The last time I banged my head on purpose was during an argument with my dad. I’d said something that hurt my mother, and he was telling me off for it.
Self-loathing is all I can remember. Anger issues are not pleasant; they are difficult to manage, especially if you have no healthy channels of release. I thought it was bad when I was a fifteen-year-old teenager.
Your body keeps changing as you age, you have symptoms that go away, but they may come back fifteen to twenty years later.
Why?
Because you become more sensitive.
When a woman gets older, she might grow more sensitive to contraception and experiences negative impacts–physically, mentally and emotionally. No one deserves to witness a woman when she is in that state. What I mean is you will either feel guilty for every outburst that she has, or you’ll accuse her of being who she is; you tell her to stop being who she is. But how does that make her feel?
I know that I’m not ready for many things, but they are already in place.
Taking responsibility is the least I can do. Asking for help is the least that I can do as well. I’m not capable of what needs to be done. And to be honest, I wouldn’t be happy with myself either if I were you, but that’s how it is if I have no room to work on myself.
PMS was never an issue before; it just recently started. It then turned out that one cup of coffee a day can increase one’s anxiety levels on top of the routine stress that comes with quarantine and the inability to drive safely just to escape.
By the end of summer (at the soonest), my social skills will probably be worse than they are now. While people are group-zooming and skyping, I’m too nervous to even be on the phone to anyone or say hi to the neighbour, who does the exact small talk that I hate.
There’s a lot to internalize when you’re stuck at home. If needed, you adjust your routine to accommodate others, or you pay extra attention to your dogs because they need it. By the time you’re at ease and have the chance to be productive, you decide to go to sleep. But the reality is that you’re dreading that motivation.
The other week, when PMS kicked in, I had a coffee, and the shit-eating new dog drove me crazy; I hit my head against the wall upstairs. The dog thought it was an intruder.
My dysphoric mood manifests itself mostly in my dreams. I try to be civil and controlled in conversation. It must mean something when my therapist said that my feelings mattered.
