Ah, and it was going to be a good one...

I had something really important and poignant to say two nights ago.  I wanted my computer, a notebook, my journal to write it down before I forgot.  I was so PMDD...  So PMDD...  And I knew I had to remember the feeling I was experiencing, the thoughts I was having...

But I forgot...

Ah, that happens to "writers"--I use quotations titling myself so pretentiously--but I knew it was something very serious.  And I couldn't stand the idea of it disappearing into the oblivion my brain can become...  But there you go...  No, there you don't go...  I got nothin'.  I don't know what felt so important to write.

I can think of things now:  Hmmmm, was it that I feel like a failure?  I feel like I'm a terrible sister, wife...  A crap mother?  I don't think those were it.  I think it was something more substantial.

I'll close my eyes and think for uno momento...  Let's see...  Something... It was something...  Darn it.  Okay, now I'll really close my eyes and not write any more until I remember...

...

Gosh, I'm just thinking of all the things I've already written so many times...

Maybe that was it.  I'm hurtful when I'm at my worse.  See, I feel hurt and scared and attacked and I freak the fuck out...  But my perceptions aren't always real.  And the way I react in my confusion hurts people beyond the 12 days I am in a state of mind-fuckedness.  I come out of it...  I can breathe again, but the people around me still have hurt feelings.  For how long?  Forever?  I can't remember even what I said or did many times; I just become defensive and...

I don't think that was what I was going to write about.
I can't remember.
I know I feel alone.  Now...

I wanted to write about my sister being here, for weeks!  It was so fun but so exhausting:  we talked all night, not even realizing the time.  I don't know...  Gawd, who else do I really talk to?  In person... Facial expressions not hidable?  Who do I talk to so openly, and so deeply about things I don't even know if I'm allowed to say...  Out loud...  No one.  Just my sis.

Ha.  Who else but Mikhaila, who knows me, so we
'all, can really reassure me I'm not a fucked up mess of a person?  Who else but my little sister could sit there when I say what I think are my most awful thoughts and feelings, and tell me:  "I understand."?  Because she does.  She's in my head, anyway.  She can read my flinches, my body movements, my expressions so easily.  She doesn't miss anything.  "I'm okay, really."
"No.  No, you aren't."

Ack!  I'm used to hiding.  I'm used to trying to ride out darkness by hugging my knees and hiding my face.  When someone is here--here--and doesn't let me retreat?  I'm relieved and scared as Hell.  I've had friends who could see through my writing!  What the fuck?  How?  How could they know me that freaking well, when people who are in my vicinity every day don't know a damn thing?

Am I a good friend?  And I too fucked up to be a good friend?  How many people know how much I struggle with the reality, clearly, that I have to keep being alive when I feel so clearly that I don't feel much like being alive at all.  I guess I already feel half alive.  I know I am in the worst, late Luteal phase of PMDD, and my head is all mixed up and my mind is confused, or just damn crazy, but that's at least 7 days of every month.  There's another 5-7 where I become apathetic...  Numb...  But I'm not like this... Not like these days.  I look at the calendar and put my finger on the day I get myself back.  "Oh, two more days, that's not so bad."

But it really is.  It is so bad.  It's terrifying.  And I know many people suffer horrible tragedies, but it doesn't seem fair.  How come I have this?  I don't want it.  I'll get a whole ton of my insides removed from my body if it meant I could be...  Myself...  Just me, again.  I'm not perfect.  But I was a whole lot better than this nightmare I live in...  I'm looking out of some eyes that don't belong to me...  My mind thinks things Joanna knows aren't real...  Me.  I know they aren't real.  I know I love my children. I know I'm a great mommy.  I would never want to hurt them by...  Being dead...

But right now I really think I could also put Sam's power drill in my ear to shut the voice up.  I'd sit here and like to see blood drip down my skin.  I'd like to imagine a lunatic deciding it was a good idea to shoot someone today, and I'd say, "Oh, me!"  (Then, after shooting me, they'd run away and leave my sweet babies alone, of course).

I'm thinking it would be okay to drink the chemicals I see all around me since I'm sitting in the basement... I'd like to walk out of my house since everyone else fell asleep and find a place to disappear...  That's crazy, right?!

Out of control, my brain is... my hormones are...

 See?  "Oh, only two more days..."