Thursday, July 26, 2012

Notes From a Hormone Casserole

I am.

True story: when I was in high school-actually all the way up to when I got pregnant with Jack, I proudly boasted to never having experienced a single PMS symptom. No bloating, cramping, cravings, mood swings, acne or exhaustion. I also told other women who complained of heavy, long, painful periods that mine were "short and sweet! about 3 days long and hardly any cramps!" It's truly a miracle I was never shot.
After having Jackson, everything changed, and while I won't go into detail, I will say this: I was out of my damn mind and I do not talk that way anymore.

Can we just all agree for a moment that PMS is one of the worst experiences on the planet?
I mean I'm sure being water boarded would be worse, but I'm not convinced it'd be that much worse. I think part of what's so terrible about PMS {Mad Cow Season as I call it} is that it effects everybody. Once my body has been taken hostage by hormones it's no longer just me who suffers. 
It's my kids, my boss, my boyfriend, and generally anyone who stands between me, my yoga pants and an extra large pizza with a side of 9 lbs of chocolate.

It's like a frat house Hell Week up in this house, and no one gets out without suffering a little bit right along side me. I could probably write an entire post just about things I've cried about whilst PMSing.
And whats terrible is that every month I think I must be going crazy. I think I am losing my mind, developing Alzheimer's, becoming bi-polar and developing a binge eating disorder and anger management problem, all at the same time. When all my symptoms become too anxiety inducing, or after I have an emotional meltdown of epic proportions {sorry Bill] I inevitably glance at a calendar and realize "Oh right. It's Mad Cow Season. Better order a pizza in advance for when I get off work and make sure Netflix has some chick flicks I wanna watch" 
Somehow, PMS sneaks up on you. Like once it's over you forget it ever happened and totally believe it will never happen again. Kind of like childbirth and hangovers.
One minute you're this ovulating sex pot who just wants to crawl all over her man and ride him like Sea Biscuit, and the next you're a weeping, screaming, binge eating puddle of yourself on the floor asking why nobody loves you and there's never any oranges.
Sometimes it makes total sense to me that women stayed home in the 40's and 50's. I mean back then they still knew so little about common ailments {evidence: they prescribed cigarettes for constipation-true story from my Nana, circa 1957} that they probably thought all women became possessed by some kind of devil for 1 week a month, and then bled him out the following week.

Which isn't all that far from the truth I don't think.

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