Diary of a Gen Z Student: It's not always easy to just go with the flow — period

She’s probably playing tennis, or swimming across the Irish Sea, or ending world hunger. 

All made possible by a piece of cotton she popped into her poor, unsuspecting vagina. 

The girl in the ad is, of course, unfazed. She’s not worrying about how she’ll manage if the string breaks off the tampon.

Then, there’s me, watching the ad, wondering where I went so wrong when it comes to bleeding: delirious with the paracetamol, ibuprofen, and iron tablet cocktail I’ve ‘curated’; crying into my cookie dough ice cream over the sheer unfairness that I have to experience a routine bleed for the next 30 years.

Because you know what that tampon ad fails to mention? Everything that accompanies the monthly shedding of my uterus. There are headaches, cramps, acne, fatigue, dizziness.

Match that with the inconvenience of bleeding for five consecutive days. You’re beginning to understand why womanhood is not so bloody easy (pardon the pun).

Dealing with the blood is no small feat. You’ve got a long list of products to choose from: sanitary pads, tampons, liners, diva cups. 

Finding the right products is enough to navigate. And it was something I thought I had figured out.

That is, until I was told that my tampon habit was bad for the environment. Tampons are wasteful; they end up in landfill.

And I’m supposed to be part of the generation that takes the environment seriously, the generation that will challenge a plastic straw user to a duel, the generation that still books their cheap Ryanair flight, but has the decency to feel guilty about it.

So, I felt I should try out the eco-conscious approach to menstruation: The diva cup. I thought I was woman enough to deal with this contraption. I was wrong.

For anyone lucky enough to be unfamiliar with diva cups, allow me to explain. It’s a small, silicone cup that you fold and insert. Doesn’t sound too bad, eh? That’s where you’re wrong. 

Once inserted, the diva cup pops back into its cup shape, forming a vacuum in your vagina. Yes, you read that right. 

A vacuum seal in your vagina has got to be uncomfortable, you’d reckon. You would be correct.

I bet you haven’t even considered the worst part of the whole silicone cup scenario. 

I certainly hadn’t at this stage of my diva cup encounter. Imagine the panic as I realise that I would have to break that vacuum to remove it. 

When my first attempts failed, I did what anyone would do: I cried. Then, 

I consulted Google. But eight YouTube videos telling me that I needed to relax before I could tackle my diva-cup removal didn’t feel particularly helpful.

It’s difficult to relax while imagining a stuck diva cup. Especially when you’re considering how you’ll phrase this to the triage nurse in A&E later. 

Eventually, I got myself in order, grew a pair of fallopian tubes, and got the diva cup out.

I was left shaken, questioning my womanhood, wondering why everyone talks about ‘big pharma’ and not ‘big period’. The power they wield over vaginas everywhere.

As I cried on the bathroom floor, the fruits of my labour (diva cup) in hand, I had some questions for ‘big period’.

Firstly, who decided it was OK to call it a diva cup? Nothing about that experience left me feeling remotely diva-like: I was a victim.

Secondly, who decided it was OK for something to form a vacuum like that? I’m no expert, but that’s got to be a violation of my human rights.

Thirdly, who decided they should come without a warning about the removal process? Think of all the vaginas that have been victimised by this torture device.

I know who made these barbaric decisions: A man. There’s no other explanation. 

The diva cup is patriarchy in action. Subjugate women by giving them all of these other obstacles to overcome. 

Why do we not have enough women in upper-management positions? Because they’re busy rummaging around for diva cups. Men just don’t get it.

Safe to say, if ‘big period’ is ever looking for someone to be the diva face to accompany the cup, I’m not the woman for the job. 

I’m sorry, but if you’re asking me to choose between environmental destruction and my bodily collapse, I’ll have to save myself. 

I’m just a girl. I’ve got to draw the line somewhere. And I draw it at vacuuming my delicate bodily parts.