Forget what I promised when I was ovulating: now I have my period

PalmaThere are weekswhen I ask ChatGPT how it's possible I can't stop crying and if I should be worried about it. And there are weeks when I listen to the dirtiest reggaeton on repeat, so confident that I see myself capable of posting a selfie in the bathroom mirror. But neither at one moment nor the other am I aware that this feeling is a product of my hormones. Every month I feel cheated by myself: once again, I surprise myself, as if this same process hadn't repeated itself for almost 20 years. That's why, and for when I feel like I can't trust myself, I've monitored what happens to my body and mind in the 28 days of my menstrual cycle, according to my mobile app.

Week 1. For some reason, I always choose the day I'm supposed to get my period to go to the hairdresser (with disastrous results in 90% of cases). I suppose it has to do with the need for renewal and to see myself differently, which, unfortunately, coincides with my null capacity for self-expression. This combination usually results, for example, in the hairdresser giving me a very short fringe, above my eyebrows, even though what I clearly wanted was for it to be long enough to tuck behind my ears. When my uterus is about to expel this party I had prepared for which nobody has shown up, my social skills plummet. I don't know what to say, everything that comes out of my mouth sounds strange and I have no filter. I don't want to be asked questions, I don't want to exist. So I wake up on the weekend at my place, down, cursing myself, because yesterday I already knew that this hangover wouldn't be worth it. I'm irritable and I start crying because it's hot and I have to leave the house to buy water and ibuprofen. The only thing that consoles me is that sadness has replaced the ruminating thoughts I had last week.

Week 2. The idea of writing this article came to me in the second week of my cycle. And now I understand why. A quick Google search tells me that the follicular phase is usually the one with "more energy". Absolutely right. Working under the effects of cocaine must be something similar to this. In one day, I've done everything I had pending from the previous week. Everything fits into my to-do list: organize my vacation, make 20 calls, and come up with ideas for four more articles. In fact, I have ideas all the time. And they all seem great to me. Nothing worries me, because I mentally solve all problems and, if not, I come up with plans A, B, and C for everything. I remember everything my friends tell me and I ask to be updated: "How was the wedding this weekend?", "Did you get the apartment you went to see?", "How's the new job going?". I want to know how everyone is, I'm fresh and attentive to everything. My head doesn't stop working even when I go to sleep, and I wake up with a headline in my head, which I write down immediately. I feel like my body is fine, in every sense. It's functional and I'm happy with it. I like to feel it and be aware of all its parts. And this, even though my breasts are still their usual size. Listening to Judeline and Dellafuente. I want to go party. What's happening this weekend? Gin and tonics will be poured.

Week 3. Everything starts to flow a little less. I start Monday with the weekend laundry still to be folded. I haven't made lunch, I'll have to buy something. I have to go train, but I'm too overwhelmed. Even though I could use it. Do I have cellulite? And this arm that hangs down? I should paint my nails and make an appointment at the hairdresser's. I start the controlling, obsessive, intransigent phase. I try to remedy it by listening to Bad Gyal on the way to work, but I end the week listening to Pablopablo. Nothing is going well for me and I make it known, although not always in the best way. Maybe it's my fault? I start to doubt everything. My breasts start to swell and I think I should also make an appointment with the gynecologist. Do you think it's normal that they hurt so much? I start to cram my calendar. In two weeks I will regret it. But, for now, my hypochondria is unleashed and I end up having a small anxiety attack at the theater that no one suspects.

Week 4. The rhythm of the days means I'm not aware of how I'm really feeling. I can't stop to think if I'm failing or to listen to my inner voices. I don't have time. I guess that's why I'm walking around with my phone in my hand writing all this, on the way to the station. I get on the bus and open my laptop. I only stop typing to go to sleep. It's never enough, nothing is entirely good. Come on, one more effort. Now that I think about it, won't these quiet little voices be the ones making me do all this? I don't want to listen to music; only some podcast that makes me concentrate on what another person is telling me and not think about this body dysmorphia. It's a shame, because I have beautiful breasts, but I'm not able to look at myself in the mirror. My legs are starting to hurt. I check the mobile app: “Period may start today”.