The male dominated medical industry: They created Viagra for erectile dysfunction, but remain clueless on what exactly causes PMS. Forget about discovering a cure.
Bobbi: I’m craving doughnuts. How late is Krispy Kreme open?
Me: Until at least ten. Hey, they’ll be “hot now”. If you go inside, you’ll get one from free. (I add jokingly–>) Go ahead and bring me one.
Fifteen minutes later, phone rings.
Bobbi: I’ll be there in two minutes.
I hang up dumbfounded.
About two minutes later, Bobbi walks in with a box of doughnuts.
I eye them with suspicion.
Bobbi: Why get one when you can get a baker’s dozen?
Me: But.. but.. I only wanted one.
Visions of devouring the entire so-warm-they-almost-fall-apart-doughnuts within the next five minutes bombard my head.
Bobbi: Well now you have six. (sees CG and I are busy conversing about something awesome that happened at his job). See you! (walks out door)
Me: (to my husband) What just happened?
The remaining three doughnuts taunt me. I already consumed the other three in less than twelve hours, stopping to sleep.
Me: Come eat these last three donuts because they’re (edited for profanity) telling me to eat them, and I DO NOT need an extra 800 calories.
Bobbi: If you don’t want them, just toss them out.
Me: You DO NOT (edited for profanity) throw away Krispy Kreme doughnuts. For future notice, unless I have 6 people to feed, DO NOT bring me six doughnuts because I will eat them all. I hate wasting food and there is no way to “save” a doughnut for later, they go bad. The first hot one was fabulous. Then I devoured a second. I chained myself to the couch to avoid eating a third in under ten minutes.
Bobbi: I know you’re PMS-y, but don’t attack me for trying to do something nice.
Me: (edited for profanity)
Ten minutes later.
Me: (stream of cursing) I ate another one.
Gym friend: Hey, how are you doing?
Me: (Bursts into tears).
My son turns on his super power of Selective Hearing.
Me: Don’t hit the wall with the broom.
My words bounce off.
Me: Please, do not hit the wall with the broom, I will have to take it away. It hurts the wall and will make Mommy very angry.
Still no change.
Me: FINE! (grabs broom from son and tosses it into place he cannot access). YOU’RE IN TIME OUT.
Son: No, I don’t want to be in time out.
Me: THEN GO TO YOUR ROOM BEFORE I THROW ALL OF YOUR TOYS AWAY!
Daughter: (shrieking at the top of her lungs, the sound a blend of YOU WILL DO MY BIDDING tantrum, tiredness, and hunger). AHHHH! AHHHH! AHHH! (repeat over one hundred times)
I attempt pacification methods: offering food, which she flings emphatically to the floor, continuing her screeches.
Me: STOP SCREECHING! AHHHH! AHHH!
Person on internet: Your writing is lovely.
Me: (bursts into tears)
Following dinner out as a family, CG – warned of my mood swings – takes off with the kids for the hour until bedtime. He takes them to the park, and I head home.
CG: I tried to give you an evening away, so why are you home?
Me: Because I HAD TO BE, OKAY!!!! (bursts into tears)
For one and a half days, I was an overstretched rubber band, breaking at the slightest provocation.
I was the overfilled balloon, exploding at the smallest thing.
And there wasn’t a damn thing I could do about it, except summon every bit of willpower to not injure or kill those people in my presence.
I am not a “crier”. Things roll off of me. The last time emotional PMS slammed into me this hard was before The Tackler existed – I avoided contact with others during this time.
With the exception of random pregnancy moments (usually when hungry) or the Only Slept Five Hours in Two Days Extreme Sleep Deprivation Caused by Newborn, I don’t get over emotional – especially for an extended period of time. My hunger or “Food Eat NOW” is far more likely to ignite an outburst.
(Warning for any guys, skip this next paragraph: possible TMI)
However, I have not had the opportunity to have these outbursts in the last five years: two pregnancies and nursing meant I’ve only had about seven cycles.
For thirty-six hours, I was a poor mother – snapping at my children.
The Tackler hit the sensitive side of my foot with his plastic hammer after I pleaded for him to give me some space – my hands snatched it away and screamed to beat him with it as a reward. I didn’t, but the violence of my reaction for such a small (briefly painful action) scared me.
I couldn’t hide away from my children – I am their primary caregiver.
I had no magical pill to take to calm my emotions.
Medical industry, get off your male dominated platforms and discover a cure for helping women for a change. We have PMS, postpartum depression, and a host of other reproductive issues too – and our mood swings put those around us into our destructive path.
Seriously, WHAT THE FRAK!