Fark my hormones

Just when you start sleeping more than four hours a night, your body farks you over again.

Haven’t I been through enough? Don’t I deserve a little peace?

But no, my hormones have decided to torture me. This is nothing new, they’ve always been right C words. Except now they’re like a little voice whispering treacherous, needy words in my head.

Old, lonely cat lady words.

Two years ago I wrote this scary rant about the bastards …

Isn’t it always the way? Just when you’re seeing the light, something ugly sneaks into your head during the night: PMT. Like my wrinkles, my waistline and my memory, my PMT is getting worse with age. I thought it would recede with my child-bearing capabilities. But no, it’s cranking things up a notch. It’s probably prepping me – deep breath – for menopause. (Nooooooo!). I spend two weeks every month in a hideous blur of emotion, aching boobs and pimples. I want to hide under the bedcovers. Forever. I want to cry. Make that sob, uncontrollably. I rage at Husband that he “doesn’t love me”. I want to hit people (fortunately not the Sprogs, I just yell at them). I am so, so down. I want to drink the wine rack dry. Even the gamey rose. Then there’s the boob situation. I had to hold them during running races with the Sprogs the other day. When I take off my bra at night … yeow! That little drop (she kids herself) feels like I’ve thrown my tits over a cliff and they’ve gone splat at the bottom. All explody, like when I was running late for a breastfeed. Back when I was fecund, not perimenopausal. As for the pimples, there are no words. That’s a lie, there are six words: Pimples at 43? So. Not. Fair.

(Sadly, upon reflection and circumstance, I’m suspecting Husband didn’t love me. Ouch. And re-reading this makes me almost sympathise with him. Almost.)

Apparently I’m imagining the whole thing. In Feb, 2013, I reported this …

Back in December, researchers at the University of Toronto published findings in Gender Medicine magazine saying PMT didn’t exist.

The (largely female!) team, led by Dr Sarah Romans, examined 47 studies from between 1971 and 2007 and concluded the results “failed to provide clear evidence in support of the existence of a specific premenstrual negative mood syndrome”.

Well eff that for an effing joke. Tell that to my bleak, terrible mood. And it will suggest you eff off too.

Last night, my phantom hormones decided to starting singing this in my head …

I hate you PMT. I hate your guts. It’s not fair to romanticise a relationship that had strayed soooooooooo far from that.

And that’s the most annoying part: it’s total bull. The truth is, I don’t know HOW I feel. Other than pissed off and bereft. 

It’s like someone’s dead but they’re still alive. And they make a phone call each night to the kids from heaven, but not to you.

And that’s so weird.

Bring on the blood, I say. Or cauterize my heart.

The no man’s land in the middle is torture.