I think I’m turning into a werewolf (once a month)
Posted Thursday 29th October 2015 By Ericka Waller
So I am due on, again. So annoying. Normally my period sneaks up on me, and I am shocked when it happens, and wander out the toilet in an epiphanic daze, all ‘so that’s why I dropped my iPhone and smashed the screen.. and why I wanted to punch the person in front of me at Tesco’s because he was wearing chequered trousers. That tantrum I had about the children not taking my Wookie teddy and dressing it in a Build-a-Bear dress is also seeming a bit childish now.’
I’m so gobsmacked, I often walk into the sofa which has been in place for seven years and absent-mindedly eat a whole bar of Bourneville chocolate while more and more revelations fall on me ‘my favourite jeans not fitting like normal, my make-up not going on right, the weird smell in the porch, why I forgot to get any milk.’
Now I don’t know if it is because it is a full moon as I type this, (obviously, the reason I can’t sleep is because I am due on), or because I am simply getting older, but this time it’s bad, even badder than Michael Jackson bad. I’ve morphed into a monster. I think there are black hairs growing on the backs of my hands. I’ve scared myself with my own wrath. The kids think a zombie stole their mum and replaced her with a witch who looks ‘similar but a bit different’. I know this because I heard them discussing it.
Then they noticed my looming shadow and began to quake in terror.
I’ve tried explaining my ‘monthlies’ to them. I sat them down and spoke about eggs, tunnels, babies and then blood. It didn’t go well. I’d made it sound like I was going to bleed to death. They were crammed in the bathroom with me at the time which did not help.
Now when I got into the toilet ‘with my long things’ (no jokes please, I’m not in the mood) they crowd outside the door like (useless) men at a birth asking ‘do you want a bottle of water’ ‘can I look at your bottom’ and ‘how long will it take?’
Even the dog tries to merge in with his sheepskin blanket when I come downstairs, my mood apparent from the stomp of my feet and the stream of quiet swearwords coming out my mouth.
I’m always very sorry after I have been badly behaved, still far too irate and hormonal to apologise of course, but sorry none the less. Sorry people have not understood how hard it is for me, or how annoying the way they masticate food is, sorry they did not take it well when I told them, along with some other home truths.
Oh poor poor me. Nobody has ever had anything as bad happen to them as me getting my period. I’ve actually been caught saying this to myself, whilst crying.
Before people start sending me advice about primrose oil and anger management, I’ve tried all that stuff. It does not work. Furious ‘they treat this house like a hotel’ housework, hot baths, a Peter James book and chocolate fudge is much more effective.
And I do make it up to people afterwards with cups of sorry tea ‘sorry I said your tea was shite’ and cuddles ‘no I am not going to punch you, I honestly want to hug you this time’.