I can't wait for menopause. I don't really know what it is, but I believe it means my uterus* will stop spitting out eggs, and along with them my sense of emotional balance. Thanks to the mysterious science of hormones, I become somewhat unhinged around one week per month, albeit in quiet ways. You can tell if you find me, eyes brimming with tears, as I watch the news, read the news, or am told about any news. Which, yes, qualifies every fucking day since November 11, 2016. But it gets a lot worse for a few days before my monthly bleed-out.
I regularly cry. I regularly suffer from a short temper. Even though I am close to 40 and have a single strand of silver hair, I get a case of the goddamned pimples.
It is not fun for me, or my partner. The only upside is that I also feel very creative, which sort of pairs nicely with the horrific insomnia I also endure during my body's pre-funk. Assuming I choose to get out of bed. I usually do not.
Which brings me to the intense self-loathing and disappointment I feel in myself once a week, every week, since I was eleven.
At this point, it is clearly unconquerable, and there is nothing to be done until my fields go barren. But I am used to it. I realize I have become unnecessarily mean to myself during routine things - washing my hair, taking a shit while my two cats watch**. Mean thoughts about myself are always swimming around my subconscious, but you know it's nearly time for Aunt Flo when one breaks through the wall for its exceptional tidal wave of pettiness and cruelty.
Example: last night I dreamt that I'd run into an old acquaintance. Someone from the college era who wasn't really my cup of tea, and once we parted ways we neither of us kept the relationship kindled. Sadly, Facebook exists, so here we are 20 years later, and I have to know she has a baby and I'm supposed to care, etc. etc. What I'm getting at is I don't usually think about her, and even if I accidentally do, it generally arouses zero emotion at all. But. Her face zipped through my social media feed the other day, which meant it lodged itself into my subconsicous dream cavern, a nasty bald place where all kinds of crazy shit gets emotionally amplified.
The dream wasn't all that interesting; I offended her somehow, and then got a load of bubblegum ensnared in her trademark curly hair. I felt very bad. The end.
But it started off my day on a very poor note, as I felt filthy with the residue of guilt and sadness.
I then became very depressed because my insomnia had kept me up till 1 am. Remember that creativity I was trumpeting about, a few paragraphs ago? Well. Let's just say that sometimes I sacrifice my noble aspirations and play video games for five fucking hours straight. This is both wonderful and so, so awful. I can't imagine how vacant and sweaty I look to unfortunate bystanders; I immediately regret all the time sitting on my butt, because sitting is the new smoking; I hate myself deeply for squandering what could have been time to, oh I don't know, write a very powerful poem or paint a nice painting or whatever. Goddamn me. Goddamn me.
I had a cup of coffee and some food, which re-balanced my perspective. I tried to forgive myself. I realized I was a day late. I realized I was being ridiculous. I hated myself anew for yet again falling victim to the cruel vicissitudes of my estrogen monster. I successfully did not rip my boss' head off when he suggested I write "less critical" notes in my reports. It's a roller coaster, I tell ya.
*a concept I am so unfamiliar with that I tried to write "uteries"
** I only have one cat actually; the other is the neighbors but she practically moved in once they had a baby. Also, I don't actively encourage them to sit in the bathroom and observe me making deposits. They just really like to hang out in there, and ushering them out feels rude.
I regularly cry. I regularly suffer from a short temper. Even though I am close to 40 and have a single strand of silver hair, I get a case of the goddamned pimples.
It is not fun for me, or my partner. The only upside is that I also feel very creative, which sort of pairs nicely with the horrific insomnia I also endure during my body's pre-funk. Assuming I choose to get out of bed. I usually do not.
Which brings me to the intense self-loathing and disappointment I feel in myself once a week, every week, since I was eleven.
At this point, it is clearly unconquerable, and there is nothing to be done until my fields go barren. But I am used to it. I realize I have become unnecessarily mean to myself during routine things - washing my hair, taking a shit while my two cats watch**. Mean thoughts about myself are always swimming around my subconscious, but you know it's nearly time for Aunt Flo when one breaks through the wall for its exceptional tidal wave of pettiness and cruelty.
Example: last night I dreamt that I'd run into an old acquaintance. Someone from the college era who wasn't really my cup of tea, and once we parted ways we neither of us kept the relationship kindled. Sadly, Facebook exists, so here we are 20 years later, and I have to know she has a baby and I'm supposed to care, etc. etc. What I'm getting at is I don't usually think about her, and even if I accidentally do, it generally arouses zero emotion at all. But. Her face zipped through my social media feed the other day, which meant it lodged itself into my subconsicous dream cavern, a nasty bald place where all kinds of crazy shit gets emotionally amplified.
The dream wasn't all that interesting; I offended her somehow, and then got a load of bubblegum ensnared in her trademark curly hair. I felt very bad. The end.
But it started off my day on a very poor note, as I felt filthy with the residue of guilt and sadness.
I then became very depressed because my insomnia had kept me up till 1 am. Remember that creativity I was trumpeting about, a few paragraphs ago? Well. Let's just say that sometimes I sacrifice my noble aspirations and play video games for five fucking hours straight. This is both wonderful and so, so awful. I can't imagine how vacant and sweaty I look to unfortunate bystanders; I immediately regret all the time sitting on my butt, because sitting is the new smoking; I hate myself deeply for squandering what could have been time to, oh I don't know, write a very powerful poem or paint a nice painting or whatever. Goddamn me. Goddamn me.
I had a cup of coffee and some food, which re-balanced my perspective. I tried to forgive myself. I realized I was a day late. I realized I was being ridiculous. I hated myself anew for yet again falling victim to the cruel vicissitudes of my estrogen monster. I successfully did not rip my boss' head off when he suggested I write "less critical" notes in my reports. It's a roller coaster, I tell ya.
*a concept I am so unfamiliar with that I tried to write "uteries"
** I only have one cat actually; the other is the neighbors but she practically moved in once they had a baby. Also, I don't actively encourage them to sit in the bathroom and observe me making deposits. They just really like to hang out in there, and ushering them out feels rude.
Comments
Post a Comment