I haven’t blogged about periods yet. What kind of neurotic female blogger am I?
Recently having come off the pill I have had a longer gap then usual between periods. That’s fine by me (apart from the fear of god that goes with the waiting). However, what is beginning to dawn on me as the abdominal pains creep in three weeks late is that I am now going to have a “normal” reaction to my “normal” bodily functions, rather than gliding through “withdrawal bleeds” with ease and a smile. My body taunts me. This is a period, darling, it patronises, none of this pill-pretend bollocks for you. Pain, heartache and pure, undiluted anger will envelop you until I am done. Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha.
The reasons I suspect this is going to be the case are:
1. When my boyfriend joked that he washes up more than me (lie) last night I responded by throwing a pan on the floor, shouting “Fuck you then, I’ll fucking do it, I fucking hate you, you fucking dickwad piece of shit” before storming out of the kitchen, slamming the door and sitting down in front of “Pride of Britain” to sob noisily at injured child heroes.
2. When I woke up this morning and got up to do my job (today: write an article) and vacuum the house, I was filled with the most enormous rage that I had to do my job and vacuum, facts compounded by the fact that my boyfriend was asleep. I was furious. Blind furious. I was a barely contained ball of rage and even now I cannot quite think why. I had no objection to my vacuuming or to my writing my article, or to my boyfriend sleeping in on his morning off. It was my usual time to rise. There was no issue. But did that matter? Did it fuck. I slammed the door three times, switched the bedroom lights on and off and then failed to work out how to use the new vacuum without help from a half-asleep, naked, grumpy man. If I am in abject misery then, apparently, so will everyone else be.
3. “60-minute Hour Makeover”, where deserving plebs get their house made-over made me cry yesterday. As did This Morning and the adverts.
4. I am actually scared that I might throw the cat out of the window if it gives me that puppy-eyed “I’m so hungry, Mummy” look one more time.
5. I agreed to pay the NSPCC £5 a month for the rest of my life after reading their heartfelt letter, crying quietly all the time, a bit of snot landing of their Letter of Pain, as it shall now be known.
So, there it is. I’ve had my well-earned rest from the pill, and I can happily conclude that my body still works perfectly destroying my life and that of those around me for four days of each month.
I’m going back on the pill.