If there was a poster child for PMS….

Nicole, Spiritual Musings 0 54

If there was a poster child for PMS she would be Medusa’s maker, having a really really bad day.

I get it now.
For many, many years I didn’t. I was on the sidelines watching. But now, lately, I have been in the game. I have not only played the game, I’ve killed it. And eaten it’s young for breakfast, washing them down with straight bourbon. What may you ask am I talking about? I’m talking about PMS.
Pms
This amazingly evil hormonal change in a woman that makes us more powerful then God. A woman with PMS would have created the World in 3 days and spent the next 4 beating the submissive shit out of everything and everyone. Men shrivel and shriek to their nearest man shed/cave/bar/mates place whenever a ‘woman on the edge’ appears. And rightly so. We have more testosterone running around our body then a sperm whale in spring time. We are invincible. Don’t you dare tell us otherwise.
I have seen many a tree hugging, peace loving, snoopy dancing woman turn into Godzilla’s evil twin. You know the one I mean. The one that didn’t just destroy Tokyo it fucked it sideways then made it go out and get it Sushi afterwards. I’ve looked on in awe at how these women who were independent, successful career driven, care givers, became co-dependant, snivelling, whiny, paranoid, schizophrenics who just wanted to be understood. They would cry on your shoulder one minute, then stab you with their well formed manicured nails and use your intestines for dental floss the next. No remorse. No surrender. No sanity whatsoever. After spending decades shaking my head and not understanding at all why my best friends would turn into a bitchier version of Joan Rivers, I myself recently have suffered the same fate as the best of them. Karma it seems is the ultimate Bitch…with pms.
For the last two months I have found myself, feeling oppressed, restricted, paranoid, emotionally drained, and would start crying at a drop of a hat. Damn you cute puppy food ads. DAMN. YOU.
Cute puppySo I turned to my friends, those that I know survive PMS each and every month. Those that have never judged me as I sailed through what they know as hell, those that fought the urge to poke my eyes out with a fork and feed it to their new budgie. Each. And. Every. Month. What they told me astonished me. These strong, independent, women who have gone through separations and loss, births and bankruptcy. These women who are my rocks when I’m all writer(y) and creative and gypsy like. Who feed my soul and nurture my inner child. Go through Hell. Every. Month. They worry for others around them. Like. Seriously. Worry. They can go from all love love joy joy to rip your head off shit down your throat in a moments notice. And don’t even think about flinching while their doing it. Cause that’s when they’ll get all ghetto on your arse. They worry for their children. Some have even confessed in worrying for the safety of their children when they are around them. This is serious shit. They worry that they will not only hurt themselves to make it more bearable, that they will hurt their husbands because he just came home with the sniffles, and she has nooooo idea how he feels. Lorena Bobbitt was no doubt pmsing. The chick that just chopped her husbands dick off with scissors, and tied it to a helium balloon *honest injuns* Was. No. Doubt. Pmsing.
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And that’s the kicker isn’t it? No matter how badly our PMS is taking us over the edge, into worlds where other mere mortals wouldn’t dare tread. We know EXACTLY what is happening. And have no way of stopping it. And frankly don’t give a shit. Go on. Make us. The jokey jokes we play with our partners on a daily basis will suddenly turn into a screaming fight of epic proportions. We will dredge things from your past that was long ago dead and buried, and in some cases, never actually happened. But don’t you dare try and tell us we are wrong. You will unleash an evil so fierce not even Stephen King could imagine. We will stare you down like a rancid bull. And don’t think we are not imagining each and every way that we can hurt you. Because we are. And we will. And it scares the crap out of us.
If there was a poster child for PMS she would be Medusa’s maker, having a really really bad day.
Women every where, every day, are dealing with not only ‘life’ stuff, but also the inner turmoil that is raging through our bodies, our minds, our thoughts, our sanity, each and every day for weeks. Then. Every month, for years. YEARS. Not like two or three. I’m talking DECADES. Yet, we smile. We work. We raise children. We run million dollar corporations. We succeed. We love. We laugh. We research. We ask questions. And if all else fails. We go slowly insane, with every month that passes.
We’ve all heard the jokes. PMS= Putting up with Men’s Shit. Why does it take a hundred women to change a light bulb? Cause it FUCKIN DOES!! We laugh about them. Hell we probably made them up. We joke about it, yet each and everyone of us is scared to death that one day, in one instant, we will not hold back. We will hurt someone. Ourselves. Our partner. Our children. Co-workers. Complete strangers. We are ticking time bombs. We know it. And we do everything we can to remain calm. Yes, sometimes the cracks show. We can be outright nasty, evil, condescending, we can be brutally honest and not give a crap if your left crying in the corner wanting the bad lady to go away. Suck it up sweetheart, life aint fair.
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We need to talk more about this silent epidemic. We need more magazines and books. We need our Mothers and Grandmothers to finally start talking, teaching, and reaching out to the younger generations.
We. Need. More. Education.In conclusion my dear readers who know someone, somewhere suffering from PMS. I have no answers for you, only advice. Firstly, stay clear, but keep close to those beautiful women you love and admire. Ride out the storm with them and you will once again have your bunny hugging, laughing, not give a shit woman right back in your arms.
At least…for two more weeks.
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Nicole Suzanne Brown is the Author of Passing through Time & Pride available now at all fabulous book sellers :)

About the author / 

nicole

Nicole Suzanne Brown lived in sunny Queensland all her life until moving to a very small cold country town of New South Wales, and still is confused by the choice to this day. Small in stature but big in personality, she has lived in New York, the United Kingdom, spent time in an Indian Ashram and gets itchy feet every time she glances at her Passport. When not writing you can find her contemplating her navel, somewhere, in some part of the world..

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