“Oh dear”, I thought. “I spent three days asleep. I keep bursting into tears for no reason. Every time Robert opens his mouth, every time I open my inbox, every time I pick up the phone, read a sentence, watch an advert, I think they’re criticising me. And why wouldn’t they? I’m so crap. I’m so stupid and ugly and hideous. No wonder I didn’t get accepted to King’s. No wonder everyone hates me. I just want to eat. I just want to eat chicken and chocolate and go back to bed in my pyjamas. I stink like shit. I haven’t washed in days. I can’t face doing any of my work. I have no energy.
Am I getting depressed again? But there’s no reason to be depressed. And that’s always a bad sign. Oh shit, oh bollocks. Not again. I can’t do this again”.
Then a day later, curled in the foetal position, a powerful pulse of pain. I reached for the painkillers and cancelled the evening. And then I realised. I’m not depressed. It’s just, y’know.
Never been so grateful to be doubled up in agony. I was getting worried. I have become hyper-vigilant to my moods. I’m constantly waiting for another episode of something to knock me on my arse into the dust. I sometimes forget I’m the type of woman who gets down and emotional and thinks plants are calling her fat when I’m Y’KNOW.
Today I feel normal again. And I view my five days of bursting into tears at Andrex ads like a little bit of a holiday. This is why I missed my periods when they stopped dead from stress. I remember when I wasn’t using tampons but I was using Lithium and listening to women moan about PMS. I felt a sense of grief at how natural and how uncomplicated that was. There is something so wonderfully ordinary, something that makes me feel part of the human race, about being a woman on her period.
But there are no jaffa cakes left.
FAKE EDIT: I’m aware some of you will read this and roll your eyes. Please feel free to discuss CHICKEN, JAFFA CAKES or FEMINISM in the comments instead.
Filed under: Bipolar Disorder