on withdrawals

Women, we live on drugs.

I understand I'm about this matter every damn month, but it still shakes me up. We are nothing but reacting substances with their respective unrelated interpretations. Emotions were invented to make it only appealing. Invented as in came up with that description. As in it would be assuring that comfort and discomfort actually had a meaning. Not only getting high and then having withdrawal symptoms because of unlikely biological expectations... What is it with that?!

Here is the issue. When I look at it like that ↑, I can move on, somehow ignore it, even accept it as a part of the experience of having a female body. (Even though, honestly, I would rather reduce this condition.) But, more often than not, I forget that I am just a reactive component, and I start "feeling". So I end up debating myself as to whether or not I am spontaneously reacting to some natural kind of cycle, i.e. hormones are making me crazy, or actually responding to an external motivation, e.g. I'm happy, sad, angry or excited, because of something.

All this may sound superfluous, but it is determining for my everyday spiritual survival.

Here's the thing. I make decisions. I make plans. I make observations. I try to be a happy person. I try to avoid what makes me unhappy, based on the believe that there are external factors affecting me. I change my environment when I come to the conclusion that it is negative to my well-being. I invest in having a happy life. I try to fill my days with what I like to do, based on the believe that there are external elements of comfort that influence that feeling.

But what happens when I'm constantly assaulted by hormones is that I don't know anymore what is authentically positive or negative.

As it would be expected, I don't give a damn when I'm high. Life is good. Humans around me are full of wonders. The beauty of existence touches me. I'm in love. I like people. I'm a nice person. I may have found the love of my life. It's not only that I'm on my fertile days, I swear. I fantasize about our kids together and all, but this has nothing to do with a reproductive need. And even if that was the case, who cares! I'm happy!

But then, there is this one week, every month, when I just feel like shit. And life sucks, and everyone in it. You all can go very much to hell. No no. No. Don't leave. But you all stink, nonetheless. And it is real. I feel fire in my chest. I rather not open my mouth because only cursing could come out. It's true. I hate that guy telling her mom he loves her. Shut up! Make your phone calls before you get into the bus. No one wants to listen to your conversation. How can you be so inconsiderate? I cry looking at the rain through the window of the bus. I cry watching Warm bodies. Warm bodies is a romance between a zombie and a girl. And I cry. Not just a tear. Why am I so sad? Should I start taking antidepressants? Is it because I just said goodbye to my brother? What is this inescapable feeling of abandonment? I'm alone. I'm alone. I'm always going to be alone. I shouldn't have left. I shouldn't have left so many times. It's my fault. I'm alone and it's my fault. I'm alone and it's my fault, and now my nose is running. And now I need a tissue, and I don't have one. There's a long thread of very liquidy snot now, and I only have this receipt from Wallmart to clean myself.

That's about 3 minutes. It does end when I blow my nose, fortunately, according to Cortázar's Instructions on how to cry:

Putting the reasons for crying aside for the moment, we might concentrate on the correct way to cry, which, be it understood, means a weeping that doesn’t turn into a big commotion nor proves an affront to the smile with its parallel and dull similarity. The average, everyday weeping consists of a general contraction of the face and a spasmodic sound accompanied by tears and mucus, this last toward the end, since the cry ends at the point when one energetically blows one’s nose.

In order to cry, steer the imagination toward yourself, and it this proves impossible owing to having contacted the habit of believing in the exterior world, think of a duck covered with ants or of those gulfs in the Strait of Magellan into which no one sails ever.

Coming to the weeping itself, cover the face decorously, using both hands, palms inward. Children are to cry with the sleeve of the dress or shirt pressed against the face, preferably in a corner of the room. Average duration of the cry, three minutes.

And then... Then I open my menstrual cycle app and make a note: I cried. I check previous cycles and, yes, just about the same time, the same note.

Mierda.

I'm going through withdrawals.