Erratic Changes

Each month I undergo a major personality change, along the lines of a seismological shift of epic proportions.  I regress from being a capable, well-rounded, friendly individual into a whiney, emotional, bitchy shadow of a human being.  Shadow used intentionally as most of my actions can’t seriously be referred to as humane. 

And to address the obvious, yes, I am referring to my menstruation.  Period.  The Red Devil.  Aunt Flo.  Crimson Tide.  The Curse.  Whatever the hell you want to call it, because based on the mood I am currently in, it absolutely does not matter. 

It’s genuinely surprising that I make it through each month.  It’s even more shocking that as a group women are able to make it to the other side without committing a serious crime.  The type of crime that involves jail time.  Personally speaking, my mood fluctuations are so severe that if I were to be under the supervision of a professional, I could be diagnosed as manic and bi-polar.  Which is important to point out, under normal circumstances, I am neither.

To my husband’s credit, he treads this territory very carefully which ensures his survival when his wife is replaced by an insane lunatic.  He frequently inquires about my overall well-being and when I respond with, “I am definitely getting a sex change, and I hate being a woman!” with rage filled eyes, he doesn’t even bat an eye.  He’s quite used to this erratic babbling.  Overuse of the word “yes” also guarantees his safety.   

I want ice cream!

Yes.

I want to crawl into a corner and die!

I am not sure that’s a good idea, honey.

BUT I WANT TO NOW!! AND NEVER, EVER, EVER, NEVER COME OUT AGAIN!

Yes, whatever you say.

Eventually I have nothing else to say.  He isn’t arguing with me – so what the hell is the point?  It’s genius on his behalf.  Although to be completely fair, he doesn’t always make it to the other side unscathed.  No matter how many yes’s he dishes, or sweet toned responses delivered, sometimes it just isn’t enough. 

I don’t like you right now.  I might love you, but I sure as hell don’t like you.  Please don’t touch me.  Why are you breathing on me?  Do you have to breathe so loud?  Stop asking me questions.  IN FACT, JUST STOP TALKING TO ME PERIOD!

And to his credit, he does, upon which time the weepy alter ego makes her grand entrance.

I am so sorry.  I love you so much.  I don’t know why I feel this way.  Life’s just so hard, and I just feel overwhelmed by everything that is going on.  I feel so guilty about the bite sized Kit-Kat I ate after lunch.  I’m so fat.  And I feel like the lady at the check-out counter was judging me when I picked up ice cream.  My uterus is in danger of exploding.  I’m uncomfortable all the time.  It’s not you at all, you are wonderful.  I just feel like I could burst into tears at any moment.

And then I typically do- lots and lots of tears.  It’s embarrassing really, but Scott’s such a good sport about it.  He opens his arms to the same woman that tried to claw off his face only hours earlier, and attempts to calm me down.  Depending on the day into Aunt Flo’s visit, his embrace can be the perfect medicine.

Sometimes I fantasize about when all of this comes to an end.  I imagine that one day I will be celebrating menopause - saying good riddance to a monthly period!  It will be the return of a permanent, rational and, dare I say, even keeled Davina.  But from what I hear from women in the transition, menopause is a whole different ball game and may even be much worse.  And that my dear readers, is impossible to imagine.