There Will Be Blood: A Story from My Life with a Narcissistic Mother

My housekeeper is going through something deeply upsetting right now. Her ex—an adult man and the father of their teenage daughter—refuses to buy pads or tampons when their daughter stays with him. It’s appalling, of course. But more than that, it hit something raw in me. It unearthed a memory I’ve tried to bury. And it hasn’t stopped haunting me since.

When I was a kid, the only “education” I got about periods was at one of those awkward “Mother-Daughter Teas” in fifth grade. They played a dusty old Walt Disney film—yes, Disney—called The Story of Menstruation. Everyone in that room—moms, girls, teachers, even the nurse—looked deeply uncomfortable. One classmate’s mom wouldn’t even let her attend. When I got home that day, no one said a word. It was as if it never happened. That moment was both the beginning and the end of sex ed in my house.

When I got my first period, right before seventh grade, I was terrified. I had no idea what to do. I finally built up the courage to show my mom my stained underwear. She didn’t say anything—just walked me to the bathroom, pointed under the sink where the pads and tampons were, and left. No explanation. No reassurance. No “You’re growing up.” Just a cold, mechanical gesture. Thankfully, I had secretly read Are You There God? It’s Me, Margaret, so I had at least a vague roadmap.

That same morning, she dragged me out shopping for the entire day. I was in blinding pain and didn’t yet understand what menstrual cramps were. I was too afraid to tell her the truth, so I lied and said I had a headache. She gave me some Tylenol from her purse. That was the only thing that got me through a ten-hour gauntlet of malls and department stores. That day marked the beginning of what would become decades of brutal periods, medical gaslighting, and silence.

My periods were extreme—heavy bleeding, huge clots, pain so intense it left me unable to stand. But I kept it all to myself. Because saying something meant risking ridicule, punishment, or emotional withdrawal. In my house, asking for help or admitting vulnerability was dangerous. So I learned early to stay silent. About my pain. About my body. About everything.

I couldn’t risk using up the pads under the sink. If she noticed they were missing, I’d have to explain—or worse, ask for more. That kind of visibility felt unsafe. So I started making makeshift pads out of toilet paper. Later, I rolled my own tampons. I kept this up throughout high school. I couldn’t afford to let her know I had a period every month like half the world’s population.

When I finally got my driver’s license and had a few dollars from allowance or birthdays, I’d sneak away to buy tampons. I’d switch to a larger purse so I could smuggle them in. Then I’d hide them in my room—in purses, shoeboxes, under my bed. Most kids were hiding cigarettes or booze. I was hiding hygiene products, as if they were contraband.

If I ruined underwear—which happened often—I’d scrub them out in secret. I’d experiment with different cleaners to avoid being scolded for “ruining clothes.” If they were beyond saving, I’d wear them only during my period and hide them deep in my drawer. If I had to throw them away, I’d bury them inside something else in the trash so she wouldn’t find them.

Even as an adult, when I tried to talk to her about how severe my periods were, she brushed me off. “You’re exaggerating,” she said. “I never had problems like that.” Her denial burrowed into me. I started to wonder if maybe I was weak, maybe I was being dramatic. For years, I believed that lie. I internalized the idea that my suffering was my fault—or worse, imaginary. I was so afraid of being dismissed that I stopped bringing it up with doctors. I suffered in silence for nearly two decades.

That’s what emotional neglect and gaslighting do to a child. They distort your reality. They teach you not to trust your own body, your own voice. They carve out a silence inside you that takes years to unlearn.

So when I hear about a father refusing to buy menstrual products for his daughter, I don’t just get mad—I ache. I ache for every girl forced to navigate her own body in secrecy and shame. For every child made to feel like their needs are a burden. For every adolescent taught that pain is something to hide and that asking for care is dangerous.

These aren’t just stories about tampons or cramps. They’re about the psychological scars that come from growing up in an environment where your basic human experiences are ignored, shamed, or weaponized against you. They’re about what happens when a parent’s discomfort takes priority over a child’s dignity. And they are, far too often, about girls learning to disappear inside their own lives just to stay safe.