Woman Goes Premenstrual Postal. Flees Home With Hershey’s Bar and Samaria Sword.

Moody doesn’t quite cover it. Volatile would better describe the way some of us are lucky enough to feel, the week before our period. I’m considering starting a support group for those of us that suffer from what they call in the medical community, PMDD. I’m guessing that stands for Psychotic Menstruating Diva Disorder.

Should we just disappear the week before our period? Between a terrible case of the ‘fuck it’s’ and my vicious tongue, I feel like I would be doing my family and the general public a favor. Perhaps we could seek out demolition jobs for this time every month, and just beat the hell out of some shit. Then watch Steel Magnolia on repeat for a few days and we should be good.

I know I’m constantly trying to keep the hormonal psycho on my shoulder in check. She’s a nasty bitch that encourages my insane urges to bunt babies and flip off strangers. Isn’t it ironic that as our bodies are naturally preparing to brew beautiful life, we’re feeling like setting off an A-bomb on at least half the population.

The edginess is unbearable at times. Like when you drop something and it takes a good thirty seconds to bend down and get it, because you’re talking yourself out of throwing whatever it is right through the freakin’ window. Or when you hear your children fighting and suddenly feel your lips curving upwards in that freaky Stepford Wife kind of way. You have to whisper to them to stop fighting, because you know if you raise your voice and lose your fake-ass composure, the demons that will crack out of you will no doubt leave scars. Sorry kids, you can’t go to college. We needed the money to cover your shock therapy.

It’s that step on a toy and suddenly your entire life just fucking sucks kind of few days. It’s half pity party, half just plain sick of shit. It’s not that we really want bad things to happen, but the warm, fuzzies in life can bring out the “go fuck yourself” attitude more than anything. All the feel-good, blah, blah coming through your Facebook feed leaves your eyeballs practically bleeding, from banging against the back of your head so hard. I know I have absolute zero tolerance for things that I normally enjoy, like birds chirping outside or the sound of my children breathing.

Pissy. I’m just plain pissy.

There is no humor in Murphy and his stupid law taking over your life at this particular time, every damn month. (Cue pity party.) Getting stuck behind someone driving 10 mph under the speed limit, when you are one frayed nerve away from bunking with Charles Manson is not funny. Landing in the check out aisle with the coupon queen having a meltdown over not getting an eighth pack of razors for free is a sick joke. That shit will one day land me on an episode of Snapped. Just. Can’t. Handle it.

Every single irritant has the potential for a full on freak out. You know the ones. Your arms start flailing, head falls completely back and you’re uncontrollably kicking innocent air while screaming in tongues. Grown men shudder, small children burst in to fits of fear and old ladies just start praying for your crazy-ass. Or is that just me?

In addition to all this displaced aggression, it seems to take only mere seconds to fall in to a puddle of hot mess. For that reason, I’d highly recommend wearing my favorite mascara this time of month. It only comes in one color–Blat-ass Black. It resists running down your face as you ugly-cry over stupid shit and will even brighten up your resting bitch face. It’s really the perfect accessory for those pre-menstruating moments when you need that extra oomph to tame your crazy.

You know it’s bad when you are begging Aunt Flow to just please hurry her ass up, because you’d rather deal with your uterus screaming at you, cooter corks and zero energy than feel like you’re the living sequel to Cybil. Seriously, this PMDD crap is cramping my easy goin’ style.

As fun as it is to laugh at the hormonal high jacking that is PMS, there is really nothing more frustrating then feeling out of control. Even when we can remind ourselves that there is a reason for feeling the irrational rage and emotional overload, it can feel next to impossible to keep our shit together. I say do yourself a favor, and try not to be too hard on yourself when the crazy seeps out. You’re not alone. And I’m sure shock therapy for the kids won’t be that bad.