By: Gabriela Yareliz
I felt a rush go through my entire body, and then, a knot surged in my throat.
I was walking to a training at a law firm in The New York Times building (yes, that New York Times), and I was scurrying toward the building from the train. I was excited about the training, and it was finally happening because it had previously been rescheduled due to a snow storm. (Nerdy me). I finished my ice matcha, dunked the plastic cup in the nearest trash can, and walked faster.
Weirdly, it was the fifth day of my period (so things were supposed to be feeling lighter— let’s wrap this party up).
Hopefully, it’s not as bad as it feels, I thought to myself.
I went through security and got my visitor’s pass. I fought with the automatic elevators and got my name tag, and then, I graciously asked, “Where is your restroom?”
Guys, when I stepped into that bathroom and turned the lock, I uncovered that my black pants and everything underneath was soaked in blood.
As someone with endometriosis, I have experienced the heights of pain and bleeding in my life. I remember lying on the cold bathroom floor thinking that death would literally be relief for the pain I was feeling. (This is how dark it got). I had fainted in public places from the pain (often losing my sense of hearing first right before I blacked out) and at times, hit my head so hard I ended up with swelling or bruises. (I once hit my face on the toilet bowl when I fell and spent time with a bruised jaw in law school). I would get so anxious when I was in a loud space and suddenly it was like someone hit a mute button— I knew I was losing consciousness and if able, I would start to get close to the floor so the fall wouldn’t kill me.
In the past, I have stacked puffy antiquated pads on top of each other and still bled through them, but I had never seen anything quite like this. It was a literal bloodbath. If you would have wrung me like a towel, I would have been dripping out a bucket of blood. Oddly, I had no pain (thank God).
So I stood there, in a locked single room bathroom trying to dry the voluminous blood, which was impossible, which ended with me shoving paper towels down my pants. I looked like Ross from Friends when he can’t get his leather pants back on. Except instead of having my arms up to my elbows covered in lotion and baby powder, I was covered in blood.
I was desperate to stay for the training. I cleaned up enough to go back out there. When I entered the training room, as my eyes scanned the room, I realized every chair was white leather. It was like a cruel joke. I stood in a back corner, looking insane because there was plenty of seating, with an ugly black chair next to me which I am 100% sure was for the guy recording and live-streaming the session. I just hovered over the chair like a stick that cannot fold. I zipped my thighs together, feeling comfort in the semi-dry paper towels I had stuffed my pants with.
This happened to me two more times but with less blood than the first bleedout— in two more cycles I had that Day 5 surprise bleedout (with zero pain), and I knew I was going to need to rebalance my hormones. I had done it before, and I would need to do it again. I couldn’t just be trying to live life and end up soaked in my own blood with zero warning or way to control it. The level of anxiety these surprise bleedouts cause was off the chart. It’s just no way to live knowing you can just be drenched in a blink of an eye.
Why do I share this insane history and personal story? (I have no shame at this point. Any dignity I had was stripped over the years of insane happenings and periods). And my main reason for sharing is you. Because maybe life has unbalanced you, too. No one likes to talk about this stuff, but I feel we need to because no one should feel alone. And no one should live with that kind of fear and anguish. There is no shame in this game.
This is a Part I post to let you know where I was then. I am now on the other side of it (thank God), and I am going to tell you how I stopped the insane bleedouts and started feeling like a human again. Tune in for Part II.
GABRIELA YARELIZ 