Blargh

There is nothing inherently, externally wrong with today. The weekend was lovely. And I have gotten stuff done today , it was fine and unobjectionable stuff, but I am nevertheless depressed and growing more so, for absolutely no reason except that I have PMS and haven’t heard back on the edits for my book for awhile and didn’t sleep well, and the upshot of everything is that I don’t want to do anything except maybe take a very long nap.

I know it’s PMS. I just wish that knowing that mattered.

I am attempting not to brood, and more importantly, not to wander into the bleak artistic underbelly of the internet. Reading about other depressed artists is fantastic if you’re a genuinely depressed artist yourself, but when you just have PMS, it merely leads to more brooding, as you talk yourself into all kinds of hysteria and attempt to assign actual meaning to your hormonal angst and let go of creative blocks that aren’t actually a problem for you in the first place, and you attempt to give yourself permission for something or other (I cannot help but envision this as a permission slip, saying something like yes, little so-and-so is allowed to go on the class field trip to the historic rope factory) when about the only thing you ought to be giving yourself permission for is sleep and potato chips.

This way lies madness and self-help books and “journal” used as a verb.

All that’s really happening, of course, is that the uterus is wandering around going “Hey! Anybody in there? No? Alright, let’s get this crap out of here!” and the ovaries, which are among the most personally malicious parts of my anatomy, are sulking and snarling that if they aren’t happy, nobody is going to be happy, and my endocrine system, a dumb, good natured Labrador type, is cheerfully playing fetch with all the hormones they keep throwing out.

Which is quite unpleasant enough without convincing oneself of further despair, thank you very much.

Originally published at Tea with the Squash God. You can comment here or there.