~ September 24, 2003 - 12:10 p.m. ~
These days
Well I've been out walkingI don't do that much talking these days
These days--
These days I seem to think a lot
About the things that I forgot to do
For you
And all the times I had the chance to
And I had a lover
It's so hard to risk another these days
These days--
Now if I seem to be afraid
To live the life I have made in song
Well it's just that I've been losing so long
I'll keep on moving
Things are bound to be improving these days
These days--
These days I sit on corner stones
And count the time in quarter tones to ten, my friend
Don't confront me with my failures
I had not forgotten them
-Jackson Brown
Yesterday I woke up all horribly cramped and terrible and morbidly PMS-y feeling and really just awfully depressed (overuse of adverbs, go me!). There was all this stuff to clean in the kitchen, and there's all this laundry to fold, and nothing I ate made me feel any better, just really sick to my stomach, and I started freaking out that maybe there was something really wrong with me, so I spent an hour and a half on WebMD searching my symptoms until I finally found the one thing that totally fit the bill: PMS. Not like "oh you're such a bitch, have you got PMS" PMS. No, I mean like clinical, needs to be medically treated PMS. Because I realized yesterday just how cyclical all my wigging out really is. OK, so things are tough right now, and I am all anxious in general about employment and whathaveyou, and I've been very given to a bit of depressing self-evaluation lately. But my actual wigging, like flipping totally the fuck out and screaming at Tim because he tried to kiss me when he had coffee-breath, or bursting into tears because I want to cook, but the pan is diry in the sink . . . that's the cyclical shit. And it's good that I realized it, but really! I mean, I've always been accused of being a little bitchy around that time of the month, but I've never been a raving lunatic before this past year.
It scares me to think that to an extent I'm not in control of myself. It's scary to believe that those hormones I pop every day become so amplified every four weeks that I am too sick to move and too hysterical to do anything about it. I called my mother almost in tears because I just felt so shitty, and she ripped me out of my self-pity cocoon and told me to go take a walk now.
ME: But Ma! I hurt so bad, I can't-
MOM: Don't give me that crap, Gina Marie! I know you never believe me, but exercise is good for cramps so get off your ass and go, now!
I don't argue with my mother when she gets like that, and it never occurs to me to lie to her about these things. I got up, got dressed, and took a forty-block stroll up past the Empire State building and back. It was really very nice, and I felt so much better, and I'm going to do it again right after I finish typing this. There's nothing like your mom kicking your ass to get your day going . . .
