Moody Bitches

17th August 2015

An emotional moment, maybe regretted in the morning.

Woodstock, 1969, photo via Buzzfeed

You know, I have realised that whenever I have a PMT meltdown it is housework-related. I’ve written about it before.

Last week I had a terrible bout of ladymadness. Two long days of anxiety and quiet rage culminated in two long nights of insomnia, nightmares and a bout of midnight weeping - over the housework. The housework. Specifically, the way it stretched out before me like a lifetime curse.

Last week, we had two kid birthdays with all the parties, special dinners and present-managing that comes with them.  Also, one child home sick. So one of those intense family weeks. All went fine. Parties and presents and dinners: all excellent. Sick child: recovered.

Of course, a week like that means other balls get dropped a little. But last week I was also full of hormones, and the chaos seemed impossible, unmanageable. I felt like I was failing at everything. I couldn’t walk properly because I hiked up a cliff on the weekend, trying to emfitten myself, so there I was, limping around, tripping over the washing, swallowing the tears, baking the cakes.  All I could see were fails, everywhere.

Today I found this book called Moody Bitches at the library. It celebrates the tide of our moods thus:

Women's hormones are constantly in flux. They ebb and flow over a month-long cycle and they wax and wane throughout decades of fertility, vacillating with particular volatility during adolescence and perimenopause, the spring and autumn of the reproductive years. Our hormonal variations allow us to be empathetic and intuitive - to our environment, to our children's needs, and to our partners intentions. Women's emotionality is normal. It is a sign of health, not disease, and it is our single biggest asset.

Granted, it may have been hard for Keith to see my 2am  tears about the laundry as an asset, as I finally whimpered myself to sleep (a tale that is humiliating to recount.) ‘You know,’ he said very carefully at one point, ‘I know this feels very real, but it’s just your hormones.’

Yes.

And no.

The problem with that argument  is that when the eostrogen courses through your veins, you are irrationally emotional, but the issue is actually real. The catastrophe of it is manufactured, but the essence of it is real.

I do feel like fucking Cinderella.

I do spend all day getting the house in order only to have all my work trashed in five minutes.

I do see mundane chores filling the rest of my days.

I do find it incredibly hard to prioritise and manage my  back pain well when the everyday physicality of running a homestead leaves me sore and exhausted.

In the cold light of morning, that’s not such a big deal, of course, and every life is full of hard graft or one kind or another.

Saturday morning, eyeballs dry,  head aching, humiliation levels high; I slunk out of the house wearing a big hat. I avoided eye contact with humans and I went and saw Mission Impossible. Robotic Tom suited my mood. I ate chocolate bullets and slouched grumpily, and by Sunday night, I was recalibrated into my normal state. Thank Christ.

I am so grateful that the PMT beast only descends on me every few months. It would be so miserable if that happened every cycle. It’s goddamn exhausting feeling all those feelings. Dear readers, if you’re about to surf the crimson tide and your hormones are holding you hostage,  you have my sympathy. I know how you feel. (Half depressed, half-murderous.) Hang in there, moody bitches.

It’s an ASSET!