I’ve always gone a bit loco during my period, but now that I’m in my mid-40s, it’s a full-blown psychological thriller. I’m 45, and Aunt Flo is still arriving like a diva with a grudge, dictating my mood, actions, and dietary choices like I’m her puppet.
Even my 9-year-old son knows to go around me on those days. He doesn’t know what a period is yet—he thinks I turn into a werewolf once a month. But give it some time, he’ll ask. Probably while I’m growling at the toaster or punching the kettle.
The madness starts two days before, when I’m suddenly possessed by a compulsive need to clean. And not just a little tidy-up. I’m scrubbing skirting boards with a toothbrush, reorganising the fridge by pH levels, and eyeballing the neighbour’s filthy terrace like it personally offended me. If I could, I’d hire a crane to hoover the street. But of course, I hate cleaning. And I work. So instead of cleaning, I just seethe at every visible speck of dust and the fact that no one else in my family can see the grime glistening like evil glitter.
Then the period hits, and my body transforms into a bloated, chocolate-craving furnace of rage and despair. I want bread, ice cream, more bread, possibly dipped in chocolate, maybe wrapped in cheese. At the same time, I feel like a swollen, sticky croissant. My stomach rolls fold in on themselves like pastry, and I swear I can feel each individual fold. My bra pinches me so badly, that I rip it off - that only to feel even worse because now everything is jiggling freely like a badly made panna cotta.
And the irritants? Oh, they multiply. The couch feels like sandpaper. The fridge smells weird. The sun is too loud. Someone’s beard is singing. My husband’s chewing sounds like a drum solo. My son’s breathing? Offensive. Why are they even talking? Why do they exist in my visual field?
I dream of the day this hormonal horror show retires for good. I fantasize about waking up without stabbing breast pain or an irrational hatred for the dog. I want to be me again—full-time. Not this ragey, sweaty someone who cries at adverts about the internet providers.
Until then, my family knows to keep snacks handy, to agree on everything I say… and keep their distance.
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