I got my first period when I was 11. My dad stayed home. He waved incense over my head and blasted Gregorian chants from the boombox. I was in so much pain. My mom took me to the OB/GYN, who said, “You probably have endometriosis. Eleven is a bit young, but we’re going to start you on something called Yaz.” A decade later, I’m moving halfway across the country and talking to a female co-worker, who I don’t like for the same reasons that I dislike maraschino cherries. And when I say that I’ve been on the pill since age 11, her jaw drops. “How do you know who you really are, if you’ve always been on the pill?” I need three less hours of sleep every night. I want to hump everything that remotely resembles Eddie Redmayne. There are so many watercolor paintings I want to make. I tell every woman I can, “Your birth control may be giving you depression.” But then I get my period. I’m in so much pain, I can’t move. A small device — with ethereal brand names like Skyla and Mirena. I heard it makes your period stop completely, and the hormones are localized, so maybe it won’t give me depression. But getting the IUD inserted hurts so badly that I hallucinate violent things happening to fruit. My period doesn’t go away. Instead, I get it every day for six months. Something else is different. I feel strange. I quit my job. I book a trip to Iceland, and I ovulate in Reykjavik. I go for a drive through the fjords at 1 a.m., but I have to pull over, because I feel like I’m about to upchuck ice cream all over my parka. The sheep don’t look well meaning. The sky looks carnivorous. I don’t feel real. I call my friend Stephanie. “Can you describe me to myself?” “Your IUD is causing premenstrual dysphoric disorder. Take this. It’s what symphonists take to perform.” Normal people probably don’t medicate themselves to stay calm around Icelandic sheep. “I don’t know what you mean by ‘normal people.’” Yes, you do. It looks like a hula hoop designed for gerbils, and this brings me hope, because how could something that looks so useless cause harm? Everything is great, until I attend a children’s ballet, where affluent 8-year-olds, white as endives, prance around to Tchaikovsky. One dancer is always two beats behind the others due to an especially cumbersome praying mantis costume. And I don’t know why, but his inadequacy makes me panic. I feel like somebody is cooking soup inside of me, like my insides are a vat of minestrone. My blood is hot as broth. My skeleton is a jumble of swollen noodles. My tombstone will read, “She became soup.” It’s not just the ballet. Car rides, meeting new people, getting haircuts, eating out — I can’t do any of them post-NuvaRing. And my vagina’s always itchy. “It’s the lowest-dose oral contraceptive they make. It might just be mild enough for you.” O.K., I’ll try it. A depressed person wouldn’t stop to fondle lilies, would they? O.K., good. A depressed person wouldn’t bathe, would they? O.K., good. A depressed wouldn’t cook a healthful meal, would they? O.K., good. I must not be depressed. I must not be depressed. I must not be depressed. I must not be depressed. I must not be depressed … “There isn’t much else we can try. We can remove your uterus, or we can medically induce menopause.” [newscaster] “There could be a new form of birth control available.” “And this one is for men.” “It was 96 percent effective —” “But it was halted early because of concern over the number of side effects, including mood swings, depression, acne and an increased sex drive.” “Well, with side effects like that, I can imagine a lot of women are saying right now, ‘Are you kidding me?’”