A bag and a half of Crazy
Hi. I’m Paris. I’m 5″4, I have skin that breaks out in hives on occasion for no reason, and curled toes that kind of look like claws. Also, I’m female, and as such I have lady productive parts, fun items like a womb, and these bad ass things called ‘Fallopian tubes.’ Pretty sure there’s other fun stuff down there, but that’s not what I’m really here to talk about today. I’m mostly talking about the goody-bag that turns me into a hormonal rampaging she-mammoth every 28 days or so.
Lots of boy readers (haha oh paris, lots, you flatter yourself…I digress) may be turning away at this point.
EW GROSS is she going to start talking about the P word?!
No. Relax brothers and father (the main component of my male readership) I am not here to recall hilarious anecdotes involving the painters and decorators (have I just turned my two gay brothers gayer?… oh well), instead I want to talk about that exciting game of wearing-no-seat-belt-while-quaffing-hard-liqour-and-oh-shit-the-break-lines-appear-to-be-cut…
I am really lucky to have been born into a body I’m comfortable in, and I’m not whingeing about being of the female variety. There are super awesome advantages, and I have a baby making OVEN on my person, that’s a pretty cool aspect of the human body.
But honestly, hormonal roller coasters of swashbuckling highs and lows… I can do with out.
I try to be a rational person. I do. And 90% of the time, I wander through my brilliant life with very little to worry about, enjoying all the wonderful opportunities around me. I have an amazing family, great friends on all different continents, and a downright hilarious, Canadian-certified nice guy for a boyfriend.
There are days where everything seems to go wrong. I’ve suddenly gained 20kilos over night. The re-occurring pimple is back and nastier than ever. My hair looks greasy, even though I washed it yesterday. People on the train were pushy. My friends don’t write back to my text messages. No body loves me. My boyfriend doesn’t love me, and he doesn’t understand me. My parents are being mean. My brothers suck and are ungrateful. And I don’t know what I’m doing with my life. And I hate EVERYTHING. And I need to eat all this chocolate but I’m SUCH a WHALE and I’ll never be happy or have the perfect life or have nice things and my career will be shit andijustwanttobelikecarriebradshawevenifSJPkindoflookslikeahorseandeverythingsucksandAHHHHHHH
This. Is. Hell.
You are a rational prisoner trapped inside your own body. A small voice in your head says:
“Actually, you look fine, you aren’t fat, and if you’re worried about it, just go to the gym and put down the chocolate”
“Your friends are just busy – they aren’t ignoring you.”
“Your boyfriends great – leave him alone and stop causing make-believe drama in your relationship”
“Your parents aren’t mean, they’re honest and open with you – be nice to your brothers, they might have to lend you a kidney or piece of liver one day.”
I like to imagine that the voice of rational me is like a tranquil calm old man sitting at a wooden table trying to hash this out, while the crazy me is like a swarthy, hairy, staggering pirate, sculling ale and slamming his fists down on the table.
“NO! WE SAIL AT DAWN!”
So, I am a crazy, teary, mess of anger and sullen silence for a week. And the people that love me start to think, wtf is wrong with the chick, why can’t she just be cool and the rational old man in me just sits in the corner (maybe he’s like Obe Wan Kanobe?) and he just shakes his head and thinks:
“This one will have to learn the hard way”
But honestly, HONESTLY, I hate being a bag and a half of crazy as much as the people around me hate me transforming into a bag and a half of crazy. It makes me apologize when a wave of ridiculousness has passed, and then spend stupid amounts of time fretting over why I am such a bag and a half of crazy, spending time talking and re-hashing scenarios with girlfriends, going home and thinking about the conversation I had with my girlfriends about being crazy, thinking: shit, maybe they think I’m 2 full bags of crazy and noonewilleverwanttohangoutwithmeandOHMYGODHERECOMESANOTHERWAVE!
To the ladies out there who feel my pain and know what I’m talking about – you are not alone. We all have our moments of crazy and semi-depression, and our self doubts.
To the guys (Hi dad) don’t hate us. I don’t know how you put up with us sometimes, but I’m super glad you do. And hey, at my age, I’ve probably only got twenty or so more years to go until I hit the ultimate jackpot in Hormonal Ecstasy known as Menopause. And from there I think we’re pretty much done… Until I produce a female heir and she turns 13…
*picture found on Reddit.com