Less Than A Week of Moving To Go.
I’m in the home stretch of moving to Colorado. Less than a week. I’m surviving on coffee and panic attacks…I’m sure the two are connected but I don’t have enough energy for the self care it would take for anything else. Speaking of self care, I started my period 7 DAYS EARLY. Not that it has anything to do with self care, but I also lack the energy to write full complete sensical sentences. I will tell you this…I plan out when my periods are coming because they are so disruptive in my life I need to batten down the hatches mentally to get through the next one. So in this case I was grateful that I would be done moving before I started PMSing again.
Instead, my period is here and it’s a doozy. I’m shoving boxes of tampons up there and still bleeding all over everywhere. I’m sorry, that was gross. But I swear it feels like all my internal organs are sensing my complete shut down due to moving stress and agreed the best course of action would be to abandon ship via my menstrual blood via my vagina. I’m sorry, that was really really gross.
I don’t spend a lot of time wondering if there’s a God. People who knew me when I was mormon ask me what I am now…athiest? Agnostic? Still Christian? Honestly, when you spend all your waking moments starting around 7 years old feeling guilty about if you’re good enough for God to be happy with you versus sinning enough that you’re about to get a righteous smack down from a dude who has no problem drowning a world full of people, and then you decide at 37 to let it all go, you don’t really care one way or another. I don’t know what I am, other than a good person, and that’s good enough for me. I have enough tangible shit to worry about–bills I can’t pay, groceries I can’t afford to buy, a move to Colorado without a house to rent–that intangible things like The Big Questions will have to work themselves out on their own.
However, having my period start NOW, 21 days after the last one that I barely recovered from, 7 days before it’s supposed to…this is a sign that there is a God, or a Universe, or something out there that has it out for me. Something hates me, and wants me to die a slow bloody death via my vagina.
I’m dealing with it by filling a thigh high sock full of rice, microwaving it for 3 minutes, and tying it around my lower back/girly parts. I don’t have time to tether myself to a wall connected to a real heating pad. In this way, I get 5 minutes of relief. I’m taking shit tons of Motrin that God or the Universe is combatting with internal pain worse than labor.
In this manner I am trying to finish packing.
I am failing miserably. My ex is here, and I’m having another storage container dropped off since I filled up the first one with only half our stuff, and I walked out to the garage with him and very intelligibly said with arm movements miming double hand tossing boxes over my head, “This second fucking container, can we just…you know…fucking start throwing shit in…just fucking…you know…I don’t give a fuck…throw shit…just get it fucking in…not stacking but fucking throwing all this shit…” then I trailed off because my improvised heating pad lost heat sending waves of pain through my body while at the same time all the blood in my body started pouring out of my vagina.
I’m sorry, that was crass and gross.
Welcome to my life for the next 5 days. I’m pretty sure the coffee and panic attacks will see me through, but just barely.