Thursday, April 4, 2013

The Red Queen: More Adventures in PMDD

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Image via Epic lack of line spacing
via my complete lack of shit-giving.
The day before yesterday, Shane came in from work and Molly announced dramatically, "Do NOT make her angry. She's the Red Queen!"

I actually got a gigantic giggle out of it, which was much needed, because I was pretty much "off with her head"-ing every five minutes. Then I explained to them why it's so bloody perfect for my Hell Week. I'm open with Mollz as much as she's comfortable with about sex and reproductive stuff, but even if I hadn't taken an open approach, she won't let me pee or drop a deuce without barging in to chatter, so since she's understood language she's known about periods.

Randomly, I want to tell you that my ultra-femme child is mortified that I don't shave my legs, and when I recently sort of did*, she was dancing with joy.

So, it's still Hell Week but goddamn I'm enjoying the new royal title. I've written before about trying to find positive language for the PMDD week, and my little self-made princess found it for me. All week we've laughed about it, and it's loosened my tightly-wound stressed out mind quite a lot.

curiouser & curiouser.

By the way, tomorrow, if the Red Queen-self and my pain allow, I'm posting more Wonderland goodies at my G+ page for First Friday Art Walk.

Twisting back around to my point,
I was convinced my symptoms were getting worse, and I did some googly research to see what the next level of treatment might be. It seems I'm maxed out. I have, medically, the worst PMDD symptoms and the most aggressive treatment the FDA allows. I'm still mulling over taking a progesterone-only oral contraceptive, and OCPs did help a little in the past, but I'm not putting any estrogen in my body ever again. I'm getting back to a vigilant no-soy diet, which (with anxiety meds) helps the most. Happily though, when I told Shane I thought I was doing much worse he totally disagreed. Part of the syndrome for me is having a really hard time assessing things like that, so it was helpful that he thinks I'm doing better.

I'm cramping and I have the ache I get in my scar tissue** when my floodgates are about to open, so the reign of evil shall soon be over. Thank you, Goddess.

*Sexy Shane has grown a sexy, sexy beard and also grew out his hair, which funnily surprised his coworkers, who assumed he shaved his sexy head because he was balding. The hair was getting
messy, and (daring self-stylist that I am) I offered to trim and shape it for him. I used our clippers on the sides and back, but when we started they didn't seem to be working. I tested them in the easiest way I could think of, and exposed a big white strip of skin on my left leg. So they worked, yay. After I got Shane looking neater, I did my legs with the clippers. I actually think they're a bit more attractive with shorter hairs because the hairs are so very black and my skin is so light.

** I'm planning some posts about my phocomelia, including the story of my reproductive abnormalities and resulting surgery that (as Monica put it) she couldn't publish in the "G to PG Daily Mail article." I really want to tell that part of the story, if for no other reason than to impart to you guys how amazingly, earth-shatteringly beautiful it is that I'm a mother.

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