My mood, character and everything about me changes on a weekly, sometimes hourly basis depending on where the hell I am within the Cycle of Doom™.
I will stand naked in front of the mirror, everything slowly sagging, asking: Who is this sentient skin sack that I see before me going to be today? A psychopathic spiralling maniac who finds even the thought of brushing her teeth overwhelming? A horny horn dog who would happily bone a dog if no one else was nearby? Or a picture of zen and calmness?
It all depends on where those tyrannical little fuckwits, aka, my hormones, are.
To paint you a picture, here’s a month in my life as dictated by those precious little darlings.
Day 1–6: Horny & Hopeful (Ovulation)
Let’s kick things off with the fun part: ovulation.
During ovulation, my sex drive goes feral. I’m so horny I could hump a tree, although to be honest, I could fall in love with a lamppost if it flickered at me the right way.
I don’t just want sex, I need connection, and I need it right bloody now. I’m having filthy thoughts, and I need something to fill the void in my soul.
Will buying a new car fill this emptiness? Maybe texting this person twelve more times in the hopes that they’ll reply will make me feel better… Or… I could download the kinky sex dating app, just to get my end away and then panickingly delete it because ew gross?
What’s actually happening is that my body is on a mission to get pregnant, craving sperm like a straight woman at a hen party. There’s just a small, tiny issue: I’m gay and don’t want kids.
But my hormones have decided that’s irrelevant and have totally disregarded this information.
Thankfully, I’m only craving intimacy and connection from women, but it’s still a desperate, primal urge. This phase lasts about a week, and my body eventually shifts gears, ready for the next delightful stage.
Day 7–13: Bloating & Resentment (Luteal Phase)
The egg is dead, my body is in mourning and I don’t want anyone to touch me.
In one final act of defiance, the departed egg farts a hormonal farewell gift in the form of an outrageous flood of progesterone. This hormone spikes during the luteal phase in order to prep my uterus for a baby that I have zero intention of growing, because again, I do not (and cannot stress this enough) want children.
This new hormone bomb leaves me constipated, bloated and retaining water like a beached whale. So I guess it’s a good thing that I’m not really in the mood for sex anymore.
Day 14–16: Welcome to Hell (PMS)
The sadness has arrived and everything is awful. It starts with just a wee little teardrop from my eye and then… BAM, I’m in a full emotional freefall, drowning in a tidal wave of tears with a shitload of existential dread.
Nostalgia smacks me in face, convincing me that the past was a golden age (even though I was miserable then, too), and nothing will ever be good again.
The only logical next step is to crawl back into bed and wait for the sweet relief of death.
Day 17-19: PMS, The Sequel
But wait, what’s that? We’ve left sad city and made our way to Rage Town, population: me.
Holy shit, I’m turning into a lunatic, and it’s not just any old lunatic, no, this is batshit, nuclear-level, unhinged lunacy.
Do not look at me, and do not approach or even think of breathing in my direction (unless you’re leaving gifts at my door before vanishing immediately).
You’re chewing too loudly near me, I’m afraid I’m going to have to set the entire neighbourhood on fire as a warning to others.
Do not fuck with me.
Everything is an injustice, and everyone I’ve ever met is a monumental dickhead.
I’m holding imaginary arguments in my head, and for some reason, I don’t seem to be winning any of them, which is beyond ridiculous as I’m playing both parts.
I want carbs, alcohol, and for everyone to shut the fu- Ow… Ow… Ow…
Day 20–24: The Red Wedding (Menstruation)
The throbbing agony of my bleeding genitals begins: an intense, gut-wrenching pain, like a swift kick to the fanny.
The rage and despair have miraculously simmered down now that I’ve realised it wasn’t the crushing weight of a doomed world or the overwhelming presence of monumental dickheads, it was just my hormones.
Of course, I’m still a chronically anxious, mildly depressive mess, so let’s not pretend everything’s suddenly sunshine and rainbows. But I no longer want to beat my friends to death with a tree because they’re not actually the worst human to ever exist, it’s just that my hormones were on a psychopathic joyride.
Good to know. That being said, I’m still mad about what she said. What did she say? Gawd knows, but she had a tone.
Meanwhile, the period stage itself is its own little horror show. The pain is so all-consuming, so utterly debilitating, that it actually serves as a distraction. My body is too busy waging war on itself for me to dwell on my existential despair.
Day 25: The Post-Period Glow
Five days later, my period disappears and I am… reborn.
Welcome to the Follicular Phase, where life is full of calm, blissful peace, where you don’t overly crave anything, you don’t hate yourself, and everything will be ok.
Life is good, and this is how you’re meant to feel.
“I no longer want to hump the tree; I simply want to sit under it and write poetry about how great life is.” Birds are chirping, lambs are bouncing in the fields, everyone is a great friend, and your family? Well, you would pick them again in every lifetime.
You feel like you can go and do new things, learn new things, you can love again, being a woman ain’t so bad, you forgive the almighty for the burden and everything is allll gooooooooood.
This feeling lasts for about 12 minutes.
And then I begin to feel… an urge. A deep, primal urge…
Where’s that tree?