I wish I could say the “crimes” I committed happened when I was a child, or because I didn’t know any better. But they weren’t, none of them. Continue reading “Sick (Criminal) Mind (s)”
What Social Media has Taught me
A body and mind at odds with itself.
For eight weeks this summer I will be posting a blog series called “What’s her problem?” The series is based upon eight different writing prompts that examin difference aspects of illness.
This is a examination of the intersecting lines between health, illness, and women’s lives in a culture that devalues not only women, but the disabled.
You can learn more about my project under my new “What’s her problem?” (under my about ME ME ME ME ME ME section) page.
Two weeks out of the month. Six months out of the year–I suffer from PMDD/PMS symptoms, thanks to Poly-Cystic Ovarian Syndrome.
I use to wake up exactly the week before my period and be catastrophically depressed and suicidal. Eventually, (we’re talking six years of this) I began to see the pattern and was able to rationalize my emotions as being hormone induced. After a while, I stopped obsessing about killing myself.
Sure, at times I still have fleeting death wishes, but it’s immediately ushered out by the realization of the pain it would inflict on those I love, the opportunities I would give up, and of course, what the hell would my dog do? SHE WOULD BE CRUSHED, she might even blame herself. And my mom—my mom would be pretty upset too.
But there is a trade-off–instead of the morose desperate thoughts about killing myself, I am bombarded with vile, cruel thoughts about those around me. I seethe quietly in my classes, silently daring someone to cross me, at my job, even at the park. Internally belligerent that any other human being would dare exist near me. My sense of smell and hearing becomes amplified; but instead of some kind of crime solving super hero. I cringe at crunching sound my friend makes as he enjoys his meal, disgusted by his use of salt and pepper. Once I became irate at the way my mom drank her water and imagined slapping her glass out of her hand. The way my neighbor slams his door each morning, or the way an old man lazily walks down the grocery store isle. GET OUT OF MY WAY—lazy ASSHOLE, I think.
Sometimes, it makes me sad that my hormones can illicit such malevolence within me. That the tenor of someone’s voice might send me through the roof, as I tremble in disgust at them, and sometimes, I laugh (then cry, of course) at myself, and the level of hatred I feel in my heart for all the poor unsuspecting saps around me; just because I am having my period.
I wish that there was a way that life would hold off on dumping its banalities upon me until it’s over—because God knows, if my freaking co-workers’ Facebook messenger ping’s one more time I might unload…my thoughts. All eight-five irrationally pissed and annoyed thoughts. But I won’t because I’ve been socialized to hold in my emotions, although I gotta tell you, PMDD has done a lot to even the playing field—for me at least.
So if you see me, and you sense that dismally dark cloud of hormonal dysphoria—if you see the annoyance in my eyes, save yourself, and walk the other fucking way.