Now Don’t Start That Again
It happened again.
Most months, I stare at my pill pack every morning and try to calculate what week it is. Is it THE WEEK? I used to keep a monthly health journal of sorts, and sure enough, every 24 days or so, good old PMDD would return. But now that things are back to normal, the countdown really only results in a day of weeping, napping, and cramps, none of those activities appearing with any particular ferocity. So this is PMS. I think this almost wonderingly. This is what normal women experience during their normal cycle. Maybe I am in the women’s club, after all.
But despite the pill and my usual watchfulness, occasionally it sneaks up on me. It did last week. PMDD’s affects on me so terrible, so gut-renching, so existential, that it convinces me that it is normal. PMDD never once entered my mind last week. It is so interesting how that happens. Every time, it feels so real, so pervasive, that there is no part of me that thinks, “Oh, there go my crazy hormones again.” Instead, I somehow wake up with a dread in my stomach and a strong conviction that my life is meaningless and always has been.
It was literally a difference between night and day this time. One night, after days of feeling like a zombie and contemplating the fact that I wouldn’t mind being dead, I fought with my husband. He winced as I tried to describe how I felt.
“I’m bored. No, I’m not bored. I’m distraught. No, I’m alone. It’s like… I’m underwater.”
I almost slept on the couch because of this fight, but my husband realized halfway through it that he was arguing with a little lost girl. He convinced me to curl up with him in bed, and he rubbed my head until all the demons stopped tormenting me and thoughts of my failure and my horrible finally dissipated into sleep.
I woke up singing.
The biological bounce-back is almost as startling as the PMDD. My eyes were clear, my head was demon-free, and my husband looked and felt again like my partner, instead of my worst enemy. He was happy that I was back, but he did tell me (kindly) to go see a shrink.
Do you think a counselor can help with issues that are biological? Would it lessen the impact of the “bad weeks?” What do you think?