I’m sitting in my garden typing this. The birds are chirping away, the sun is shining and I’m about as chilled as some of the people I saw in Amsterdam. Without any herbal help.
However. If you had seen me yesterday, or the day before, or the day before that, you would have wondered if I should perhaps be locked away in a room. On my own. For your safety.
I’m talking PMT people.
Not the “oh my wife has PMT, I better offer her chocolate” kind of PMT (although, for future reference husband of mine, that will always be welcome) but the kind where I start to question my own sanity. If you’re female, you know what I’m talking about. That red mist that descends for no actual reason. Someone could cut you up in a car park, or they could cough quietly behind you in a queue and you are literally squeezing your fists together in case you punch them. Some bloke had the audacity to drive out of the entrance to the car park yesterday. It bugged me for FOUR HOURS.
I mean, that’s not normal is it!
And don’t even get me started on the people that live with me. I am positive that they actively try to irritate me during bitch week. Rubbish left laying around, clothes on the floor, wanting me to feed them, talking to me and expecting a coherent reply which means I have to pretend to listen and make sure my sighs are silent. It’s relentless.
I think it’s got worse the older I’ve got. I’m not on the pill anymore (because that made me mental for the whole month, not just one week of it, so kind of defeated the object of being birth control as the bloke didn’t want to be anywhere near me…) so when my hormone levels drop, they drop big time.
Apparently, there are two types of PMT. One where you’re sad and weepy and one where you’re irritable and bloated. Hands up if you can guess which one I have….
This morning I felt normal again, and it’s once I’m feeling me again that I can see just how batshit crazy I was the day before. After an inward cringe and a general apology to, well, anyone who came into contact with me that I need to speak to again, I decided it was time to tackle this bastard.
So, Agnus Castus (not Angus Cactus if you’re interested, don’t ask for that) lets see if you’re all you claim to be. 3 months of these little pills and I should be magically cured of all PMT ails.
Or, alternatively, I may be looking for a little box room to move into for one week each month, because I quite like my marriage so it would be fun to keep it, ya know?