PMT Beware All Ye Who Approach I Am Not Even Kidding

Forgive me, I don’t feel like writing at the minute. I’m dragging myself around like my feet are in weighted boots. All my jobs feel too much and the gravity of the earth is pulling me down.

I found this I wrote last year.

Last Saturday morning I woke up with the devil in my veins. Premenstrual lady-madness doesn’t descend on me often, but when it does, dogs howl and bananas turn black in the bowl and smart men run for the hills.

The PMT rage.

You know the one.

The house.


The house is a never-ending behemoth to conquer. Like Sisyphus I wash up the dishes and pick up the toys and fold the uniforms, while my tiny army trot steadily at my heels, creating new chaos in the wake of each path I clear. On a good day, it is satisfying. Incrementally pleasing. The smell of bread and eucalyptus oil and clean sheets and dinner cooking. The chaos just becomes the warm clutter of family life.

On a tough day, like Saturday,  when the kids are whinging, and everything is filth, and I feel like a drudge, and a failure, and ye gods, a failed drudge, even… life feels dark.

In every direction my mad eyes scanned, there was housework to be done, or a dirty nappy, or a child with cranky pants on. My blood was fizzing. I texted friends along these lines: I am going to punch somebody or cry or cry while punching somebody HELP ME. 

They had excellent suggestions. Leave the house. Go for a walk. Get a leave pass and have a coffee. Source alcohol and drink it. My favourite suggestion was this: ‘Buy a packet of ciggies, go down to the beach and hide behind a rock while you cry and smoke cigarettes one after the other until you feel sick. Worked for me 2 weeks ago.’

I didn’t do any of these things in the end. I went to the $2 shop and got myself a new pair of reading glasses. (All mine are one-armed, one-lensed or lost entirely, thanks to Teddy who likes to wear them around the house and George, who has a fierce grip and a curious mind.) Then I picked up Ivy from a party, went home and took to my bed for a couple of hours. When I got up,  Keith and the kids had cleaned up and increased the range of personal space they were allocating me. I felt a little better but still detached and exhausted and overwhelmed.

I am fairly close to the ciggies-behind-a-rock method of health care but think I might use the age-old take-to-bed-apply-chocolate technique instead. I may write again tomorrow or I may never write here again. So, fuck you all. I mean, take care.

  • sarah

    Love it, especially the ciggies behind the rock…that would have been me a few years ago…now I use more chocolate based remedies and I don’t have to leave the house…hope it worked for you !!

    • mogantosh

      Would have been me too Sarah in the good old days..

  • Lisa Grimmond

    OMG Rach….my stomach hurts from laughing!!! This was me…end of last week and on the weekend….thanks for giving my anger words….funny words…knowing words….hugs! My package needs to find you – quickly!!!

    • mogantosh

      It found me Lisa. Pajama pants and chocolate – could not have been better designed! Thanks again. x

  • Susan Holmberg

    yes… me too. Best last few lines of a blog post!

    • mogantosh

      Thanks Susan.

  • Kate Hegarty

    Dying with laffter.

    • mogantosh

      Menstrual comedy Kate. It’s my niche.

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