PMOS and the pill…
Spoiler alert: being 15 sucked, but being 25 sucked more.
So being 15 sucked, but let me tell you, being 25 sucked more. The difficulty with PMOS is, there is no cure and certainly no one size fits all approach to management of a condition that will be with you for the entirety of your reproductive life (more on that later). So what my lovely doctor friend (soon approaching his 892nd birthday - happy birthday Dr Butthead) did is what any other overworked and underpaid NHS professional would do - he scrawled me a note for ‘THE PILL’ DUN DUN DUNNNN and shooed me out of his smelly little office.
I ran to my mum, I was 15 let’s not forget, checking that that was OK. After all, I sure as hell wasn’t sexually active at that point, with a bucket load of all the wrong combination of hormones pin-balling around my body at lightening speed, and all I knew the contraceptive pill for was, well, contracepting. My mum, as many many others, had herself been on the pill for a long time in her teenage years and 20s, so she saw no issue. We’re all chucked a pill at some point probably, swallowing it down day in day out with a bit of morning breath spittle and we crack on with the day. Easy right? And easy it was. After a while, my ‘period’ came (no-one told me it wasn’t a real one. Lol), my spots disappeared, my weight went down and my boobies went up. Plus no babies (despite the above makeover, I still wasn’t getting down to bizniz, but still, better to be safe than sorry). I mean legit what a miracle, or so I thought.
I pootled through the rest of teenage-hood much like anyone else, went off to university, used the pill to its full potential and then - for reasons no one can remember - I thought I’d try life without it. Even then - uneducated, unaware, disconnected and frankly quite afraid of my body, I must have known that there was something more. Is hiding the bad thing away (under very glossy hair I might add) only for it to fester and worsen, any different to letting it rip and teaching it a lesson? Turns out yes. It’s quite a fucking hellhole nightmare stupid idiot annoying massive burden. But like many women, I’m a doer, an achiever, a high-functioning and outspoken little turd who decided, for once, not to turn my back on myself, my health, wellbeing, happiness and future quite so easily…
When the symptoms started pouring back into my body like hot lava, I panicked. I had a complete freak out - seeing myself morph and change like a funhouse mirror was quite frankly petrifying. Why is all this new fuzzy hair appearing everywhere? Why am I literally infuriated by everything? Why am I waking up in the night hungry (!?) with my heart beating out my chest? Why is there a spot INSIDE my nose? Why do all my clothes make me look like ham? So I did what any other person would do, armed with no knowledge, professional support, community or money, I ran back to Dr Butthead for a repeat goddamn prescription. He was DELIGHTED to see me. No, kidding, he didn’t know me from Adam because he probably writes a pill prescription a day. And trussss me none of them were named Adam. But six months down the line, things weren’t getting better, they were actually getting worse.
And that, my friends, is why I’m here. Because in the ten years since then, I have probably felt just about every emotion there can be in relation to this fuck-boi of a condition. I want to share some anecdotes, get some things off my chest, take back a bit of power by mocking Dr Butthead and maybe, just maybe, make a few PMOS pals along the way. If you’ve read even one word of this post, I already see you as one. Til next time!