Every 26 days I'm astonished to find myself undergo a complete change in personality across all the strata of my being. It's as if the body has a sci-fi memory-erasing dealio to use on me and wipe the record of this clockwork happening completely clean, each and every time - for the entirety of my fertile years.
I feel the natural shift of my body more acutely the older I get. I would never call it "PMS". It's the cycle of life, my hormones are well tuned, and yet I still feel the notes, the bars, the melody, but not the whole song. Dampening them for ill-timed life experiences is draining. I pity the women that have to do it all the time. And perhaps the men, vibrating out a hormonal wavelength of their own. A wavelength which admittedly usually entices me the last week of my cycle and pierces my heart and all my senses once I start to flow. I want to curl up somewhere warm and cozy, protected, and bleed – uninterrupted.
Hormones feel so much deeper than neurotransmitters. Blood messengers. With drugs that work on the nerves/brain some part of me always knows I'm under the influence, there is a detachment. Hormones are complete. They feel realer than reality, like a burst of truer truth - signposts that show me how I really feel. I trust them as I do my own blood. I wouldn't betray them.
But they aren't functional. They lead me into a sensitivity that doesn't fit the world with all it's sharp edges and textures. I'm too curious to live in their revelations. Still, I let it come over me for the time that it's there. I act according to it's demands: horny, grouchy, extreme, manic – isolationist and then let it all go when it leaves, without shame – or, apparently, memory. I surf the cycle. It's animal, it's fun to exhibit without supression. I'm female.
I feel the natural shift of my body more acutely the older I get. I would never call it "PMS". It's the cycle of life, my hormones are well tuned, and yet I still feel the notes, the bars, the melody, but not the whole song. Dampening them for ill-timed life experiences is draining. I pity the women that have to do it all the time. And perhaps the men, vibrating out a hormonal wavelength of their own. A wavelength which admittedly usually entices me the last week of my cycle and pierces my heart and all my senses once I start to flow. I want to curl up somewhere warm and cozy, protected, and bleed – uninterrupted.
Hormones feel so much deeper than neurotransmitters. Blood messengers. With drugs that work on the nerves/brain some part of me always knows I'm under the influence, there is a detachment. Hormones are complete. They feel realer than reality, like a burst of truer truth - signposts that show me how I really feel. I trust them as I do my own blood. I wouldn't betray them.
But they aren't functional. They lead me into a sensitivity that doesn't fit the world with all it's sharp edges and textures. I'm too curious to live in their revelations. Still, I let it come over me for the time that it's there. I act according to it's demands: horny, grouchy, extreme, manic – isolationist and then let it all go when it leaves, without shame – or, apparently, memory. I surf the cycle. It's animal, it's fun to exhibit without supression. I'm female.
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