Dearest hormones:

Why, oh why, did you pick this month and this weekend to send me into mad mood swings? I really did not appreciate the despair. I guess it goes to show that I should never, ever consider being anything remotely like pregnant, because if PMS is any indication, my body does not play well with you, hormones. Not one bit. Especially not under stress.

Now, I’m sure anxiety played some part in whisking my appetite away to parts unknown until the middle of my neurology appointment, but YOU. Hormones. I keep wanting to see the torrents of blood that reassure me, each month, that the birth control still works. And you just don’t do that for me anymore. There’s just enough to annoy me, but not enough to keep me from poking my midsection and wondering what got left behind. You had better flatten me by Thursday morning, because this month, you have seen fit to start in with the painful rack before I even stopped TAKING the damn pills. That isn’t funny! Boobs + nausea + not enough blood = PARANOIA. I may have to pee on something stick-shaped to reassure myself. Also, I am not allowed to watch any more “I Didn’t Know I Was Pregnant”.

And I’m sure my partner appreciated my sudden clinginess and dissatisfaction with the state of things from a time zone away. Oh, yes, let’s cry at him about wishing he could be here when he very clearly cannot. Evil bastard dysphoria. Never have I been gladder for that surge of Established Relationship Energy (also known as love) I felt when he texted me this evening. Verklempt beats snarling mess six ways to Sunday.

While I am feeling a touch better now, I really don’t want to repeat this in December. Get with the program or fuck right off.

Absolutely no love


One thought on “Dearest hormones:

  1. I am sending a similar message to my own body right now. My cramps, at least, are down because I’m still on anti-inflammatories for my knee, but my mood is completely messed up. Given, it generally is, but it is definitely worse right now. There have been threats and muttered things of terribleness and the clinginess (immediately followed by “the hell do you want,” of course.)

    I feel you, darling. Deeply. And it freaking sucks.

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