For a week every month, I am Anger, Sadness and Anxiety from the Pixar hit Inside Out 2, all rolled into one. Add a dash of Ennui to the cocktail too.
Husband and I get into a minor argument? Cue the waterworks, one that leaves me with a nasty headache and an awful cold. Dishes not washed? There is probably a flaming ball of fire over my head at the sight of it.
My bed is my best friend to wallow in existential dread, watching endless mind-numbing reels on Instagram. Another recipe for a cake? Swipe. Movie recommendations? Hmm, maybe I’ll save it for later. A cute cat? Give me more such dopamine hits.
If this emotional roller coaster wasn’t enough, pain makes a quiet appearance. Radiating from ankle to knee, it leaves me feeling like I am a 70-year-old and not 31.
Sounds familiar? You, like me, are battling Premenstrual Syndrome aka PMS. A simple Google search throws up a list of symptoms: bloating, weight gain, mood swings, feeling upset, anxious or emotional. Most of these seem to describe the angsty teen I once was. Am I Benjamin-buttoning, I wonder?
Like most things in the online world, PMS too has been monetised by social media through reels and videos. The most common ones are a caricature of a woman turning into a literal ogre, ready to devour anyone who crosses her in the days leading up to her period and constantly craving chocolate. Men, keep sweets close at hand or count your days, it preaches.
Maybe that is a bit far-fetched, you think. Maybe women are exaggerating. You may laugh it off, sniggering at those “sensitive women”.
But maybe there is some truth to it. For the past two years or so, my PMS symptoms have become progressively worse. I get angry faster. I cry even harder. My mood swings like an out-of-control see-saw. The bloating turns me into my worst enemy, an alter ego manifesting to fat-shame me.
Last month, a simple decision on what to wear during a lunch outing turned into a 20-minute crying fest because I felt “all my clothes made me look fat”. My husband ventured forth a suggestion — to go shopping. I wailed harder. “Why do I need more when nothing fits,” I wept. The next day, my monthly visitor made her appearance. That explains the crying, I thought to myself.
I have even timed my cycle to a tee — exactly seven days before the 4th of every month. It is my very own biological reminder from hell. Instagram too starts sending reminders in the form of reels. The latest featured the woman as the evil Purple Minion from Despicable Me 2 losing her shit when her partner suggests she should drink water instead of “babying her” during her period.
For a while, I wondered if I was making it up in my head. That was before I reached out to a few close friends to ask if they feel PMS gets worse with age. They all came back with an unequivocal reply — yes, it does. A beloved friend says it is like “our bodies were designed to bombard pain”. A good friend from work says she lashed out at her partner one day, going on to say that he made her cry more than her ex. The next day, she says, she got her period.
We empathise, exchange notes and find similarities. Will it ever get better, I ask? No, there’s menopause to look forward to, a friend remarked wryly .
Great, a fresh hell to look forward to decades away.
Till then, I will give in to my chocolate craving, watch cat reels and wait for the worst to pass. Maybe laugh at an occasional PMS reel too. The algorithm too knows I’m PMSing.
National Editor Shalini Langer curates the fortnightly ‘She Said’ column
