I work in a busy, competitive and predominantly male oriented office.  The Perth base of a large multi-national technology corporation, there are approximately five men to every female employee here.  We are, however, a vocal minority and can often be found gathered in little groups eagerly discussing the political climate dominating our working days.  A reoccurring theme of such conversation is the bizarre and often truly alien way men function with particular reference to the at times overpowering instruction provided by their reproductive organs.

“Ha ha!” we laugh (the kind of gleeful, maniacal laughter of secret knowledge), “for all their numbers and bravado they have a weakness!  They are slaves to their testosterone!”  Chortle, chortle.  How strange it must be for one’s reactions and choices to be so closely aligned with the impulses of an organ!  Imagine that?!  Sure, we may be feeling a little grumpy, bloated and downright irritable today but that is certainly the work of external forces and has nothing to do with us…

I decided the dangerous thought that had slipped into my head was perhaps best tossed away like those damn latex gloves and so I continued on my often merry, occasionally grouchy way.

That was until a close friend of mine gave birth.

What a truly miraculous event, one body releasing another.  Giving life.  I was charged with the flush of excitement, eager to meet this new entity and congratulate the mother.  I wanted to know everything there was to know about it.

When I arrived at her house I was puzzled by the fact that it took a good ten minutes for her to answer the door bell.  On the other side awaited my friend, or indeed the wounded shell of the glowing, gorgeous woman I’d visited only a fortnight before.  I understood now that the reason for the delay was the process involved in actually rising from the chair upon which she could only perch precariously.  What could possibly have happened?

Birth, she described, had consisted of no less than 18 hours of relentless, agonizing contractions leaving her internal passages ravaged and torn.  Her beautiful daughter had, at one point become painfully lodged although memories of this event were shady due to lapsing from consciousness.  She now endured a residual, aching rawness that was certainly not eased by the 20 stitches zigzagged across her insides.

The most remarkable thing, at the end of this process once described by another friend as akin to “passing a burning bowling ball,” was her unflinching resolve that she would do it again.  Maybe not tomorrow, but in the future?  Undoubtedly.

The waters of admission to our deep seated hormonal drives are murky ones.  Admission to this is surely an acknowledgement of weakness and why on earth would we wish to be further hindered in our journey from the margins?  What if though, and hear me out here, acknowledging the ebbs and flows of our bodies’ cycles and their effects upon us meant something else altogether?  What if it meant freedom?

In the last two years I have undergone the many and varied methods of diagnoses for the endocrine disorder – Polycystic Ovarian Syndrome.  These have included daily blood tests for a 28 day period, internal ultrasounds (with alarmingly sized probe like devices that seem as though they should in fact come with some alone time and a vibration setting), scans, profiles – the whole nine yards.  There have also been numerous trials of hormonal based medications producing such delightful side-effects as weight gain, anxiety, perpetual bleeding and, I’m told, sometimes extreme changes in mood.

The closest I ever came to acknowledging the nature of this situation to someone other than a close friend was to describe it as “secret women’s business,” instantly conjuring an aura of the need for concealment.  Heaven forbid I admit to the woes of what was really going on – that would surely lead me to be taken less seriously, particularly in the workplace.  And let’s not even discuss some of the disastrous relationship choices that I have made and watched friends make based upon the burning inclination of hormonal impetus.  Didn’t it always seem like a good idea at the time?

I don’t doubt that my theory will be met with contention but if the actions of men can be understood in light of their makeup (and these understandings may be both positive and negative) then can this be so for women?  Can we have our cake and eat it on a bad day because our blood sugar’s low, we’re craving magnesium and we could really use the top up?

The point here is not to be defined or excused by the fluctuations of our systems.  Hey there’s still a personality under there!  I can’t help but suspect though that with a little more understanding could come a little more acceptance of the natural cycles of our lives and the ensuing inclination to be kinder to ourselves.  It’s ok to acknowledge pain, discomfort, moods or indeed something as significant as the longing for a child.  These are not weaknesses but rather the culmination of a complex meeting between said personality and our physical calibration.

Most of all I hope that opening up about all the opening up we really have to do as women may serve to demystify the complex working of our reproductive worlds and encourage the ownership of these systems rather than the masking of them.

And while none of this is likely to make a trip to the doctor or a date with the stirrups any more pleasant, it’s nice to know you’re not alone.

Image by  John and Keturah licensed by creative commons