Hormones. Suck. Big. Time.
Oh, they have their uses. I mean I wouldn’t want to NOT have them. But geez they put me through the wringer every month.
Yesterday was baaaaaaaaad.
I wrote about my hormonal hell many moons ago, in a post called Warning: This one’s about PMT.
It went like this …
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 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.
There’s no husband to rage at any more. And perhaps my hormones guessed something I didn’t … but the rest of the blog is still painfully accurate.
I described it to DD yesterday as feeling like I’m being crushed.
He suggested evening primrose oil. I promised to give it a try.
Does anyone else have tips? They’ll be very gratefully received.
Song of the day: Garbage “Only happy when it rains”