It occurred to me, while sending my hubby a desperate “pray for me…and while you’re at it, pray harder for your children” text earlier this week, that our little loin-fruit are going to require an exorbitant amount of therapy as they age.
Compliments of their mother.
I have no idea what the state of your relationship with your hormones is, but there are 4 little letters that, when nestled beside each other, strike a deep fear in my hormonally imbalanced body.
Gimme a “P”, gimme an “M”, Gimme two “D”s and a prescription for Prozac while you’re at it.
“PMDD” {hmmph}
I have wrestled with this ‘thorn in my side’ for about 15 years, reveling in the vacation I took from it while pregnant and nursing, but once again found myself gripping the bathroom counter, staring wide-eyed into the mirror last year when a hint of it reared its ugly head for the first time in 5 years.
Who was this edgy, fragile woman staring back at me?
The tell-tale symptoms bubbled up and overflowed in the following months : raging insecurity, mounting anxiety, a prickly temper, a lingering sense of depression, nagging exhaustion, pounding head aches, sudden body hatred. And then there’s that complete and utter fragility.
I was absolutely terrified to be facing this beast again.
My heart instantly ached as I remembered what I put my hubby through those early years of marriage.
Now I had two more innocent bystanders to protect from “her”. Two little lives that would have to endure the inconsistency, fragility, and complete lack of grace that permeate my demeanor during the week before my period.
Wee little victims of an explosive, graceless momma.
I scowl, I bark orders, I fly off the handle over spilled milk. And then I cry to my weary husband that I’m up to my eyeballs in boundary-pushing antics, drowning in defiance and disobedience.
But I know. Even as the words dribble from my very lips, I know. I recognize it almost instantly in my rant, in his eyes – in their’s – that the ball lies fully in my court. That the multiple battles picked were of my choosing. That my impatient anger has squeezed every ounce of joy out of our home, and that harsh correction has once again trumped gracious guidance.
My throat closes in. It has returned in all its bitter glory.
I catch it earlier on now. I apologize, tearfully, for harsh words and unkind responses. They smile, stroke my face and sweetly comfort me. Always. Always. So resilient. So very forgiving.
But then, like an abusive alcoholic, I snap again. Fully aware of my quick descent into the belly of the beast, but feeling utterly out of control and helpless to change my course. I forge on. And again, weep apologies for my graceless behavior.
I long to be alone. Quarantined, to be honest. For this seems the only way to protect them. From me.
Up and down, and around and around we go. It’s a weepy, exhausting, head-achy, heart-achy few days.
They sleep peacefully after an emotionally exhausting day, as I sit – heart heavy beside their beds. Wishing I could erase the past 24 hours from their little hearts. How lavishly and completely their love covers me. Like His.
I think it is the inconsistency that surprises them the most. The Dr. Jekyll transformation.
Where is this mother they know well, the one they feel so safe with? What has become of the woman who spends 26 days a month intentionally building her home…only to, single-handedly, tear it down on the remaining 5?
I hate it.
It humbles and breaks me every time.
I despise feeling so utterly out of control, recklessly spewing venom at the precious little ones who have been entrusted to my care. They quietly endure me, not deserving an ounce of my ridiculous performance. Not that my poor husband ever does, but he is at least able to stand his ground and call me on it. He recognizes it quickly, cautions me, speaks truth – and life – and reminds me who I truly am. He identifies the beast. But they? They just get dragged along on this emotional rollercoaster with me, getting bopped in the face by every passing caution sign.
PMDD is subtle and seldom talked about, but intimately known, dark, and desperately lonely to those who have lived with it. Thank God, it’s brief. I can’t imagine living in this pit for longer than a few days a month. It is heart-breaking to think that this is some people’s daily reality. I ache for them. And their loved ones.
Ugh.
Life can be so brutal.
On those dark days, all I can do is pray. And wait. And cling.
I cling to grace. To fresh starts. To do-overs. To the endless ability of children to forgive, and miraculously, forget.
I cling to the newly acquired bottles of Maca and 5-HTP that actually seem to be helping stabilize my world during these rocky few days. Thank God.
I cling to the knowledge that while this all feels so painfully real and final and tragic, it’s not who I am. It will never define me. Even when it threatens to destroy me {and my sweet babes} in a matter of days.
It all feels rather ridiculous as I stand on the sidelines watching other’s loved-ones battle cancer, Alzheimer’s, or chronic depression – you know, the real beasts – and yet my little war feels so tangible and suffocating in the midst of it.
It feels like I wrestle with an invisible, faceless beast that simply shows up on my doorstep once a month. A little wimpy, hormonal one, but a beast none the less.
But it won’t win.
Because I won’t stop hiking up my skirt, donning my combat boots and facing it head-on, and I won’t stop apologizing my way through the tearful days. And I won’t stop kissing those innocent little cheeks that smile away my empty anger. Endlessly thankful for my precious man who endures me in all my hormonal glory, and covers me in prayer as he wisely keeps his distance.
Like the little old ladies I watched at the splash park yesterday – fully clad in pretty dresses and sweaters {gasp!}, being pushed around in their wheelchairs through the brightly-colored sprinklers, beaming from ear to ear as their silver hair got misted – I get to choose LIFE over misery.
My wheelchair, PMDD. My caretaker, the perfect One who knitted this imperfect body together.
I will embrace my brokenness, and soak in His grace.
Because it’s my choice to do so.
For it is the dark, lonely valleys in life that allow us to see the beauty and splendor of the mountains. And while the certainty of upcoming valleys cause an instant lump in my throat, the knowledge that I’m on my way up one of many glorious mountains refreshes my once-again happy heart. And I live for the mountains, not the valleys.
“Weeping may last through the night, but joy comes with the morning” Psalm 30:5
God is faithful.
Hormones stink.
Life is beautiful.
