My monthly visits from Little Red Riding hood have always been a rather emotional time of the month for me. For as long as I can remember, I have struggled with PMS, the kind that would take me out of school for the day and leave me wondering what the point was of it all. Serious depro vibes.
But for the last few years, or at least since having kids, things seemed to have chilled out and most months I have barely noticed my monthlies coming. I thought all the hormonal crazies had left and I dunno, being a proper adult meant I was more in control of my emotions.
That was up until about three months ago.
All of a sudden, out of the blue I was hit with what I now know to be a serious case of premenstrual depression and for the last few cycles I have scared myself to the point of thinking I need therapy. The lets remove you from your environment for your own safety kind. No bells and whistles, only strong meds and straightjackets
It’s become a time my husband dreads more than kids birthday parties and I’m sure there may even be moments where he has feared for his own life. Now every month on almost the exact day he sees my behavior change and like soldiers planning for war, he prepares for all hell to break loose. And the logistics are often just as complicated, because lets face it, I go bat shit crazy on the guy.
If truth be told he has always handled it like a champ, going as far as making my favorite food, buying me smarties (because they fix everything), doing more around the house and generally walking on egg shells so as not to have his head taken off for something as small as not acknowledging my new mascara. (Probably because he’s too scared to make eye contact)
Lately, he becomes a little quieter for the few days leading up to it and will sometimes gently ask, Are you getting your period my love? Of course the second he asks the completely RIDICULOUS question he turns white with fear and the pain of regret kicks in like the morning after drinking too much wine. Blurry at first and then BOOM, it hits you between the eyeballs. Of course, like with any red wine hangover, he swears he will NEVER make that mistake again.
You see while I at least know what I’m dealing with now (and know I’m not just a crazy bitch on the cusp of a nervous breakdown) the biggest problem comes when you add a two-year old to the mix. God have mercy!!!
Hell really has no fury like a premenstrual mother dealing with a tantruming toddler. For the last while, our behavior has been pretty identical, as I’ve watched myself regress into an emotional lump of a child. I suppose there’s an element of comfort in that. Except, it’s not really accepted by society for a 33-year-old grown woman to scream like the exorcist or lie crying on the floor in the supermarket. Yes in the fetal position.
Truth is we are the worst for each other and I myself have started to dread the return of IT. The thing that takes me from feeling like I can take on the world to feeling like I can’t even wash the shampoo out of my hair. Or even care to.
Here are 10 ways my toddler and my premenstrual self are so alike:
- I wake up grumpy demanding cereal.
- I cry because I’m given cheerios and not oatess (even though any normal person knows they are EXACTLY the same)
- I mess my milk onto my PJ’s and ugly cry because I planned to stay in them all morning. I don’t want my other pink one, I WANT the green ones.
- I can’t find my shoes ANYWHERE and begin to wonder if I should even go on.
- One of the kids told me I have a pimple on my forehead and an hour later my husband finds my crying on the bathroom floor.
- I ask my husband for a new pair of shoes, he says NO wait till next month and what follows is a meltdown of disturbing proportions.
- I cant open the jam and FREAK out for half an hour convincing myself the people who bottle the stuff are conspiring to piss me off.
- I’m tired. I cry.
- I’m hungry. I cry
- I don’t think about anyone else but myself, and if I’m asked for help I scream NO! I don’t want to.
It may or may not be clear to everyone reading this that I do in fact need therapy. Yes the serious kind. But until I am 100 percent sure of what we are dealing with, the wine and chocolate kind will have to suffice.