P to the M to the S-uckage

I awoke with a start, wondering why the alarm hadn't sounded. 4 a.m. not time. I laid there then, waiting, scrunching my eyes tight, wishing it were just that easy to go back to sleep. But it was too late. The anxiety, free-floating, began to swirl maddeningly...

Over nothing.

Keep calm. That was the mantra all day. Hormones working their way through my system, wrapping themselves around the anxiety, cocooning it, strangling it, causing angsty, purple thromboses to bulge out at each end.

I wait. And breathe.

I drive home, trying desperately not to deliberately piss off the drivers who've clearly graduated from Jackassery High. It's rough hoeing. They ask for it.

Home. I read. The Oatmeal. The Onion. Anne Sexton. And breathe.

I cook supper. I try not to snap the head off of Lex whose officially employed only part time now. My hormones are not his fault and he is, after all, doing the dishes. I idly wonder if he's going to gently encourage me to take some Midol this time. Breathe.

I listen to They Might Be Giants. And breathe.

Apply wine. Read. Hope to sleep. Breathe.

I think to myself, "Is it getting worse or am I just more aware?" I've started issuing warnings. "Mark this on your calendar, Matt. Just in case I forget to tell you." How sad is it that my BFF tracks my "new moon" as he calls it?

And I think about going back to the doctor...the doctor who prescribed Xanax for pms. Which didn't do anything to curb my ability to turn into a raving, maniacal lunatic but, rather, made me feel really OK with being a raving, maniacal lunatic.

I decide I'll stick to wine.

And then it hits me...

Estrogen pills and a bottle of wine. Dammit. He's right.

Lex sent me this. Source unknown.