It is always a bad idea to wallow, but sometimes it is just so darn necessary. I have a habit. Generally speaking I am pretty well balanced. I love what I do, I have a great kid and some friends that are worth running into burning buildings for. There is a period (pun intended) of 1-4 days every 28 day cycle in which wallowing often becomes necessary. I cry. I cry at investment commercials, I cry at songs, I cry all by myself. The thing is, even if I know my hormones are cycling through my psyche, it doesn't matter because it does not change the FEELINGS.
It is like going back to high school for a few days. Every emotion is just so much more.. well..crystallized. Pure. Unclouded and most probably pretty fucking negative. It is a terrible time to write a blog, yet I have decided to do it anyways, and feel bad about that decision. It will probably make me cry.
The interesting thing is I am a huge supporter of crying. My posts seem to come back to it all the time. Free to Be You and Me's "It's alright to Cry" rings through my head. Making me cry. My favorite thing to cry about is believing that there is no one out there who has the capacity to love me the way I have the capacity to love them. I want to be loved like I love. Jesus, I am writing in my 10th grade journal.
Truth be told, I am surrounded by love and my capacity to share it is limitless, but it is like my body craves to feel bad. Really bad for just a few days, I can only hope to not send out any rash emails or break up with lovers because they can't "love me the way I love them," or cause my daughter future emotional trauma due to my all around general sour-pussness. I have started alerting people. I sometimes wonder if I should plot my client schedule around these days. No one needs a PMS-y massage. Tears falling gently on their backs. I exaggerate. As usual. It might have happened. Once.
I wonder at the evolutionary physiological reason for PMS. I know some boys who get their own special brand of monthly hormonal lapses of sanity. They retreat into their caves, faces illuminated by online interactive game carnage. They lose the power of speech and grunt disgruntedly . Don't tell me what to do. Theirs is often easily cured with blow jobs, mine however is cured mostly by time and an unwavering ability to make fun of myself until I realize that the time to wallow is done.
I think it is done now. Still, he should love me more.