I should’ve known when my previously straight hair went haywire that the proverbial poo was about to hit the fan.
Grade ten, three years after my first menstrual period, and apparently just long enough for my hormones to hit their stride, I chopped my nearly waist-length hair to above my shoulders. And it corkscrewed.
Wow, I never knew you had curly hair. You should’ve cut it a long time ago. Look what’s happened now that all that weight’s gone.
Looking back, I think it had everything to do with weight, but not the long drawn-out weight of my tired tresses.
I’m now three years out from the birth of my last child. And I’m miserable.
This is the longest I’ve gone without being pregnant or breastfeeding since 2004. That’s a feat in and of itself. I should be on top of the world. Instead, I’m at the bottom of some pit, the one where my hormones get back on track to torment me.
I’m out of that stasis where my body is in some sort of tenuous cycle, tentatively burgeoning and bleeding because it’s out of practice. Training camp is over. It’s on like Donkey Kong. Cramps that say, get ready, I’m coming. An ache in my pelvis that threatens, I’ll bottom out if you’re not careful. And depression that moves in and refuses to leave, until it is mysteriously vacant one morning like a lover leaving an open wound.
I’ve popped the ibuprofen. I’ve seen my therapist. I’ve researched thyroid malfunctions and requested specialized blood work from my physician.
Now I ask, Is this the new normal?
After carrying and bearing three children; after wracking my body to the point of breaking; after rending my soul to its minutest form – is this the new modus operandi? This is how things are to be?
Is there a physical band-aid? A spiritual fix? Some modicum of acceptance to make this all bearable?
I’m not whining about cramps. I’m not lamenting PMS. My body is in a 28-day bag of hurt. How far into that bag I get dipped depends on the day. But no one day is particularly fun.
My daughter asked me the other day why I get my period because I’m not having any more kids. A few weeks ago she questioned me when I said I get [even more] sad and tired a few days a month. (My husband said to not go there with her – yet; keep her blissfully ignorant) Good questions. It doesn’t seem to make much sense. I don’t understand it and it’s happening to me.
My levels are off. Some levels. Who knows which ones or why. But it’s a whole new level of suck.
4 thoughts on “Bring on the Suck”
I agree; it sucks, big time. Just one of the lovely things that women have to put up with. It just doesn’t seem fair sometimes. It’s too bad that God wasn’t a woman; maybe things would be different.
I’ve often said that in my next life, I’m coming back with a penis. Kidding, of course. With all its tribulations, I’d still choose womanhood.
Sending hugs, chocolate, a hot water bottle, a mug of tea, a chick flick, and a massage…. be well, friend.
I think the hugs would help most – and possibly the massage!