THE TRINITY: MY PERIOD, THE EARLY 2000S, AND MY EATING DISORDER

Words and photo by Laura Zelaya 

I remember my first day of high school, I was nervous, scared but excited. Finally, no more uniforms! I could rock my mesh slippers or Vans and wear all my favorite fits. Walking down the school halls, my ears were met with different languages, from Spanish, Farsi, Bosnian, Urdu, to Swahili. My classmates and I represented 72 countries. All of us children of immigrant parents and some of us refugees navigating a school system that didn’t always believe in us. 

High school brings a lot of memories. But one that I remember vividly is that one day in Algebra. 

We were taking a test when I suddenly felt a pain I had never felt before. I told myself to just finish my test, the pain would go away. 

It didn’t. 

It got worse and nausea was kicking in. I pushed myself to finish the test before asking to go to the bathroom to avoid any suspicion that I might not want to finish the test. 

I finished as fast as I could. 

I tried to hide my discomfort, got up as quietly as I could, and made my way to the teacher’s desk to ask for a hall pass to the nurse’s office. 

“You look sick.” 

No shit. 

It wasn’t a long walk to the nurse’s office, but I didn’t think I could make it. I stopped, held on to a locker, and told myself to get it together. But the pain was becoming unbearable. Every step felt like the nurse’s office was getting further away from me. 

My vision was getting blurry, and I was starting to see stars. The creepy type, not the sit with your crush and look at the sky type. 

One of my classmates was on the way to the restroom and immediately noticed something wasn’t ok. She held on to me and walked me to the nurse’s office. 

I didn’t know it then, but my period wasn’t trying to be an inconvenience or cause me pain, my period was trying to communicate with me, trying to connect with me to remind me that my body was powerful and deserved to be loved and nourished. 

The nurse called my dad to pick me up early. 

“She’s probably just anemic.” 

My dad immediately picked me up. 

“¿La llevo al hospital?” “¿Qué necesita?” 

“Lleveme a la casa.” I answered. 

The pain continued. 

My parents took me to see a doctor, “Her red blood cells are fine. Some women have painful periods. It’s normal.” 

Throughout high school, I continued to have painful irregular periods. 

Teachers, doctors, my parents, all the adults were missing one detail. I wasn’t eating. 

As a millennial I would argue that the early 2000s had the best music. The charts were dominated by Beyoncé, Outkast, System of a Down, Ivy Queen, Alicia Keys, the old Kanye, Missy Elliott, Tego Calderon, and the list goes on. 

The early 2000s, like all eras, was also setting beauty standards. We were watching Victoria Secret shows with tall skinny models. America’s Next Top Model where being thin wasn’t thin enough. 

The only Central American representation I had on TV was America Ferrera and Hollywood considered her “imperfect.” It would take America Ferrera losing weight for Hollywood to consider her “stunning.” Still. She doesn’t get to be Barbie.