroom floor was shining like new. I successfully sprinted outside avoiding all eye contact, but the insufficient pad was giving me no security.

I knew I couldn’t face an immediate train ride back. Not now, not with a pad that will last me 20 minutes. Not with the stress I’ve just been through. Instead, I saw a tram heading for the beach and I felt a primal urge to get on it. A desperate need for space, air and, frankly, a large body of water in which I could clean my blood-stained shoes. 

The beach was vast and almost empty. I dipped my soles in the sea and then sat on the sand. The shore patrol was driving right at me but I didn’t move. They’ll have to go around. I had no more desire to be inconvenienced today. 

The waves were crashing into the shore. Seagulls shrieked above my head. In the distance I could hear the incessant jingle of the fun fair. All this tumult didn’t compare to the storm inside my body. To the flowing river of blood that was trying to find its way to the sea. 

I took a few deep breaths. Dusted myself off from the sand, and got up to find the nearest toilet. Just like every period horror story, no matter how chaotic, ultimately you just have to add it to the list and get on with your day.