I was supposed to be going to the Tate Modern today, but I couldn't wake up. I mean, I couldn't - my alarm went off every ten minutes from 12.30pm to 2.20pm and I was no more awake after 2 hours than I had been at first. Usually, if I'm tired in the morning I can at least wake up enough to make coherent phone calls and maybe drag my ass into the shower, but this morning I couldn't even string a sentence together. I rang Richard and said "uh... help... dontfeelwell... uhhh" like I was drugged, but it was just exhaustion. So I blew my friend out because my body wouldn't co-operate, and I feel lousy about that, but he has chronic illnesses himself so he should be able to understand.
Got out of bed at 7pm - just as well I wasn't supposed to be working today - and sat in front of the computer doing not much for a while. I wanted to write about how I was feeling but I didn't have good enough control over my hands to type. (Couldn't play the cello either, which upset me). Eventually the food I'd eaten started to give me some energy and a hot shower got my body temperature up, so we were going to go shopping, but then I got panicky again (as if I hadn't had enough panic on Monday and Tuesday) and couldn't face going. Then I figured we had to go because I needed to buy food to eat. We got as far as the supermarket, and I bought most of the things we needed, except I couldn't find any shoe brushes and that was enough to trigger an attack of wobbling - except I managed to avoid too much visible wobbling and just freaked out internally. Bah. And then the Night Bus was late. So we got home at about 3am - Richard went straight to bed and I sat up watching videos all night. "Better Than Chocolate" is a damn good film, if anyone cares.
I'm sick of losing 1 week in 4 to being completely non-functional. I'm really sick of people dismissing my mood problems as soon as I try to explain them - everyone knows someone who has PMS. But most people don't have it quite this badly. I'm not trying to say that other women don't suffer - of course they do - but feeling bloated and irritable isn't quite the same thing as panic so bad you can't leave the house and terrible self-harm urges that pop up from nowhere - cutting a bread roll in half and suddenly having to put the knife away and get out of the room or else you would have to cut yourself. Feeling disgusting and worthless and knowing it's just fucking hormones and I should be better in a few days, but what if I'm not - what if it spirals into another episode of depression that lasts for months?