THETHEOUTLET BODY ISSUE march, 2019
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EDITOR’S LETTER Kia ora, and welcome to our FIFTH issue! Well, it’s 2019. I don’t know about you, but 2018 felt both long and short at the same time. It really is insane how time works. Without further pondering—welcome back! I was looking back at issue one and had a full-body cringe at how crappy my designing skills were. Like, wow. Gross. I think it’s safe to say that the quality of our content has vastly improved since September 2017. This quarter’s issue is about the human body. We have some new writers on board this issue, so that is incredibly exciting for us. We’ve also got our ride-or-dies with us, so shout outs to all of you!
Speaking of conversation, did you know that we now have a Facebook and Instagram page? Find us on those social media platforms and flick us a message! We’d be more than happy to interact with our lovely supporters. Shameless promotion aside, this is a wonderful issue, and it’s amazing to see how much we grow with every quarter. Hope you’ve all had a wonderful start to the academic year, and let’s make this year of The Outlet the best yet. But that’s all from me for now. See y’all in a few months. Stay sickening, folks.
We’ve also partnered up with MyCup NZ and have some cool ass discounts and freebies you can read about in this issue! This issue has got some thoughtprovoking and moving topics lined up for you—from body image and body hair to colourism and eating disorders. Some hefty points of conversation.
Jennifer Daruwalla. DISCLAIMER: Thoughts and views expressed in this newsletter do not reflect those of Auckland University of Technology or Out@AUT, but the writers themselves.
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A CONVERSATION ABOUT HIV & AIDS BLAIR SPEAKMAN Last year I had a conversation with a
majority of new HIV diagnoses each
person, who will remain nameless, about
year in New Zealand. While you can
HIV and AIDs. While I knew this friend
contract HIV from vaginal intercourse
was not always supportive of Queer
(yes, if you did not already know, there is
rights such as same-sex marriage,
a risk of transmission from vaginal sex),
something which they said shocked me
anal intercourse is riskier because the
and stopped me in my tracks. It’s been a
anus contains cells which are more
while since then, so I may be
vulnerable to HIV infection than the
paraphrasing a little, but this person
vagina.
essentially told me they thought gay people deserve to get AIDs and die. I was not sure how to respond, as I did not realise that people still held such an ignorant opinion of HIV and AIDs as being a ‘gay disease’. It was in this moment that I realised that even though treatment for HIV and AIDs has come a significant way since the 1980s AIDs epidemic, there is still stigma attached to those people living within HIV/AIDs.
Additionally, it is also important to consider how institutional homophobia and biphobia against gay and bisexual men contributed to HIV and AIDs disproportionately affecting this particular demographic in New Zealand. Given that homosexuality was illegal until 1986 and regarded as a social taboo, there was significant stigma around coming out as gay, and
consequently many gay and bisexual
HIV/AIDs disproportionately affects gay
men hid their sexuality from friends,
and bisexual men in comparison to the
family members, and co-workers. Due to
wider population, and account for the
the lack of legal protections as well as 4
the perception of being ‘abnormal’, gay
the risk of contracting it. Despite
and bisexual men hid in secret bars far
improved treatments and screenings,
away from the reach of health services.
the misconception that HIV and AIDs is
As a result of the lack of safe and
a ‘gay disease’ still persists; more
accessible health services for gay and
education on this area is needed for both
bisexual men, there was a lack of
those part of the queer community as
awareness around sexually transmitted diseases possible
well as the wider New Zealand population.
from anal intercourse. It isn’t surprising that HIV and AIDs disproportionately affects a community, which until living memory, did not have the same level of access to health services those who are
cisgender and heterosexual. As a 20something-year -old gay male, I am fortunate to have access to numerous health services and regular HIV tests, and able to reduce
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MY QUEER BODY ABIGAIL Johnson How did you react when shit started growing off of your body? The answer is entirely likely to depend on your gender identity. For those of us born female, who identify as female, puberty tends to arrive as a terrible betrayal. And for those people whose gender identity doesn’t match up with their assigned sex, puberty is a complex beast for which I am not the correct spokesperson. What I can speak to is the horrifying shock that is puberty as a cisgender female in this crappy, capitalist, woman -hating world. Let’s be real: it’s shit when you start growing body hair. I’m speaking in generalisations, of course, but a girl would have to be inculcated in a radical feminist cult not to internalize the West’s impossible beauty standards. These beauty standards are so ingrained in our culture that it seems quaint to even mention them. It should give us pause, however, that meeting them at the basest level involves
removing an entirely natural part of one’s self. (And let’s not even begin with the implications behind painting on an entirely new face). It’s not radical to question such a standard – it’s radical that such a standard exists. It’s so rare in fact, to see a woman’s hairy leg in the wild, that when we do, it’s shocking and political. What can it mean? We ask ourselves. What on earth can she be trying to say? The burden of explanation should of course lie with the society that makes the demands, not the woman who rejects them. But whatever. On top of this, there are the clichés to contend with: the hairy-legged feminist, and her ugly sister, the hairy-legged lesbian. That’s where one’s sexual orientation becomes relevant. It’s an anecdotal truism that bisexual women straddle two worlds. Often it feels as though we have one foot in the straight world and one foot in the queer one. Often, we feel like tourists within both. And like any good tourist, one tries to amalgamate. 7
I find myself queerer within queer relationships – and straighter within straight ones. In short: when I date men, I shave my legs. Which is not to say the minute I date a woman I ditch the tweezers for a flannel shirt and an undercut. It’s just that, within a lesbian relationship, I feel less pressure to live up to the conventional societal beauty standards. And I’m not sure why that is. Is it because I’m already queering the norm through my choice of partner, so queering my beauty standards is not much more of a stretch? Maybe. In my last relationship with a man, I initiated the process of laser hair removal. Lasering off my body hair seemed the most convenient route to the desired destination: to not have to deal with that shit anymore. It didn’t exactly work, so I now have thinner, patchier body hair, but now that I’m in a queer relationship, I can’t be stuffed starting up the process again. Thankfully, my brain won’t let me forget how much it hurt. And more importantly, I just don’t care
enough to do it anymore.
The double-bind of the patriarchy is that we learn to love the very things that restrict us. I love the feeling (and look) of silkysmooth legs. I also understand that I’ve been conditioned to love silky-smooth legs. That the patriarchy is upheld by my continued love of silky-smooth legs. That I’m choosing the path of least resistance by loving silky smooth legs. But – in order to resist the patriarchy, must I purposefully reclaim my body hair, even if I don’t want to? Maybe.
To me, the path of most powerful resistance seems to be to learn to love oneself. To learn not to worry about the state one’s hairiness. I don’t think any woman should have to go hairy fulltime to make a queer and/ or feminist point (though she should if she wants to). But I do think that if we stressed about it less – if I were able to strut my hairy legs about town without a care – the patriarchy would find itself cracking and crumbling under the weight of our contentedness. So go forth, I reckon, and shave that shit if you want to. Or don’t. Or do. But stop worrying about what it all means – I know I’m going to try.
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#BODYHAIRDONTCARE
REPRESENTATION JENNIFER DARUWALLA Razors, waxing strips, bleach, cream, even lasers. FUCKING LASERS. All of these are solutions to a problem that shouldn’t even be one in the first place. Hair. Specifically; body hair. We all have it. Whether it’s on the top of our heads or the bottom of our chins, it’s something completely natural. Key word here - natural. Body hair for women is something that is often dismissed as trivial, since there are real problems we should be worrying about, which I don’t disagree with. However, whether we’d like to admit it or not, body hair is the root of anxiety for many women. It’s quite the contradiction, actually. It’s completely natural for all genders, yet our sociocultural presumption is that body hair is an anomaly for women. Hmph. Weird. This #bodyhairdontcare movement seems to have a rather negative connotation and gets lumped in with a variety of other negative attributes like being lazy or unhygienic. But you can
still be clean and own body hair. It isn’t that black or white. People are so scared of body hair that we watch advertisements of women waxing or shaving parts of their body which are already hairless. Not only is the fear of body hair ridiculous, but I don’t even get to see how the product really works! Pretty shit advertising, if you ask me! Personally, I adore the body hair movement. It really shouldn’t even be a movement, since hair is, y’know, natural, but I fucking love it. Staches, unibrows, arm hair, leg hair, armpit hair, you name it. But why are people so terrified of something so natural? I can’t tell you how many times I’ve been told by my mum to shave my fuzzy legs because my boyfriend “won’t like it”, or because I “look like a man”.
Or when I go to the salon to get my hair cut and get told that I should get my eyebrows done since I’m already here. And, albeit begrudgingly, I end up 10
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listening. Why? Because I want to please them - please society, I suppose.
There is something I want to bring up, though. It might be controversial, but the thought has been looming at the back of my mind since I started writing this. When we think about the body hair movement, what do we see? Perhaps a person with armpit hair and natural eyebrows. Perhaps someone with peach fuzz or blonde arm hairs. When I think of the body hair movement, I think about more than that.
I think about the women with PCOS. I think about the trans men. I think about the trans women. The Middle Eastern or Southern Asian people with dark, luscious body hair. The people with hormonal imbalances who can’t control their hair growth. The people with hair that doesn’t grow in conventional places. The little girls who are shamed into removing their hair because that’s just what they’ve been told to do. I think about more than the #bodyhairdontcare rep you see on Instagram. I know it seems like I’m making a mountain out of a molehill, but when I first stopped shaving and waxing, I searched for people who looked like
me, but much to my disappointment, couldn’t find many. Don’t get me wrong—I love how open people are starting to be about body hair—but I think it is so important to think about the people who are underrepresented and underappreciated. There is still such a long way to go. I remember being in year 6, still naïve and hairy. I got relentlessly bullied for my hairy arms and legs. I went home crying, begged my mum to let me wax, and thus began my years of torment at the salon every few weeks. Being of Persian and Indian descent, I’m no stranger to thick and rapid hair growth. I find myself tweezing away at my whiskers every second day, even though I feel so strongly against it. So why do I indulge in the patriarchal fantasy of being a hairless woman when I’m such an advocate for body hair? Sadly, even I don’t have the answer to that. I mean, of course, if you want to shave or wax or go through with whatever method of hair removal you like, go right ahead! Don’t let anyone tell you what to do with your body. I can’t deny the bliss of silky smoothness - it’s a feeling quite unlike any other. But in the end, whether you decide to sow or grow your garden, stay happy and stay clean, and all will be right. 13
WHAT I WISH I KNEW ABOUT
ENDOMETRIOSIS Ella peacock I was diagnosed with endometriosis at the age of 16. I gave myself a crash course on how to look after my body as it suffered through the probable decades ahead of internal aching, bleeding and scarring. Every bag and bedside table was stocked with a pharmacy’s worth of pain medication. I started making my own custom heat packs, and rehearsed describing the disease so many times that I could bust out a definition more comprehensive than the average doctor could give you.
this teenage naivety was perhaps more damaging to me than the actual disease ever was. Now, at 20 years old, I feel a lifetime apart when reflecting on the wisdom
I thought the fact that I knew what was happening inside me was knowledge enough to know how to get on with living my life, but
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and knowledge I’ve acquired through years of both extreme physical and emotional pain. Here are the things I wish I’d known when I was 16. 1.
People can’t understand what you’re experiencing if you don’t tell them. You will go through a phase of hiding yourself away because you feel misunderstood by your peers. The only way to be understood is to explain things to people and practice describing what you experience. People want to help you but don’t always know how.
2. You can’t do things the same way other people your age can. You’re not going to be able
to work a retail job where you’re expected to stand on your feet for eight hours a day, or attend a full-time university course, and that’s okay. Save yourself the shame and frustration and start being realistic about your body’s limitations. Give yourself time to accept that you might have to give up on the idea of an easy streamlined future that you nurtured throughout your early adolescence. Make room for one in which you can actually succeed. 3. Be kind to yourself. Allow yourself to feel emotions, even when you don’t understand them. You can’t start building a better future until you’ve accepted your new reality. Give yourself time to figure this out. This is for the rest of your life. Take your time. 4. Just because someone is a doctor doesn’t mean they know what’s best for you and your body. Please, for the love of God listen to yourself, and don’t take drugs prescribed to you, or go through with a procedure if it doesn’t sit well with you.
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You will learn the hard way that taking hormones makes you severely depressed, but only after suffering silently for years. You weren’t going crazy, you just weren’t warned about the side effects and this will be the biggest lesson. Trust your ability to tell when something isn’t right and take whatever action you feel is appropriate, even if people don’t believe you. 5. Chronic pain ends up affecting the whole body. You will have to deal with chronic fatigue, whole body flare -ups, brain fog so bad it’s impossible to form a sentence; and aches and pains in places that seemingly have nothing to do with your endo. Take time to help your body relax and undo the damage the pain causes over time. Don’t get into the trap of dwelling on all the things your body can’t do, but focus on what it can do and work on getting better at those things. There’s nothing wrong with your body, it just needs some extra help and attention to be happy and support you. Being able to have conversations with your body and make compromises with it will be one of the most valuable skills you learn. 6. The people who aren’t understanding of what you’re going
through aren’t the people you need. Letting people be there for the bad times will allow your friendships to reach a depth and quality you never thought they’d be able to. Your friends will take you to hospital when you’re in so much pain you’re incapable of moving, be there after every surgery and visit to the ER, share your frustrations and tears, help you get groceries when you can’t walk, and be happy to do whatever, even if all you’re able to do is lie in bed, because they love you enough that it doesn’t matter what you can and can’t do. They will be, in a sense, the thing that keeps you going (sometimes the only thing), so make them your most important priority next to yourself. They are some of the best things to come out of this situation. 7. As devastating as your endometriosis will be, you have the power to choose how your life goes because of it. 8. At 20 years old, you will have proven your own strength to yourself countless times, and given yourself more to be proud of than if you hadn’t been dealt this shitty hand in the first place. 9. The relationship you will have formed with yourself through all of the pain will be one that is built on so 16
much love and respect that you won’t want to give that up for anything. 10. You will start taking steps towards turning your experiences into something bigger than yourself and allowing them to be helpful for others, such as writing this article, and beginning the first stage of getting on with living the rest of your life with your endo, rather than simply pretending
that it’s not there. And although it’s very possible that what’s to come may not be easy to handle, somehow you feel optimistic about the lessons you and your body will learn through this journey.
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The
(sorta )
dark truth
JENNIFER DARUWALLA Picture this. You’re sitting by the pool with your friends. It’s about 30 degrees (but feels more like 50). It’s been a great morning, but as afternoon approaches, you start pulling your towel over your exposed legs, shielding your face with your wide -brimmed straw hat. Good thing you brought your pullover, because although you’ll be sweating like a motherfucker, you’d rather be drenched than be tanned, right? You reapply sunscreen every hour or so until it’s safe to expose your skin again. Now it’s evening, and you probably swam for a total of ten minutes. This is a scenario I happen to face every summer. I know—it’s a toxic way of thinking. Although skin cancer is a concern of mine (as it should be to anyone who spends time in the sun), it is probably the thing I care least about when shading my skin from the sun. Having grown up in a country where skin-bleaching products like Fair and Lovely lined the shelves of every
supermarket (though, let’s be honest— that shit doesn’t work), and where social hierarchy was largely constructed through the colour of your skin, I was raised to believe that fair skin is beautiful. It’s weird, because we live in a hypocritical society where tanned white skin is the most beautiful, even though, for centuries, people with naturally darker skin have been made to feel subhuman. There are many things about my body that make me feel self-conscious, and I never thought the colour of my skin would be one of them. It’s not like I was born hating my skin. I probably had no idea that the colour of my skin was even a topic of conversation until around 8 or 9. As a kid, you don’t really give a flying fuck about how your actions impact your appearance. I’d spend hours outdoors playing football or running around with my aunt’s dog, Schkampy. “Don’t play outside for too long, or you’ll turn into a kari bilari (black cat)”, my grandmother would say.
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Her playful tone masked what was in fact quite a harmful message to such a young child. Or to anyone, in fact. This is why, from an early age, I began to realise that there was something wrong with the colour of my skin. I won’t go too deep into the intercultural history of why my skin is such a peculiar topic for me, but to summarise: it is clear that my identity crisis started early. With certain groups of people, I was “too brown”, and with others, I was “too white”. I was berated for how I looked in both groups.
the family. Or brown sheep, if you will. Hence why I am showered compliments when I begin to look more like them— gori. Then, on the other hand, when I was in my last few years of primary school, I remember being called a n*gger just for being brown. A parallel I’ve drawn from both of these experiences is that, whether I liked it or not, the colour of my skin mattered. But it really shouldn’t.
I was, and still am, In a weird medium place. Kind of like Mindy St. Claire. But instead of warm beer and unsalted pretzels, I have identity crises and selfloathing. (I’ll be really happy if at least one of you gets that reference). Jokes aside, I am in a position where the colour of my skin impacts the way I am treated in the strangest of ways. When I was a pre-teen, I frequented Indian dance classes every week. There, I’d be relentlessly made fun of for being too gori (white). Gori is not inherently an insult—it’s an adjective used to describe fair skin. Oddly enough, it’s the same word used by my family to compliment my complexion on days where I’ve perhaps just done a face mask or am in a fullface of makeup and don’t look as...kari. Our Persian ancestry means that everyone in my family is quite fair. Except me, for some reason (mum, do you have some explaining to do?). I am, quite literally, the black sheep of
Despite all of this, I know that it is important for me to acknowledge the privilege I have as being someone with a somewhat medium complexion. This article is about my struggles, and I acknowledge that those with darker skin will likely experience these things tenfold. As I’m sure most of you know, the reason that so many people believed (or even still believe) that fair skin is better is because of the correlation between rich, poor, fair, and dark. Wealthy people were typically fairerskinned because they stayed indoors, however, those who were made to work outside in harsh conditions were typically darker because of their exposure to the sun. It’s a weird thing to hate something you can’t change—how something you have no power over has so much power over you. Hating my skin colour made me start to hate where I came from. I spent years wishing that I was white—wishing that I had fair skin and blue eyes and 22
blonde hair. Because that’s what I was made to believe was beautiful. During my early teens is when I began feeling the most insecure about my complexion. I experimented with whitening creams, whitening soaps and even drugstore skin bleach. It’s safe to say that none of those things worked. In fact, they are the cause of my hyperpigmentation problems today (thanks for that, young Jennifer!). I can still remember the intense burn of the skin bleach as I’d sit, cross-legged on the floor, in front of my mirror, praying for some sort of miracle to unfold.
dark truth is that as long as racism— institutional, structural and ingrained— persists, so will colourism.
In the end, I think it’s fair to say that the best skin is healthy skin. Moisturise. Hydrate. Take care of your skin—it is, after all, your largest organ. I wish this piece had some sort of moral or resolution, but there really is none. I have no wisdom to impart, dear reader. I just know that no matter what I am or want to be - for humankind, the grass always seems to be greener on the other friggin’ side.
Looking back, it’s sad to see just how much the colour of my skin had an impact on my sense of selfworth. Dirty. Ugly. Poor. I didn’t just want lighter skin because of how it looked, but also because of how it shaped the way you were treated. Over the past few centuries, this has snowballed into the colourism we know and (ugh, still) experience in 2019. Learning to love yourself—not just your skin—is an incredibly hard thing to do. I mean, hell, I am nowhere near that level yet—I am still in the early stages of learning. I don’t want to turn this article into a political piece because, let’s be honest, that is not my forte, but the 23
DRUNK ON CHEAP WINE
TW: Eating disorders This open letter is in no way supposed to influence others who are battling EDs. If you are struggling, don’t be afraid to reach out for help. You can go to a local health clinic, a counsellor, or a friend. You can contact YouthLine on 0800 376 633, or text them on 234. Both are free of charge. There is always a support network for you. 24
It’s new years eve, close to midnight. Amidst the drunken chatter, we decide to share secrets about ourselves. I go first. “It’s a bit of a downer, but I used to be anorexic. I think I may be getting bad again.” The talk from the others dies down. The room looks at me, with a skewed face of pity and morbid curiosity. Soon, the only noise in the room comes from the speaker playing Taylor Swift. A very uncomfortable song for a very uncomfortable moment. “Can I ask you a question?” the girl sitting across from me asks. I nod. “Why would you choose not to eat? Is it a body thing or something?” Already drunk on cheap wine, I take another sip. “I don't know. I don't know why I’m like this.” I take a pause, listening to the neighbours' party next door. They’re shouting and laughing. Sounds like fun. “It’s not that I choose not to eat, it’s that I can’t eat it. I can put it in my mouth and chew all I like but I can barely make myself swallow.
You know when you’ve had too much food, and you feel like you tummy’s about to burst? But you want to keep eating, so you put more food in your mouth and you chew and chew, but you just can’t swallow? It’s like that.” Content with my answer, we move onto the next person. I sit and enjoy the spotlight being on someone else. I think about what I didn’t tell them though. How I know that a granny smith apple has 52 calories, and one piece of Toblerone has roughly 32, and I don’t even want to know how much a cut of garlic bread has because that will throw me well over my daily calorie intake. So I keep it to myself. Now that my secret is out, it forces me to confront it. Later that night my friend comes up to me, teary-eyed. She tells me she’s worried about me. I tell her I’m fine. “No, you’re not.” She’s right, I’m not. I promise her I’ll get help. I’m going to get help.
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HOW TO HAVE SEX
WHILE HATING YOUR
BODY JESSICA RAYNER 26
1. Have sex in the dark. Turn off the lamp you keep on the shelf above your bed and ensure you only ever fuck them in the dark. I would suggest turning on fairy lights for some ambience, but don’t let them see your stretch marks. 2. Get the other person to wear a blindfold. Tie your shirt around them and pretend you’re being kinky, kiss their neck and tell them it's all fun and games, run your hands over the parts of their body and tell them you love their imperfections. 3. Have sex in a shirt, or a dress, or an entire damn snowsuit. It’ll be like a glory hole, but you’ll be…warmer? 4. Don’t have sex at all. Swipe right on Tinder. Buy them a drink in the bar. Maybe share this article with them.
Invite them around to yours and then fall asleep on them. Tell them that your parents/flatmates/dog will be home soon, and it's not serious enough for anyone to see you two together, right? 5. Maybe turn a lamp on. You know, for ambience. 6. Roll the sheets back. Fuck on the covers. 7. Hate your body. 8. Have sex anyway. 9. Hate your body, but only you can do that. Your sexual partner(s) don’t get that right. 10. Remind yourself that it’s okay. Your body is a vessel and you’re not obliged to like it, ever. It’s not my job to tell you to love yourself, I’m just here to help you get laid. Have sex. The loving of your body will come later. 27
A photoseries by Lauren Ruth Rimmer
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“In my mid-teens, I taught myself
to find something in the mirror that I loved about my appearance and rock that, which has helped me build really great confidence, no matter my size. I love my eyes and smile, and having a good laugh - a big smile is the best accessory!” - Hazel
“I’ve struggled with my body image for the longest time, though there are things I love about myself. My hair is one of them—though it hasn’t always been a smooth ride. I spent years frying my hair straight because I was ashamed of my big, curly hair. I recently made the
decision to start leaving my hair natural—and I love it!” - Jennifer 29
“Check out these guns!” - Jeselle
“I love my freckles, for they seem like kisses from the
sun.” - Gywn
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“When I was a kid, my mum pointed out to me that a person’s smile never changes. You can look at a photo of someone when they’re a kid and again when they’re elderly and it’s the same smile. So I adore my smile. When life is chaotic, I know I will always have this toothy smile as my constant.” - Lauren
“Sometimes I love all of my body, sometimes I only like parts. My eyes, for example. I always love my eyes. I love my hair and my boobs and my lips. The rest of my body fluctuates, but that’s okay. I’m learning to love it.”
- Jessica
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We want to change the world one cup at a time by the gifting of a menstrual cups to people who cannot afford menstrual products and reducing the amount of menstrual waste to landfill. 32
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0800 692 876 hello@mycup.co.nz 33
MY EXPERIENCE WITH
After reaching out to us via Instagram to discuss Jennifer’s obsession with menstrual cups, MyCup New Zealand sent us some cups for our very own writers to test and write about. Here’s what we thought.
THE KEY WORD IS “MYBODY” 34
Lauren, 18 When I got my first period, I thought I peed myself. Let me paint the picture for you: I’ve just turned thirteen. Being now a teenager, and having just started high school, I am filled to the brim with “I’m an adult now!” attitude. So, what better way to celebrate my transition into adulthood than watching a raunchy, possible nip-slip, pg-13 movie? With our school ID’s in hand, my friends and I bought three tickets to see ‘Beautiful Creatures’. Buying the tickets, we casually mentioned to the cashier “yeah, we’re old enough. We’re in year nine” as if that were some boast. We settled into the movie, and about halfway through I felt something trickle down. I decided to ignore it, and pretend it wasn't there (I was very good at pretending things weren't there at age 13 *cough gay cough*) After the movie, I rushed to the bathroom. I pull down my pants, and lo and behold, I had started my first period. I wrapped up my undies in toilet paper and walked out as if nothing had happened. I didn't mention it to anyone, I felt like this had to be kept as my little secret.
I told my mum that night, near tears, and she jumped up and hugged me tight. She told me “Congrats! You're a woman!” And with that, I started my life as an adult. Since then, I’ve had approximately 68 periods, give or take. In my lifetime, I’m expected to have around 450. Yeesh.
In those 68 periods I’ve had so far, I’ve remained loyal to my OG blood catcher - the pad. I guess I had always been scared to try tampons. It just seemed so grown up! And that one time I did try to use a tampon, did not end well (No one said to take off the applicator!) So I remained faithful to pads for most of my teenage years. However, pads aren't perfect. The price for starters is not great. The average price for a packet of pads is around 5 dollars. Take into consideration the fact that you need to get daily pads and overnight pads. Also, if you’re like me, one packet alone will not get you through those gruelling days. 35
Every period I had cost me $15 - $20. That's around $200 a year. A fee I had to pay because I was born with a womb. That's just the price aspect. It is estimated that “432 million pads/ sanitary napkins are generated in India annually, the potential to cover landfills spread over 24 hectares.” (Mehrotra, 2018). Clearly, sanitary products like pads and tampons aren't the best for your pocket, nor the wellbeing of the environment.
So, being the eco-friendly little vegetarian I am, I tried to find a cost friendly, eco alternative. I had heard of menstrual cups before but had never really looked into them. They seemed to be these scary, massive things that went where? But, with the goal of reducing my carbon footprint, I bought one. Oh my gosh. I’ve been using my MyCup for about 5 months now, and I can say, gladly, that I will never go back to disposables. It’s comfortable, eco-friendly, non-toxic, and generally great!
Going from pads to a menstrual cup was a big jump, for sure, but once you get used to the folds, the angles, the ‘do I put this in in the shower or toilet?’, and the ‘How on earth do I take this out?’ among other things, it becomes your best friend. It’s unfamiliar and odd at first, I’ll admit, but once you get to practice, it’s easy as pie. Also, no leaks! (Well, apart from that one time I was dancing so aggressively that it came loose, but that was one time!) Pair that with the fact these things last you 10+ YEARS, there's no reason NOT to make the switch in my opinion! (Did I mention that MyCup donates a cup to those in need with every cup sold?) I’m at a point of my life now where I am proud of my bleeding body. What I once hid I now openly celebrate. It’s the act of talking about periods that will reduce the stigma, and make it easier to open a discussion that will not only benefit our wombs, but also the wider environment by reducing our carbon footprints. So hey, if you’re going to bleed painfully once a month, you should at least do so sustainably.
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Jessica, 19 Okay. So, here is the thing: I bloody love tampons. They are so easy, so convenient, and, maybe I’m imagining things, but I genuinely think that they help with my period cramps. A major downside to my lil’ cotton compressed friends, though, is that they are SO BAD for the environment. And honestly, no matter how great they are, I don’t think that I can justify using at least 20ish of these a month for the next 30 years. So, when I was asked to try a MyCup menstrual cup, and be given one for free for -scientificpurposes, I was so excited! But I was also shitting myself. As I mentioned, as a tampon lover, I’ve had the whole shove this up your hooha thing sorted, but this was different. It… opened up? Like a blooming flower? Flowers do not go up my vag, kthanksbye. But it’s important to keep an open mind, so I squatted over the loo and I YouTubed some tutorials.
menstrual cup, and I wouldn’t have been able to do it without those videos. To cut a long, intrusive story short, I popped a squat, folded that cup (I prefer the C fold) and inserted it! Despite my insane fear of using a menstrual cup, I began to love it, and now it's my go-to period product. It’s super comfortable, doesn’t leak, and is great for the environment. In fact, if I take good care of it, its last about 10 years, which means I have the potential to stop 2400 tampons polluting the Earth. Why wouldn’t I want to help save our environment like that? I genuinely believe that everyone with a bleeding uterus should have a go at using a MyCup. I shit you not, it is the greatest thing I have ever used in my life. I love it. I won’t lie—even though it was intimidating at first, let’s be real—the best things in life always are! Please look in to getting one for yourself.
Fun Fact: there are MANY videos on YouTube that explain how to insert a 37
Jennifer, 21 Ah. Back I am with yet another piece about menstrual cups. You might think I’m obsessed. And you’d be 100% correct. Now, since you’ve probably already had the privilege of reading about the history of my menstruation cycle (if you haven’t, I’d like to casually refer you to Issue 3 of The Outlet Magazine for an in -depth article about my period and amazement at menstrual cups).
I used to be a massive fan of the sanitary pad. However, I encountered a problem too many which turned me off of them. Firstly, I loved swimming and playing sports (though you wouldn’t be able to tell now!). Periods meant that those things were either impossible or came with adversity. Pads would slip, rub and move around in all the wrong places. Even though pads had the sticky adhesive to make sure they didn’t fall off, I was terrified that they would. But enough about the past. Let’s talk about the MyCup. What I enjoy about menstrual cups is
the confidence to do pretty much...anything. Because they sit higher in your cervix than a tampon would, I feel like I can rest easy, knowing that leakage is near impossible and that it won’t just slip out. My first day wearing the MyCup was great—once it was in (which did take a while, I will admit) I was set for the next few hours.
(For those wondering—because I sure did—yes, you can pee with your menstrual cup in). Since I have a medium to heavy flow, I changed my cup around three times a day (in the morning, in the evening and just before going to bed). The cup was easy to take out too—do not fret. The base is GREAT for gripping! As I’m sure the other reviews say, I really appreciate how much less I am contributing to the detriment of the environment by owning a MyCup.
It’s hard to play your part in being environmentally friendly, but reusable products like these help. Every little bit helps. 38
Want to win your own
menstrual cup? Follow @MyCupNZ and @TheOutletMag on Instagram! Drop a like and comment the key word (found somewhere in this issue!) on @TheOutletMag’s giveaway post for a chance to win this lifechanging product. We have three cups to give away!* *One cup in Size 0, and two cups in Size 1.
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OUR PERCEPTION — OUR GREATEST ENEMY? Luke parkes Our body and mind have a close relationship with each other. In the past, many writers have said so, writing extensively about it. Of course, they aren’t the only ones who believe this; I think so, too — and perhaps you do, as well. Recently, I read an interesting article entitled How Body Image is Constructed in Your Brain. As the headline specifies, how we view our own physical entity — our body — stems from what our brain constructs of it. JR Thorpe writes that our body decide “on its internal image of itself via a lot of external cues and stimuli, from what it sees and what it feels.” In more recent times, we have more awareness on an area of the brain that “processes a lot of that information and spits out an image — and how it might get things wrong.” Naturally, the article shifts to how the way that we perceive our bodies is unreliable. Because it doesn’t get everything right, it can create a distorted image of ourselves, and how we see, how we feel, about ourselves can take a significant toll on us. At times, it can have an effect on our health, and that is, of course, problematic. Unfortunately, the word “fat,” a word used for plus-size people, has a negative connotation. Some of the time, people
can be made to be “fat-shamed” like their body is something to be embarrassed about. While I will not say too much about it, many individuals who feel unsatisfied with their body image may identify as transgender and who haven’t undergone a physical transition, a condition known as body dysphoria. For anyone who feels insecure about their body can have their minds plagued with toxic thoughts, darkening their perception. Is our perception our greatest enemy? While many of us will have varying answers to this, I am going to say “not entirely.” It’s not our fault that we are confronted by certain images within the media. It’s not our fault that societies have these supposed “rules.” Our mind and body are connected, and our body image can take a toll on how we see ourselves. What can we do about this? I believe the best approach is to continue to challenge the supposed “ideals” of society, to help redefine what gender is — not strictly binary — and to change how people view certain descriptive words such as “fat” (turn a negative into a positive). Our perception may be capable of being our greatest enemy, but do you know what it can also be? We can also make it our best ally. 40
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THE OUTLET YOUR VOICE | YOUR OUTLET
NEW ISSUE EVERY QUARTER ALL WRITTEN CONTENT IS PROPERTY OF OUT@AUT UNLESS STATED OTHERWISE. THE REPRODUCTION, DISTRIBUTION OR TRANSMISSION OF THIS PUBLICATION IN ANY FORM OR BY ANY MEANS IS STRICLY PROHIBITED WITHOUT PRIOR PERMISSION FROM THE PUBLISHER. COPYRIGHT © 2018 OUT@AUT, AUCKLAND UNIVERSITY OF TECHNOLOGY. PHOTOGRAPH CREDIT IS THE PROPERTY OF THEIR RIGHT OWNERS. NO COPYRIGHT INTENDED.
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