The abyss.



Today, for some unknown reason, WAIT…

My last period seems to have been a while ago... Ooooh, maybe that’s why I feel like an absolute bag of shit (physically and mentally) and why a coffee cancellation has pushed me, spiralling, over the fucking edge.

(Checks Clue. Realises hasn’t logged in since changed phone over. Knows why psychopathic tenancies have not been notified in advance of wanting to kill everyone and everything.)

Starts again.

Today, because my cunting period is due to show up and give me a solid week or two of wanting to die/murder/cry, I’ve stumbled over the edge into the abyss of my negative self talk. I call this my little inner prick. It’s like the old, white, racist misogynist who lives at the end of the bar of your favourite pub and you do your best to avoid eye contact because he’s such a wanker. But you can’t, because he’s got to insult you in some “accidental” way whilst telling you what a nice guy he is. That is my little inner prick. And there is no avoiding eye contact. Hell, I can’t even change seats.

For a week, sometimes two, he’s there constantly telling me how worthless I am.

It was a coffee cancellation this morning that sent me stumbling. My little inner prick told me that people don’t want to hang out with me anymore. And he must be right because it seems so difficult to have time with friends these days that isn’t in the pub. Because, you know, I don’t want to be in the pub all the time these days. My issue, I know, and an outcome of a decision that I have made that I need to figure out myself. And that’s what the little inner prick does. It picks something that can be supported by evidence if you look hard enough or mould events enough to fit in.

My stumble was compounded by a Hubs realising how needy I am today and agreeing to walk into town with me before promptly falling asleep and making me want to murder all over the place. I’ve seen enough films to know how long it would take to suffocate someone with a pillow and with his bad back (he managed to separate his spine in the shower yesterday), I know he wouldn’t be able to fight me off. And yes, this is how quickly my little inner prick can turn my mood around after an outpouring of love on Monday.

So now, my little inner prick can find two pieces of evidence as to why everybody hates me and I should just fuck off somewhere and let everybody live happier lives without me. That escalated quickly didn’t it?

Now, an hour later, I can see what is happening and need to figure out how to prepare for the next week and how to turn my shitty thoughts around. Because an hour is too late. I’ve already had a pop at a friend who needs me and I could only focus on my perceived pain and not theirs. A shitty friend I have been indeed. I’ve had a pop at my husband who shouldn’t even be out of bed because he’s off sick and in agonising pain. A shitty wife I have been indeed.

My little inner prick hasn’t done this, I’ve done this. Because I listened to the little wanker. And I can’t stand him. I know that every word he says is a lie. I know that his opinion is completely invalid because a) he’s a prick and b) he’s a prick. I know that he is full of shit because he is always full of shit and that’s why nobody likes him. I’m now not sure if I’m describing my little inner prick or the wanker at the end of your favourite bar. Little from Colum A, little from Column B. 

It was only recently that I discovered PMDD (Premenstrual Dysmorphic Disorder) and its quite frankly intolerable symptoms. This is not PMS, this is (for me at least) balancing on a very, very fucking thin line between severe depression and anxiety and suicidal. I have always been told by the people who were supposed to love me, that I am mental. So I have always believed that I am. Because it feeds the little inner cunt and builds into this hateful perception of myself that I have had since I was a child. 

In fact, all of my mental health issues can be linked to an endocrine disorder (hormone related disorder) that many GP’s are unable to diagnose because they either don’t know enough about it or they’re... Well, they’re men. They assume all women are a tad mental at that time of the month. And it’s that distinction between “tad mood swingy” and “I can’t make myself leave my fucking house and if I do, I’m scared I might murder everyone” that needs looking at. 

So, rather than ignoring this and trying to self medicate with candle lit baths and doggo snuggles (since I can’t drown my pain anymore), I need to get help. I’m going to book a Doctor’s appointment today and start the process of either getting an official diagnosis or ruling out any other underlying issues. I know that this is likely to take months and I will need to record every mood related behaviour that I have but if it helps me to find some way of managing these issues, I hope it will be worth it.

I’ve got a lot to say on this subject, including why I stopped taking hormonal contraceptives a few years ago and why I stopped drinking which, on reflection, all ties into this same issue. I’ll save those stories for another time. In the mean time, I’ve got some apologising to do and a little inner prick to arse kick. Or just suffocate with chocolate cake. Hmm. Laters.

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