Tuesday, September 06, 2005

Eighteen Years Until Menopause

It's been a while since I talked about PMS.

No! Wait! Don't leave.

I'm not going to yell at you, or swear at you, or cry, or throw things, or inflict the silent treatment, or beg you to buy me chocolate. Not now anyway. I save those things for the men in my life.

No, no. I want to have a serious sharing moment about PMS.

Because I swear, PMS has taken over at least half of my fucking life.

(Oh, shit. I promised I wouldn't swear.)

Last month, the very worst days of my PMS coincided with my packing up and leaving Cape Cod. I would have been sad about leaving and stressed about driving so far with or without PMS. But with it, well...let's just say that I made life hell for a certain someone for a couple of days. And I made a certain someone else think that I hated him.

In fact, I left things so poorly that I was upset about it for weeks later. It weighed on me. A lot. Too much to even admit to anyone.

And then suddenly, this month, I started to feel like shit again. I was angry, sad, depressed, horny, and in pain. And this particular month, I was so fatigued that I could barely function. It didn't seem like a month had gone by. And I even called my friend and asked, "Hey. When did I start PMSing last month?"

What's sad is that my friends and husband keep track so that they can know when I'm going to be impossible to deal with. They make plans around it.

Yesterday, my husband kept asking me. "Do you want me to go out and buy you some Midol?"

I kept saying no, yet he kept asking.

Have you seen that episode of Everybody Loves Raymond? The one where Ray tries to "help" Debra by getting her a PMS magic pill?

I think I finally conceded the fight by saying, "Well, Honey, if YOU want me to have a Midol, then fine. Go buy them."

Then he tried to overdose me with them.

It's time to do something about this. I have so many friends and acquaintances who are on anti-depressants specifically to deal with their PMS. Everything from Welbutrin to Prozac. But I just can't go there. No. I refuse to go there.

I keep telling people that the best thing I can do for my PMS is to lose weight. But every month, when that time comes again, and I haven't lost any weight, it makes me want to kill myself.

God, I can't be alone in this. Can I? Considering how many women must be affected by this, you'd think there'd be some known cure. You'd think married men everywhere would be working around the clock on a cure for PMS. You'd think they'd be donating half their paychecks.

But maybe it is just me. I swear my husband just thinks I'm using it as an excuse to get him to put the kids to bed. Maybe it is all in my head. Maybe it is just an excuse to vent my angry feelings once a month. Maybe I'm that bad at dealing with my life.

Fuck it. It's time to see a doctor. I don't think I can go on like this. I certainly don't want to.

It's time to be proactive. It's time to take my hormones in hand and say to those fuckers, "Shut up! Sit down! This is my body and I'm not letting you rule it anymore. You inconsiderate little fuckwads! I don't need you anymore anyway. So get in line or get off the bus."

Fuck yeah. That should work.

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