The following 5 days are fairly typical for me. They occur with frightening regularity and leave me feeling physically and emotionally drained. They also leave me wondering why I still own a functioning set of ovaries considering the grief they give me!
I get a bit pissy. And snappy. And bitchy. If you ask me to go shopping with you, expect me to tell you the truth about how you look. And I won’t sugar coat it, so if you happen to look a bit shit in that purple frock with the orange stripes, I’ll tell you that you look a bit shit in that purple frock with the orange stripes. There is no filter between my brain and my mouth. It goes bye-bye. The safest place for me to not offend anyone is to be locked, alone, inside my house with no phone, no laptop and no internet connection. On second thought, you’d better sound proof the house so the neighbours can’t hear me bitching about the yapping mongrel that lives around the back of our house. Also, my boobs are killing me and there’s a tingling feeling and a red bump on my chin – I just know that the mother of all pimples is going to come for a visit.
Why has no one invented salted deep-fried double-coated Tim Tams? Seriously, some of those bad boys with a flagon of piping hot tea would hit the spot nicely. I cry at commercials if they feature one of the following: a baby, a sick person, an injured person, death, funerals, insurance (reminds me of the sick and dead people), an old person, a charity or an animal. In fact, the RSPCA “All Things Bright and Beautiful” ad has me sobbing and reaching for the chocolate. They’re all HURT and IN PAIN and BANDAGED and it’s just SO UNFAIR THAT THEY’RE HURTING BECAUSE THEY’RE SO SWEET AND INNOCENT AND THAT WOMBAT IS JUST THE CUTEST THING EVER!!! On top of the tears and snot that I’ve had to contend with, the pimple is looking quite angry and my belly (even before the need to eat a pile of crap) has become so bloated I look 6 months pregnant. In fact, I have a maternity top (with side ruching which helps to make me look only 4 months pregnant) that gets brought out if I have to make an effort to change out of my over-sized t-shirt and trousers with elasticised waistband.
Regularly said to Husband as a warning: “Just don’t fucking piss me off or your balls will become Little Dog’s new toys.” The pimple has taken on a pulse. All that’s left is for it to breed whilst I’m sleeping and my fucking face will be completely and utterly fucked. There is a faint awareness somewhere in my brain that says it’s a good thing I don’t own a gun or that fucking bloody pissing rooster that starts fucking cock-a-doodle-do-ing at 1:30am would be tracked down, shot, plucked, gutted and roasted for my fucking breakfast. On Day 3, I hate all living creatures.
I don’t cope. AT ALL! I don’t understand why, but if ANYTHING goes wrong, my brain just doesn’t comprehend and all my coping abilities (which aren’t too shabby – I’ve dealt with a fair bit of shit in my life, and COPED just fine!) just abandon me. I cry non-stop. I fear my husband is going to leave me because he only kissed me once instead of three times like usual. I worry that my mother has cancer because she hasn’t called this week and clearly that means she’s avoiding me because she doesn’t want to break the bad news to me over the phone. Today, don’t even mention the Mayan calendar/world will end thing because I’ll just have a full-scale anxiety attack. (And no, that’s not a joke.) The pimple resembles a volcano and has made me realise just how ugly I am. Maybe that’s why my husband wants to leave me? (Cue inconsolable sobbing.)
My period starts. I sweat uncontrollably, I get diarrhoea, I feel nauseous, my head pounds, my abdomen cramps like a mofo. I pop more pills than a junkie. Husband knows to bring me a Quarter Pounder with fries and a chocolate thickshake for dinner. All I want is a hug, some painkillers and some grease. And maybe something to cover up the pimple which is now just a giant red mess on my face. Tomorrow the pimple will begin to heal and I shall be back to my normal self. And no one is more grateful for that than me!
Well, except for my poor husband…..