My Monthly Cycle

If you guessed that this post would deal with the ebb and flow of my female hormones, you guessed correctly. Congratu-freakin-lations. My darling roommate and I were discussing these difficulties earlier today and I don't really remember who said they'd blog about it... so I'm jumpin' all over this beeyotch. Moving right along - while discussing the pervasive hazards of life we happened upon the curse of menses. I doubt that any men read this here collection of musings, so it seems more or less safe to air what ails me. You'd think that after a period or two, we'd start to get the hang of this menstruation thing, right ladies? I mean, I only had to fall off of my bike a few times before I realized that it sucked & that I had to maneuver deftly to avoid the crash and (road)burn. Not long after I learned how to stay atop the bicycle, I was hit upside the uterus with a different cycle - and this one has been kicking my ass ever since. For sixteen years now I've been dealing with my period, averaging at once a month that puts me at roughly 192 womb-sloughing epochs of hell and hormonal fury - I wince at the thought. So you'd think that by now I'd be pretty good at this, right?

If by "good at this" I mean something like "I have yet to give in to the irrational, demonic wrath that infests me fully, and maim harmless bystanders," then yeah, I suppose I'm good at it. Except that's not what I mean. I mean to say that every month I ought not be blindsided by the bone-wracking pain, Goodyear-worthy inflation of my joints, nor by the fact that every cell of my 6' frame is on hiatus from osmosis, but because I've retained so much water that none of it can diffuse to a lower pressure environment... there is no lower pressure to be found. Have I mentioned that by the time I become cognizant of the tenacious misery overtaking my physical members my blood has converted to white-hot magma, coursing through my veins in a kind of "scorched earth" tactic designed to reduce me to a ball of quivering goo. I ought not be surprised when every muscle that I previously expected to hold my torso upright seizes, contorts, and mangles itself beyond recognition. Right around the time I start to look like Quasimodo on acid, I think to myself, "I suppose my period is coming." I've said precious little thus far about the emotional and psychological malfunction I experience somewhere in this chronological vicinity. I don't imagine that I can quite capture it with adjectives alone, so allow this to suffice: I begin to feel like the Incredible Hulk... and the only antidote is a hug, if perchance you could get close enough to attempt it.

So all that glorious child-bearing preparation takes about a week... 7 full days of antediluvian hades, all in a relatively compact space. As a matter of fact, for an entire week, the proportions of misery to body mass render me not unlike a black hole - so dense that I am wonderfully able to suck the air out of the lungs of anyone near me. My aura turns kohl black. Then, for another 7 days I am curiously devoid of energy, as if psychosomatically the disappointment of not nourishing a new life sucks my present life out of my being. During this time of detachment, I also become aware of the path of destruction I've left behind me the previous week, and I am appalled at precisely how un-pretty it is. As I recuperate I form an action plan of sorts for re-entering society... which means I formulate my damage control... and that brings us to the next 7 days. Another week of cleaning up the shattered fragments of relationships that I left strewn while in a green rage. Shall we recap? A week of PMS (Pre-Menstrual-pSychosis), a week of menstrual misery, and a week of UN peacekeeping missions. That leaves me one damn week a month in which I feel like a good version of me. Maybe it's a good idea for me to not date until menopause...