I can’t read yr mind…

Here is a post, completely untouched, which I wrote on Monday:

I opened up WordPress this morning, determined to do something productive in my teabreaks today.

The first thing I wanted to write was:


Or something like that.

Fastforward to nearly the end of my working day, and things have not improved.

Imagine a natural-born-worrier, with a debilitating case of PMT, trying to deal with the stress levels of the life event that is ‘Buying a Car’. (It may not be in the Holmes and Rahe scale, but I’m confident it’s on some list, somewhere).

Throw in other recent assorted life events.

Then try and be nice to me. Try to reason with me. Maybe get cross back. Try to figure out an approach that won’t make me cry, shout, strop, wimper.

This is the situation my partner and best friend find facing them. And I KNOW, I KNOW they are right. I know I am over-reacting. I know normal people can make phone calls without having a panic attack (not literally, but pretty close. [Not that I am trivializing panic attacks.]).

But it doesn’t seem to affect my behaviour at all. I’m trying to be rational.


I didn’t post this on Monday, because I was in too much of a state. I barely spoke, I cried, there was no way I was going to make it in to work that evening. Writing emotional, ‘how I feel today’, entries wasn’t what I started this blog for. For that, I have a livejournal, bursting with why I’m happy, why I’m hopeful, why I’m sad, how drunk I was, and an excessive use of song lyrics. Using WordPress, I wanted to say something. I wanted to create articulate blogs about specific subjects. So here it is:

PMS. (or PMT, if you will). Boys, please read on. Firstly, let’s be frank, the physical effects are a bitch too. I think girls probably complain far too much, but I’ll just get it out the way. It does hurt, we do ache, I am TOO HOT. That advert for (actually, I’ve no idea what for) where the girl is moving around all night, throwing the duvet around because her body temperature is a degree higher? Yeah, that’s me. Combine it with my heightened stroppy state, even suggesting that I don’t throw the covers off the bed (yes, I know it’s November) because it leaves you cold in the middle of the night isn’t recommended.

Anyway, moving on. All of that physical stuff, I can cope with. I’m hardy. I have a hefty supply of ibruprofen and a very tolerant boyfriend.

But there is nothing more frustrating than feeling emotionally hijacked by your hormones. Being able to rationalise how you’re feeling but not change it. “I feel like this because I have PMT, but I still feel like this”. I hate it. I’m still slightly resentful that Monday was lost to tears and silence.

Anyway, I feel much better now, I just felt the need to *say* something.

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