I did not want to get out of bed this morning. This is in part due to the fact that I’m really freaking sore (my dance teachers have been especially sadistic this week, and I put in some extra rehearsal time on my duet with Ren). But mostly it’s because my body currently feels the need to remind me that I do in fact have PMDD. I have been experiencing mood swings and/or mild depression since last Friday. I have wanted to eat nothing but Amy’s gluten free pizza, ice cream, and cereal for the same length of time, and my stomach seems to have doubled in size considering the amount of said foods I have been able to ingest. I slept curled in the fetal position all last night because my abdomen and lower back muscles were smiting me. I’ve woken up with a headache every day since Tuesday; my head is so foggy today I caught myself drifting toward the wall instead of walking straight like I thought I was on the way back from the bathroom. My boobs are swollen enough to fill the cups on the largest bra I own—a balconette that is usually quite roomy. And right now I’m wishing I was back in my bed with a heating pad I unfortunately do not own.
All of this is on medication. I don’t actually start the white pills of my Yaz until tomorrow. It has taken over five years, but I think it has happened at last.
My body has fully adjusted to my birth control.
This has happened with everything I have ever taken, but Yaz held out the longest. The others either didn’t help enough or became completely ineffective at treating my symptoms within one or two years. Yaz and I had a good run, but it seems even potentially unsafe, lawsuit inspiring medication is not enough to thwart the PMDD Fairy and her malice.
The good thing is I have my yearly lady-doctor appointment in a couple of weeks, with a doctor that several of my friends have highly recommended (the last one did not have much bedside manner to speak of; kind of important when you’re required to let said medical professional stick foreign objects up your hoo-ha). The bad thing—aside from the fact that I have a dance performance set to end a very long, full weekend—is that I am out of refills on said ineffective medication. Do I call and ask for one more refill until I can see the doctor? Do I just say fuck it and risk being a crazy person for the next two and a half weeks? If I do call and ask for a refill, should I call my old gyno or the new one? Would either of them even give me a refill when I’m not going back to the former and have yet to see the latter? GAHHHH!!!
In a related thought, I have had the best idea ever: chocolate chewable Midol. They’d either make a killing or have a lot of overdose cases…