My premenstrual syndrome became progressively worse throughout my teen years and into my twenties. On top of the physical symptoms, I began experiencing terrible mood swings, anxiety, and panic attacks, even depressive episodes. I either couldn’t sleep at all or couldn’t get out of bed.
Since being diagnosed, every month is different, and the severity of the flare-up varies, which makes it hard to manage my life around the condition. When I was twenty-two, August finally convinced me to talk to a doctor about my symptoms. I was often unwilling to discuss what was happening with anyone besides him, so I’d shut myself in my room for several days until I felt better. It wasn’t abnormal for the rest of my family to not hear from me for a little while, especially if they thought I was deep into my writing, but August was the exception. When I would go MIA, he’d know something was wrong, and when he checked on me, he’d see how I was truly feeling.
It took three months for the doctor to diagnose me and put me on birth control. Diet, exercise, fresh air, and meditation are also known to help, as is therapy—but all of those things feel too hard to manage.
It’s an odd realization—to know that you’re suffering but still feel the pain you’re experiencing is less daunting than justsimply doing the work to be better. I’m not sure what makes me like this, or if it’s possible to escape. I’m too tired to try.
“Let me take you home,” Everett says.
“I can’t.” I sigh. “Nobody else is coming in for another two hours.”
Everett chews the inside of his cheek, head swiveling around the cafe. Without a word, he walks behind the counter and through the swinging doors that lead to the kitchen.
A few minutes pass before he returns with my purse and my sweater in hand. “Let’s go.”
“But—”
He spins, walking backward toward the back door. “Peggy called in one of the other baristas early, and she’ll cover until they arrive. The coffee bar will be totally fine, but you are not. I need you to take care of yourself right now.”
His tone invites zero argument, and I know he’s not wrong, so I slide off the stool and follow him out of the building. My brother helps me into his Jeep, and once we get home, he leads me inside and sets me up on the couch rather than having me climb the stairs to my room.
I don’t tell him that I’ll need to make it up there before August gets home anyway, because we haven’t spoken since I woke up with him in my bed four days ago, and I’m not ready to see him yet.
I woke up that morning brewing with anxiety, and while his touch may be the best cure for it, not even having him beside me could quell it. I locked myself in the shower until long after I knew he’d woken and left my room. From there, my mood plummeted. I did my best to keep my distance, not wanting him to blame himself or think that our night together was the cause of it—though at first, I was unsure of that myself.
My diagnosis has caused anxiety for years now, but my life has given me more than enough reason to have all thosesymptoms on my own. It can be hard to wade through what might be a flare-up, and what is just me. My trauma.
But as the next two days went on, I began feeling nauseous, lost my appetite, and then the frequent headaches set in. Knowing I was coming up on my period, I figured it had more to do with PMDD than anything August and I had done last week. My symptoms have been getting progressively worse the last twenty-four hours, but today is by far the hardest.
My head is pounding so hard that my vision is dotted with flashing lights, and all I want to do is try to fall asleep. I set an alarm for thirty minutes before August normally gets off work while Everett fills up my water bottle, grabs my heating pad from my bedroom, and turns on old reruns ofReal Housewives.
“I have to take care of some things at the garage and then swing by Lou’s school because she forgot her lunch at home. Do you want me to stop by later to check on you? Or I can send Leo after he finishes his surf lessons?”
I shake my head, pulling my knees to my chest as I lie sideways on the couch.
“Well, I’ll call to check in on you later regardless.” He kisses my forehead. “Please communicate with one of us, with Mom—hell, even August—if you need something, okay?”
“I will, I promise.” I yawn. “I’m just tired, so I’m going to try to take a nap.”
My twin nods, looking down at me solemnly. Everyone says we have the same eyes, but I think his are much kinder than mine. He takes a knit blanket off the top of the couch and drapes it over me before heading to the door.
“Love you, Lele!” he calls.
“Love you too,” I grunt through gritted teeth.
I tugmy knees to my chest, wiping away my tears with a shaking hand. I’m staring at the kettle on the stove, and it feels like it’s taken eons for the water to heat, and all I want is a fucking cup of chamomile. It feels like someone held a fork over a flame and is now repeatedly stabbing me in the center of my gut with it, twisting it all about to ensure I feel every one of the prongs.
I want to lie down, and I want to shower, and I want tea. I want to scream at the kettle to heat faster, I want to scream at myself to stop being so fucking crazy, I want to scream at my body for making me feel this way. I want to throw coffee mugs across the kitchen, craving the shattering of something that isn’t me.
My jaw clenches tight enough to ache as the scream lodged inside my throat attempts to force itself out of my mouth like a battering ram. Dropping my face into my hands, I find the strength to hold back that roar, but I’m too weak to accomplish much else. Tears soak my palms, my chest heaves with sobs, and my body trembles beneath the weight of it all.
I didn’t sleep at all. I absent-mindedly stared at the television for some undetermined amount of time before I couldn’t take it anymore. I needed something. A distraction, a blunt, a fucking drink. The surge in that craving was enough to get me off the couch and to the kitchen, attempting to make a cup of tea in hopes it’ll calm the urge.
Finally, the whistle of the kettle blows just as the front door slams, and the clash of sounds sends me spiraling.
I know rationally, I should stand up and remove the kettle from the burner, but instead, I just cover my ears and hope all the noise will diminish on its own.
“Elena?” The voice is muffled through the screaming and my covered ears, then a sudden silence sweeps over the house. “Elena,” he whispers, much closer now. “Look at me.”
