Pms-ing lol

My period looms, which means—rather predictably—I’m in the midst of a mild crisis. I’ve been groggy, grumpy and inconveniently sentimental since waking from an ill-advised 5 p.m-ish nap, the kind that always leave me disoriented and vaguely ashamed. I dozed off while watching a channel 4 documentary on Marilyn Manson, of all things, and woke up to a fog of inexplicable melancholy.

Times like these, I catch myself scrutinising my life with an unrelenting tone. Wondering why I feel like a failure despite all evidence to the contrary. If anything, I’ve thrived in circumstances that would have crushed lesser creatures like trodden daisies. I have carved out my own path with nothing but sheer audacity and instinct —my mother always says I have a rod of steal running through me. Despite the chaos, despite the odds, I’m ticking social norm boxes as well as those of my one unique interests and passions. That should count for something —deep down, I know it does.

In an attempt to intercept the impending mental spiral, I’ve taken a .5 Xanax. Let’s see if it takes the edge off. I’m rather hoping to lull myself back into unconsciousness—partly because I find sleep to be an effective and acceptable form of escapism, but mostly because I’m hungry. And I’m not allowing myself to eat too much today. After an indulgent week, cheeky alcohol consumption and my undying love affair with Deliveroo, I’m enforcing a recalibration. A <1000 calorie day to remind my body exactly who’s in charge —me! Control is a delicate thing, but on wobbly days like today, it’s enough to tide me over into safety.

I’m always hyper-sensitive during these final days before my period. As though my skin has been peeled back, exposing raw nerve endings. I was actually feeling pretty peachy until I woke from that ill-timed nap—then something shifted. A hormonal flicker, perhaps? But the weight on my chest is unmistakable. That tight, choking sensation one experiences when tears are threatening but inconvenient— not that I’ve ever been afraid to cry in public.

Whenever I take real Xanax—the .5s being my preference, since they come in the prettiest shade of pastel pink—I find myself reminiscing about the counterfeit ones I used to dry swallow back in 2017/18/19. Back when I didn’t particularly care if I lived or died. The ones that came in a vacuum-sealed plastic bag the size of a pillowcase, bought in bulk by an ex from the dark web. They were so haphazardly manufactured that they crumbled to dust at the bottom of the bag. I remember rubbing Xanax dust onto my gums, unwilling to waste a single milligram.

But I’m doing well now. Truly. I’ve had an objectively wonderful start to the year, and this? This is just a hormonal hiccup. Give me a couple of days, and I’ll be sitting pretty, combing my hair while I practise my fuck me eyes in the reflection of my French style; baroque, floor length mirror.

Though I suspect this situation isn’t helped by yesterday’s laser hair removal session—the most painful setting I’ve subjected myself to thus far. Although I must admit, there is something almost addictive about that particular flavour of pain. The sharp, searing zaps that make my whole body jolt are followed by an inexplicably tasty adrenaline rush. I leave the clinic feeling like I could conquer the world—or, at the very least, take a triumphant jaunt around Selfridges!

Ooh! Also! I have new stickers—especially for the girlys. I say this because, somehow, I’ve ended up with a disproportionate number of (presumed) male subscribers here. Which is totally fine(!!) if you're genuinely here for my writing. But I can’t shake the feeling that at least some of you might be lurking for… other reasons. And honestly? That doesn’t sit right with me.

This little corner of the internet is where I get to just exist as myself. I don’t always want to feel like a spectacle or an object of sexualisation / the male gaze—though, of course, that’s an unfortunate side effect of being a devastatingly sexy, smokin’ hot babe like moi. Ugh. Sigh…