On perfection, disgust, and the cost of sharing a bathroom with strangers

I woke up with a runny stomach and a splitting headache. I had overeaten the night before. That was my first mistake. My second was assuming the toilet would have water. I grabbed a bucket and went. There are thirty-something women on my floor. I don’t know which one left the blood. But I know I’ll never look at any of them the same way. I never sit on a toilet seat. Not even at home. Not even when it’s spotless. I never go to the restroom without water. I never leave without flushing. When I’m on my period, I look out for myself — not just for me, but because someone else will have to use that space after I’m gone. I have standards. I am not perfect, but I have standards. So when I walked in and saw there was no water, I made a plan. There was a reservoir, but I wouldn’t be caught washing my privates with that. I’d wash myself with my drinking water and flush with the reservoir. I went back to my room, grabbed a satchel of water, and returned. I must have missed it the first time. I swear I must have. Did I? I cannot remember. But right at the entrance was a pool of red. Liquid. Blood. Not mine. I stood there, bucket in one hand, satchel in the other, and felt something crack open in my chest. Women are beautiful. Exceptional. Every dynamic word I can think of. But they are equally disgusting. Equally dirty. I know I cannot overgeneralize. I know I am far from perfect. But I also cannot put a face or a name to the perpetrator. There is no one to blame but everyone to blame. What happened to charity begins at home? That is the height of it. I would not have been able to sleep knowing my blood was splattered somewhere for someone else to clean. Something in my head wouldn’t have let me. The idea of taking care of something that doesn’t belong to you — and failing to take care of what does — is the utmost disgust. Yeah. Women freak me out. Not all of them. Not the ones who try. But the ones who leave a pool of red on a bathroom floor and walk away like it never happened. Those ones. Author’s Note: I wrote this the same morning it happened. I was angry, nauseous, and couldn’t stop thinking about it. I still can’t.

Shame#Personal Hygiene