Put Some Yogurt on It
I was raised by a fiercely independent single mother. She must have believed this trait was genetic because she clearly expected the same exact fierce independence from me.
I got my first period when I was nine years old.
For anyone old enough to read this without understanding the general cadence of female development, THAT IS INSANELY YOUNG. Especially in the 90s. Us 90s girls grew up much SLOWER than the subsequent generations we witness now. Look at some recent prom pictures. THOSE ARE WOMEN escorting the, obviously, young boys to the dance. I presume these modern girls are menstruating at a younger age than my peer group.
At nine years old, I was left alone with my period for another several years.
Alone except for the company of my fiercely independent mother, who, at the news of my period, promptly handed me an OB tampon and said (in what my mind recalls as a drill sergeant’s tone), “HERE! Put this up there.”
An OB tampon is a hard tube of cotton, tightly wrapped in plastic. It was pretty in a weird way, so small and white with a shiny exterior due to the plastic wrap. If you are someone who collects rocks or novel treasures on walks you know what I mean, it is the kind of thing that if seen in isolation one wants to behold and keep. I had seen the OBs in my mother’s purse or come out of her pocket with change as she went to pay at a register. I knew it was A THING that had to do with SOMETHING ADULT but it wasn’t until this very terrifying and isolating moment that I KNEW it was for THIS THING. This blood coming from between my legs.
By the age of nine I had long since decided that I couldn’t admit any weakness to my alpha mother, and would do better to fall in line, even if I was terrified and clueless.
I took the OB into the bathroom. The bathroom was so white, the tile floor, the walls, the toilet, sink, tub and towels, all white. No one had taken time to decorate so just stark whiteness. I stared at the OB for some time, so white and shiny and almost precious in its compact size and so befitting to the whiteness I was surrounded by. The only thing out of place was the contrast of a quarter sized red dot of blood resting in the crotch of my lavender and heavily pilled underwear. I stared and just had absolutely no idea what to do with it, hoping my mother would come and ask how I was doing, if maybe I needed help, SHOW ME WHAT TO DO, but what I got was a half-hearted, “How are you doing in there?” from the other side of the door.
I knew that she didn’t REALLY want to know and obviously didn’t REALLY want to offer any instruction. There was absolutely no way I was going to tell the truth: “NO MOM, I AM REALLY SCARED AND DONT UNDERSTAND WHAT I AM SUPPOSED TO DO WITH THIS THING, I FEEL ALONE IN THE UNIVERSE AND REALLY WISH THAT YOU WOULD COME HERE AND HOLD ME AND SHOW ME.”
Instead, I said in my biggest tough girl voice, “Yeah, almost done,” and vowed myself to secrecy. Decided I would FIGURE IT OUT.
Just not with an OB.
I wrapped the tampon in a bunch of toilet paper, working hard to make it inconspicuous, and hid it in the bottom of the garbage can under an empty bottle of V05 shampoo, an empty toilet paper roll and tissues. Then I took a wad of toilet paper, while feeling hurried and rushed I was a meticulous child, so I wrapped toilet paper around my small hand a few times and gently placed the makeshift pad between my legs. I shoved back the mounting tears, swallowed hard and took a deep breath, then exited the bathroom, ready to face the praise of my relieved mother for ‘handling it.’
This process of shoving back tears, swallowing hard and taking a deep breath became the most familiar act of my life. I’ve spent more time suppressing emotions than actually experiencing them.
My mother called me a “big girl” and rewarded me with a smile of approval. This became my first drug of choice. When I felt empty and alone, I could always “do something well” and get “them” to tell me how great I did. It made empty and alone feel less empty and alone. What I understand now is that I was just a little girl, not a big girl. And that calling me something I wasn’t made me something that I’m not. Little girls do not inherently want to shove things in their pussies, not even tampons, especially not tampons that require them to work a finger up there to get it in place. The thing about OB tampons is that they do not come with an applicator. All other tampon brands come with an applicator that seems to have an intuitive nature to them, they keep the area a little private and distant and delicate. But no, my mother handed me an OB, the mature woman’s tampon.
Now I am an adult and I’m super into my menstrual cycle. I have also shoved all sorts of things up there: OBs, Diva cups, penises, my hands, men’s mouths. Maybe my mother’s actions contributed to the unwavering comfort I have with my period and vagina now? In the end I seem to have shoved my mother’s attitude toward it all up there.
***
When I was 15 I had my first yeast infection. I am honestly not sure how I knew but I knew. I’ll spare you the details. When I went to my mother my memory is that she yelled from another room “put some yogurt on it!” I was emotionally transported back to that bathroom at 9 years old and felt all of the terror and inferiority of not knowing what I clearly should have known how to do and just left the house without responding or any follow up. By this age I was walking around with a pack of cigarettes in my pocket and had begun being seen as a patient at planned parenthood. I took a walk and had a smoke and resolved to “handle it” once again. So I called and was seen and given the proper course of treatment and that was that. I never knew what the fuck she meant by put some yogurt on it. Like where EXACTLY? HOW? WITH MY FINGER? I never asked and she died long before I started the work in therapy I would need to do to be able to confront these issues.
More than 20 years later I was a registered nurse moonlighting as an infusion nurse at an upscale IV boutique for people with disposable cash. We had a few clients with real conditions but mostly gave athletes bags of fluid with vitamins and minerals, rich ladies who couldn’t stand to actually drink water hydration, there was a popular trend with Asian women coming in and
getting high doses of glutathione, an antioxidant, to lighten and brighten their skin. Many aging Asian women develop dark patched, and the glutathione was believed to even out skin tone. There was a lovely philopena mother and daughter who became clients of mine and spent a small fortune on glutathione. They were lovely to talk with and topped very well. During one session the topic of digestion and probiotics came up, and we began discussing overall pH balance and the importance for female vaginal health and she very casually said ‘well I yogurt.” I stopped mid-sentence and was transported back to the bathroom, but I was old enough and had done enough work to know I was being pulled back to the bathroom so instead of allowing myself to remain there I snapped back to 2020. I smiled, a proud smile of approval, like my mother’s approval but for my true self, and asked “what do you mean? I mean I think I know but can you tell me exactly what you do?”
She gladly explained that she takes tampons and puts a little bit of plain, full fat, Greek yogurt on it and inserts into her vagina and leaves it there for about 15-30 minutes. She had been doing it once a month for 10 years and has never had any infection or disturbance of any kind since beginning this practice. I was floored. Finally, I had a way and means. I could have cried but I was still very good at shoving it all back and down.
I have finally decided to try yogurting. So yesterday I scraped the top of a fresh container of yogurt with a tampon and up she went! Fingers crossed. I felt slightly haunted when I went back into the container to actually eat some yogurt and could clearly see the scrape marks from a tampon.
Horror Sleaze Trash 