That’s all I’m giving you. One fucking hour. Not one minute more, not one minute less.
One fucking hour away from him, away from her, away from everyone and everything.
If you don’t calm the fuck down in one fucking hour, you will drive yourself to the hospital and demand they do something… Like lock your ass up!
You’re a monster.
Out of fucking control monster.
They deserve so much more than you. They’ve never done anything to you but bring you joy and here you are freaking the fuck out on them time and time again. Because he dropped some fucking play-doh on the floor, because she didn’t want to eat the goddamn meatballs you took all of 60 seconds to nuke. You freak the fuck out on them. You know you’re doing it. You know you’re scaring them. Your voice gets so loud. Your face—dear god, I can only image the face I make when they fucking set me off!
You make them cry. You berate them. You torture their feelings, their thoughts, their innocence.
You fucking monster.
Deep breathing, stepping outside, food, listening to The Doors… nothing helps anymore. And you know you can’t drink because you have no control. So just go and get some help already. Send this to someone. Show Anthony this so he can see just how royally fucked up you are. But why hasn’t he done something by now? Other than warn me that I’d end up like this? That he could see little child under a table hiding from Mommy, telling him, “Mommy’s in the bathroom crying again!”? Why not get me some fucking help instead of mocking me. Fuck Anthony. Fuck the kids. Fuck you!!!
One week later:
My PMS is out of control. Clearly. I just got my period yesterday and just like that I can come here and be rational. I don’t need to spew such god-awful things. Look what I wrote up there. Look at it. Maybe I should just take this to someone. But who?
I could show Anthony but I can’t see him saying anything more than, “I told you so.”
Yes, he told me he worried for the safety of our children before we had them. Yes, he told me he worried about my anger.
But I was sure it would subside with kids. And it did at first but it’s just gotten so bad lately… this past year. So very bad. And scary.
I’m a completely different person when I’m PMSing. It’s not a fucking joke. I really need to get help- for them. They really do deserve a better Mommy than who I am most of every month.
Editor note: This piece is fiction but it comes from my reality with PMDD.