Listen. Here’s the thing.
I know every month I’m going to have a migraine. Light and sound will cause me great pain. My skin feels like I landed on a cactus. And I puke violently. It might last a few hours or a few days.
All because my reproductive organ is tearing itself apart. Like excuse me, Ms. Uterus. I’m sorry you got the nice bedding and throw pillows together for a guest. And I’m sorry that guest didn’t show up. But that is no reason to rip the wallpaper down.
Damned over dramatic hormones.
But the thing I hate the most is how it takes me from my family. I need a cold, dark, quiet room. My family is loud. And the TV and lights are bright. And my corgi barks at the cats, the cars driving by, and the leaf that landed on the step and made the Ring camera alert go off.
After one week of school, my son is home sick. And I can’t take care of him because I can’t even take care of myself. Thank goodness for the oldest child. AKA default third parent.
And of course I have this crazy work habit of feeling guilty if I’m not working. Like, I’m salaried now. I’m pretty much 24/7 even though my big boss calls it “working to the needs of the client.” It’s end of month, meaning invoicing is a huge deal. We have the largest customer launch ever tomorrow. And I can’t answer the phone or look at my screen.
Eventually I’ll get to a doctor. Or my uterus will just yeet itself into the sun. From what I’ve heard menopause isn’t a whole lot better. I can’t even begin to think about how much worse this might get. For now, I will put the fan on and hide in my bedroom with earplugs in.
Even the sound of my own blood in my ears is loud.