I’ve always laughed at jokes made about pre-menstrual syndrome. You know, the ones where guys are like, “Must be her time of the month” just because a woman goes from a devil-horned bitch to a tear-soaked, sloppy and snotty mess. I never really noticed the hormonal change in myself but, then again, it wasn’t until about halfway through my freshman year of college that I realized the sad truth: I’m not as perfect as I had always thought I was –– le gasp! I know!
Because of my almost completely unfortunate initials, my mom has always said, “Watch out, Emily’s ‘EMSing,'” and then my older brothers would, quite literally, watch the fuck out (I threw things). Looking back now on episodes of my life through –– let me flatter myself here –– mature eyes, I’ve realized I used to get pretty bitchy, throwing fits, yelling, storming up the stairs, slamming doors and crying hysterically. One teenage girl in the household was bad enough for my brothers and father, who often speculated that one girl was certainly enough, if not more than enough. One brother doesn’t want children and I’m fairly certain the other two want nothing to do with little girls. As their own children, I mean. That sounded creepy.
But back to me and my problems. I’ve toned down some in terms of PMS, but shit, after this week, I don’t think I’ll laugh as hard anymore at PMS jokes.
I bawled my eyes out last Thursday night over one thing one person did, or, rather failed to do. Even though it really wasn’t a big deal. The whole thing isn’t a big deal. I make things a big deal and obsess over them.
“You okay?” my friend texted me at 3 a.m. after I’d left the party.
“Yeah, just PMSing lol,” I replied at 6 a.m. when I woke up and saw the text.
LOL. But it’s really not funny. It’s ridiculous.
My version of PMS has changed from an irritable and angry person to a sad, life-sucks-so-much-and-I-hate-it person. Time I spend in solitude goes from a precious commodity to a pit of loneliness. I text my mom. I text my brother. I text my dad. I text my other brother when the other one doesn’t respond. I know not to text the third one because he doesn’t often respond, but I try him anyway.
“Hi! How are you?” I type, hoping they’ll reciprocate the question so I can plunge deep into my tales of woe and sorrow that only a 20-something woman could spew.
Then I call my mom. And I cry. “I just–hic–needed to talk to–hic–someone who loves me uncondi-hic-tionally,” I’ll sputter into my Droid.
She’ll go along with it; it’s about the only time I ever really call her and she always says something along the lines of, “Aw honey, you know you’re just PMSing, right?”
Right. I know. But it doesn’t stop things from seriously sucking, at least from my chemically askew brain’s point of view.
I’m not as much of a PMS bitch anymore, but if you show me one of those sad ASPCA commercials, I will, without a doubt, burst into tears. If you talk about your grandparents or about how you need to give your grandma a call and you see tears well up in my eyes, don’t be surprised. It’s just me, EMSing again. Then you’d better duck before I throw something at you. EMS can be pretty unpredictable.
In the words of Drake, “Started from the bottom, now we’re here” and it’s true; I kind of hit rock bottom* this week (“YOU WERE NEVER AT THE BOTTOM, DRAKE,” argues my brother). My appetite for success in everything is insatiable and if one thing –– my own personal love life, perhaps? –– falls slightly out of place, the whole Jenga tower topples. My monthly bout of depression tears at my confidence. My successes become I could have done mores*, and my failures nag, nag, nag at me. But now I’m here. I’m going to relish this current balance of estrogen and progesterone before they get all fucked up again, fucking me up in the process.
If nothing else during these highly emotional times, at least I have the DivaCup and the bullshit that follows EMS becomes easier. ; )
*a relative term; my supposed “rock bottom” includes panicking that someone didn’t text me back, the fear of being excluded and paranoia about everything. It’s stupid. I’m stupid. My “rock bottom” is nothing in the grand scheme of things, though it always seems like my whole damn world is ending.
*mores; done on purpose.