Caught in the Cycle: Unspoken Reality

I have always noticed a shift in my mood just before my period begins. I mostly ignored it because I thought it was normal, as women tend to experience some level of discomfort—or should I say pain? No, hell—just before their periods. I watched many girls at my boarding school rolling in agony, relying on painkillers to get through their days. But that wasn’t me; I mostly considered myself lucky during those times. I didn’t need to skip classes or explain to people why I couldn’t feel my legs or why my stomach felt like it was going to explode. My only burden was the walk of shame when purchasing pads from shops with male attendants or the hurried trips to the bathroom for a quick change.

But on the other hand, when I didn’t feel lucky, I felt guilty. I felt less like a girl, less like a woman. I thought pain was part of the package, so why did I get a free pass? Why wasn’t I part of the women’s club? I couldn’t even hold conversations about period pain, nor could I console my friends who had those monthly struggles because I couldn’t relate. I thought that if I were truly a woman, then I should feel pain, as if bleeding wasn’t enough. Mind you, I did feel some pain, but not enough to have me rolling on the ground, and that bothered me.

I vividly remember the day I started bleeding. It was a sunny afternoon at my aunt's house, and I had just come back from school. I was excited—finally, I no longer needed to practice wearing pads or force a bit of urine down just to test if they truly worked. How exciting! I felt happy and ready—or so I thought. I had read all about it, watched my sister use pads, and convinced myself that I didn’t need much help. Again, or so I thought. Why am I even talking about my period like it’s some big deal? I mean, it’s not like 1.8 billion other women don’t go through the same thing. Give me a break, sis.

I was eleven when I first noticed blood trickling from my vagina. I was prepared for the pain and discomfort, but it never came. Instead, I became accustomed to what felt like an easy period—usually lasting five to six days, with the occasional blessing of just four. As the years went by, I reached a point of acceptance, thinking of myself as one of the fortunate ones. I believed I had navigated this journey successfully, and I stopped worrying about earning my 'woman card'.

I have always noticed a shift in my mood just before my period begins. I mostly ignore it, but lately, I can't. I am trapped!

Eyes open—it’s a normal day. My vitals are okay; my limbs feel strong, and my hands are steady. Time to start my day. I need to shower, have breakfast, and get to work. But wait—something is wrong. I can't stand up. My bed has transformed into my refuge; I never asked for this. Normally, I despise the idea of spending all day in bed, but suddenly, all I crave is the weight of the covers, the solace of stillness. I can’t stand up. I’m screaming internally, desperate to rise, yet I’m pressed into place by an invisible force. The zeal has vanished, leaving me foggy. The world outside has moved on, but I’m stuck, trapped in a mental prison. I can't move; I am alone.

This is my experience in the days leading up to my period—up to ten days, and if I'm lucky seven. It's not the stomach pain; it’s a deeper kind of pain. I am trapped in my own body, and I can't even control it. I have experienced this for a few years, but I am only writing it down because the last episode was horrific—I nearly lost myself. Understanding PMDD (Premenstrual Dysphoric Disorder) has been my lifeline over the past few years. Just knowing that it has a name and that others share the symptoms I experience has been incredibly validating. It reassures me that I’m not alone, that this isn’t just laziness or self-pity, but a genuine condition, and I am not insane. Congratulations to me, I guess I am finally a real woman.

I didn’t feel the need for a formal diagnosis; after all, it’s not that severe—just a period, right? If 1.8 billion women can endure their pain, surely I can handle my own without making a fuss. I tell myself it will pass, and, truly, it does fade away once the blood starts flowing.

The last episode was horrific. I cried—my eyes swollen and puffy. In my frustration, I hit myself multiple times, struggling to understand why. I lost my balance in the bathroom, feeling useless, weak, and out of control. I glanced at my medicine cupboard, tempted to convince myself that I wouldn’t be missed. I wanted nothing and didn’t feel the need to feed my body. I didn’t love my body; my acne was more noticeable, and my flaws seemed amplified. I managed to convince myself that none of my achievements mattered and that I was the most useless person around. I wanted to do the one thing that usually brings me comfort when my mental health is fragile—cleaning. However, my body felt weak, forcing me to crawl to tidy up. It was painful, but I knew I needed a distraction—anything to keep me from taking it all in.

I didn’t answer calls; I ignored my mother’s calls and replied to friends just enough to keep them from noticing something was off. Music and films became my refuge. I cried-they call it the crying spell. I felt trapped in a web of emotions, struggling to untangle myself—believe me, I tried. It was a suffocating prison, and I didn’t want anyone around me. My smile disappeared; I found myself relying on makeup to mask the turmoil within. The walls seemed to close in, and every moment felt like a battle—one I feared I was losing.

Then, I picked up my phone and sent the message. For a brief moment, I felt a spark of hope; it was enough to keep me from giving in completely. After that text, I found the strength to care for myself a little. I remembered it was time to wash my hair, have my bath, and change my pad. Taking these small steps helped me navigate this difficult time.

I am not a middle-aged woman; I’m still in my mid-twenties. But I am seeking a diagnosis and I will get help. Your worth as a woman isn’t defined by your ability to endure pain. Get help, get diagnosed, and speak up. You won the battle last month, but you may not win it next month. I refuse to lose myself to the judgment of that inner voice. I do not hate myself, and I do not want to leave yet.

#PMDDAWARENESS