This journey thus far has been an exercise in cracking the nut on my suffering; letting the light in to allow me to see better. I don’t always like what I find. But I’d much rather see, than continue to live my life with blurred vision, never really being able to make things out for exactly what they are. Through mindfulness and self-awareness I am finally seeing more clearly, and have detected some patterns in my emotions and behavior.
I have always been an emotional person, but at times those emotions are volatile. As a teenager my mood swings were chalked up to a chemical imbalance and I was diagnosed as bi-polar and prescribed medication that I rarely took because I thought it made me inauthentic. Over time, I just seemed to grow out of it, except for the one to two weeks leading up to my period, and then it was chalked up to PMS. I wonder now if my problem had always been hormonal…
Some months are better than others, depending on my life at the moment. PMS is an intensifier, like lemon on a wound. If life is going okay and stress is under control, it’s like a scratch, and a little lemon juice isn’t so bad. But if life is painful, an open wound, then PMS can make it downright unbearable. Nothing experienced during this time is disingenuous, just exacerbated. For women who are already emotional on a good day, this monthly roller coaster ride of hormones can be debilitating and destructive, disrupting work and damaging relationships.
Back in February, I experienced one of my lowest points so far this year. My mood changed directions like a weather vane in a tornado and a sense of sadness permeated my soul. On a regular day, I wake with energy and a mission before me, maintaining a fairly positive attitude as I work out, enjoy a healthy breakfast, prepare for work, fix my lunch and walk my dog, Cooper. I am focused and productive at work and my energy stays up through the evening as I continue to be productive. But some days, like back in February, getting out of bed requires monumental effort. I am exhausted, filled with dread and hopelessness. Nothing has meaning. I lay in bed as my tears soak my pillowcase and conjure possible call out excuses. Only maturity and the reality that work is a valuable distraction and that not going will only increase my anxiety gets me to slowly swing my legs out of bed. Working out doesn’t even cross my mind. By now, I will most likely be late for work anyway. I have no appetite so I skip breakfast and figure I’ll just buy lunch, something I don’t like to do, but I don’t care about money or routine. Cooper gets walked because he has to, but I don’t enjoy it, and I feel fatigued after 20 minutes. Driving to the train station, I daydream about car accidents and Cooper being left without his Mommy, and wonder if anyone would miss me…
This particular day back in February, no tool I had learned – meditation, yoga, nor positive thinking combatted the intense hopelessness and frustration that was interfering in my life. Everything was wrong. Desperate, I did something I hadn’t done in a very long time. I called my Mom and sobbed into the phone and explained every ugly emotion I was feeling. I needed sympathy, understanding, and advice. Out of my desperation came a phone call that would single handedly bring our relationship back from the brink of destruction, because she was everything I needed.
“I am so, so sorry you’re just like me,” she said. Together, we identified what might be going on. It was the same thing she had dealt with since she was in her early thirties: Premenstrual Dysphoric Disorder (PMDD), PMS’ larger, uglier, angrier sister. Since underlying depression and anxiety are common in both PMS and PMDD, it’s possible that the hormonal changes that trigger a menstrual period worsen the symptoms of mood disorders, hence why emotions are so intensified. It made sense. I exhibited every symptom.
My mom listened and consoled, and urged me to see a doctor. “You have to call tomorrow,” she said. “If you don’t, in a few days you’ll feel better and then you won’t think it’s a big deal anymore. You need to see him while you’re feeling this way. You can’t go through this every month.”
“Can I ask for a hysterectomy?” I cried, dead serious. “You can ask, but menopause is no picnic, either.” We talked until exhaustion set in.
With some reinforcement from a friend (because the next day I felt better and the matter lost its sense of urgency), I did call the doctor. The morning of my appointment I was a mess. I sat in the chair, holding back tears. When the doctor arrived and asked what brought me in, I choked on my words. “You have no control of your emotions.” I don’t know if it was a question or an accusation, so I just nodded and let the tears stream down my face. “We can fix this,” he said.
Within minutes I was given a diagnosis of PMDD and a prescription that burned in my purse. I was back on the elevator heading down to Walnut Street, my mind reeling.
My feelings have been medicated. There wasn’t even any discussion of alternatives. Sure, what I’m feeling is extreme, but these are my feelings, and I want to FEEL them. I don’t want to be numbed! Pills kill creativity and passion – they will change me. How can he prescribe me so quickly? This isn’t just a prescription, but a stigma. What will people think? I have endured for a long time through emotional turmoil and I have done it without medication. There is no room in my toolbox for medication. Healthy, happy people don’t take medication. This isn’t who I want to be…
Already as vulnerable as a seedling during a frost, I struggled greatly with this development and all my preconceptions against medication that would never even cross my mind had anyone but myself been prescribed. But despite the struggle, I still felt a desperation. A desperation that pulled me to the pharmacy to pick up my prescription. The bottle would sit in my purse for a few days, and then the medicine cabinet for weeks… unopened.
To be continued…
