On hormonal days I want to punch you in the face. (Doesn't matter who you are.)
I know I'm hormonal when:
- I want to punch people in the face.
- I ring up the radio station to disagree (vehemently) with something someone has said.
- I still want to punch people in the face.
- I get into fights on Facebook, in which my fourth sentence is 'pfffffft, like, whatever' and somehow still expect to win, but don't, so go rant to all my friends about how unreasonable my opponent is.
- I want to punch people in the arm.
- I start blocking and unfollowing people on social media. Mostly if they appear to be too happy, or trivially cheerful. Or if they've just posted too many times that day for my delicate sensibilities.
- More punching.
- Everything my husband says is WRONG. Not just a little bit WRONG. A lot WRONG. So WRONG in fact, that I am not able to live without correcting him thoroughly, so that he truly knows he is WRONG and will, actually, never be RIGHT.
- Internal voices start screaming. GET OUT OF MY WAY. RIGHT NOW. DID YOU HEAR ME? I SAID, STOP CLOGGING UP THE SUPERMARKET AISLES. MOVE, WOMAN. SERIOUSLY, HOW LONG DOES IT TAKE TO CHOOSE A BOX OF CEREAL? CAN'T YOU SEE I'M STANDING HERE WAITING TO PICK UP MY VITABRITS? MOVE IT, FOR REALS.
- *Sobs* "No-one likes me. Honestly, I have no friends. None at all. They all just tolerate me. Or they're pretending to be my friend. You don't even like me, and you're married to me, so why would anyone else like me?"
- *Dark, foreboding voice* "And things are so difficult. There's just no purpose. To anything. I can't see why I should even bother. And clearly, I'm going to feel like this for the rest of my life, so I should probably just give up now."
- COULD YOU ALL JUST BE QUIET????????!!! DON'T SAY MY NAME ONE MORE TIME, OR I WILL LOSE MY COOL AND THEN YOU'LL KNOW JUST HOW I RESPOND TO 'MUUUUUUMMM'.
- *Thinks: I'll ring my mum, she'll understand.* Rings Mum. *Thinks: she doesn't understand.*
- Thinks: Ow, my fist really hurts.
- *Sobs on bed*
So great to be a woman, right?
(As it turns out, the doctor says I have Pre Menstrual Dysphoric Disorder, which is a particularly bad form of your general, garden-variety PMS (two days of teary/angry/angst that chirpy articles in health magazines give advice about, recommending you take a hot water bottle to bed with you, and try to have a good cry and get it out. Ha ha ha ha. Kid stuff.) I went to see her this week when I realised I was spending fully 10 days of the month either being an absolute piece of work to everybody or trying so hard to not punch people in the face that it was totes wearing me out. She put me on pills. Honestly? I hope they work. This is not a fun way to live.)