I’ve never seen a dude crying to Ed Sheeren whilst folding washing at the dining table.
I’ve also never seen a dude suffer sore swollen cans, or an aching lower back due to impending womb purge, and although I have seen many a man with road rage I don’t think he’d be excused in a court of his peers quite as swiftly as a premenstrual woman who was cut off in traffic while she was racing home as her toddler was in the back yelling she needed to do a poo.
It’s no secret that I rank somewhere on the anxious/crazy scale on a good day but I have to admit to being quite sensitive to monthly hormonal changes. I actually think such drastic changes in personality due to hormones is a monster design flaw but I’m not sure who to take it up with.
Sometimes they are subtle changes altering my tastes in food, or my patience level, and other times they influence my homicidal tendencies and need for anxiety calming herbs (not pot, that makes me paranoid which is not pretty.)
Month to month it’s different and heaven help anyone who suggests that my latest anxiety ridden life crisis is due to hormones because even though I want to punch everyone I see in the face with one hand, whilst shovelling icecream straight from the container into my own face with other, I’m in denial.
Sometimes my women’s issues last merely a few hours before I am relieved by a show of blood in my knicks but other times it can last from ovulation in the middle of my cycle to first day of bleeding after which fortnight my entire social circle begins to wonder if I’ve finally tipped over into the deep pool of neurosis never to return again.
My latest period was one such epic event, and I questioned my entire existence. The slightest stress on my already loaded plate was emphasised to ginormous, catastrophic, proportions and I was making molls out of mountains, or some such.
I have recently inserted the Mirena so my brain is on high Hormone Alert as I wildly try to ascertain if I’m standard crazy or extra crazy at the moment due to the foreign body I jammed into my nethers in hope of not having to push a not-so-foreign body out.
I don’t suffer in silence either.
I drag my dear ones down into the rabbit hole with me as I spiral into my own weirdness, but those who know me well know that it’s just a matter of time before I declare I’m going to India, then I’ll cry, then I’ll laugh wildly and finally I’ll bleed and everyone can breathe a sigh of relief for a few weeks.
I was texting Champagne Carolyn about trying to work out about my Mirena placebo issue and she responded with –
Chin up, sister girlfriend. Hormones are lying bastards.
How fucking perfect is that?
I told her I loved her and she said it was the hormones talking.
Lucky she wasn’t in the room because I would have punched her in the face with the hand that wasn’t clenching the ice-cream tub.
Anyway, everyone is safe for another couple of weeks, and I’ll be my usual dandy self….unless I’m Mirena Mental. Keep an eye on my tone, will you?
I reckon we’ll all know soon enough.
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