It's me and it's awkward teenage breakouts and anxious bitten lips and some current of deep, totally context-free melancholy overlaid with a brittle layer of nervousness.
It's my near panic to keep Shane off the roads and home from work. It's worry about the serious cold and Molly playing in the snow for even a little bit.
It's jokes meant to be witty and snarky that come out like razors and venom.
It's more than 25% of my life as the batshit crazy "week" of my cycle stretches back toward ovulation.
I'm so fucking tired of living with PMDD that I have an appointment to consult about a hysterectomy. It is so, so hard to feel this out of control of my moods. So hard I'm ready for a surgical fucking nuclear option.
I have, my darling friends and family who love me and want to give advice, tried everything. I've done elimination diets and vitamins and herbs and oils and journaling and tracking and just everything short of sleeping under a pyramid with crystals and channeling angels or aliens or spirit guides.
I have prayed while sobbing to every moon goddess I can name to help me relax into this pattern until the blood comes to wash it all clean.
I need help, and I've been on the medical and psych roller coasters often enough to know when it's time to go to the heavy stuff.
It is time.
Today, I had to tell myself it is okay to do nothing. And then I decided to write about doing nothing, which is, I guess, something-yet-not.
I surrender. I'm tired and sad and fidgety and my perspective is too weird to describe. Everything is muddled.
But I remember it's a tangle I don't have to sort. It'll smooth its own way out in a few days. Or tomorrow. It feels close. That should make me hopeful but all my emotions are hammered flat.
So I'll hunker down and remind myself to be easy and gentle with everyone and WOW especially on myself, because the worst of it always points inward.
The turn will come.