About a year ago, my periods began wreaking havoc on my body. They would arrive anywhere from three to six weeks apart, so it was a guessing game of when I would get my period every month. I was breaking out constantly, worse than I ever had before. My flow was continuously heavy and lasted up to eight days.
I eventually called my mom to tell her about this problem, and she suggested I go on birth control. That thought hadn’t even crossed my mind until that moment, but it seemed like my only saving grace.
This past summer, my mom scheduled my consultation appointment to be prescribed birth control. I was oddly nervous, so my mom came back to the room with me. The nurse asked me the routine questions and finished with, “Why are you here today?” I replied saying I was there to go on birth control. After all, that is why I was there.
Once the nurse left, my mom expressed her disdain that I didn’t specify the sole reason I was going on birth control was to regulate my period. I told her the nurse didn’t ask why I was going on the pill; she simply asked why I was there. After much back and forth banter, my mom ended by exclaiming, “It’s called peace of mind, Katlyn!”
Then, silence.
On the car ride home, I received the same abstinence-based sex talk I’d been given since I was a child. My mom said now that I was on the pill I would be “more okay” with having sex, and she didn’t like that sentiment. Keep in mind, I was a virgin at the time. I still am. Also realize, my mother was fine with me going on the pill before. But once it became a reality, she assumed I was going to automatically want to have sex.
I went home from that appointment and sobbed. These pills were going to help me, and my mother could no longer see that. Instead of seeing it as the object that would take away the pain and uncertainty that went along with my periods, she only saw it as a means for me to have sex.
Every time I would go to my room to take my birth control, my family would ask where I was going. I told them exactly where I was going: to take my birth control.
Later on, my mother told me I couldn’t say “birth control” when referring to it. I was told to call them “my pills.” Of course, I asked why; this was a ridiculous request in my opinion. Her response? “It makes us uncomfortable.”
This reply baffled me. My family knew I was on birth control. My mother was the one who suggested it. Yet they wanted to completely disregard it; act like it wasn’t real. They treated me differently because of a pill I was taking to help myself and my body.
The way my own family stigmatized my decision to begin birth control and how they made me feel should never happen to anyone. Birth control is not a bad thing. It’s time we stop making women feel terrible about being in control of their own bodies.