Cycles, Circles, Acceptance: a slave to my hormones

I have decided to blame my hormones. For everything. That’s because in the 35 years of my existence, with the majority of my years spent soul searching in a serious manner, I have yet to come up with a better explanation for why things are the way they are. I have travelled to India. I’ve had therapy. I meditate. I run. I read. I do yoga. I ponder. I contemplate. I take supplements. I eat well (ish). I write. I don’t drink (most of the time). I do a lot. But there seems to be no escaping the drudgery that is the one step forward, two steps back and going-around-in-circles cycle I seem to be caught up in. A cycle that I fear may remain unaltered for the rest of my days, or at least until after the menopause, no matter what I do.

Screen Shot 2015-08-19 at 08.37.13I feel like out of roughly four weeks of the month, I spend one week feeling like a haemorrhaging mess that is physically impaired. Then comes my favourite week, week two, the one in which I am full of enthusiasm, energy, go-get power and the world-is-my-oyster shenanigans. That’s the week in which I fire out emails to everyone and their dog. I arrange outings, sign up for classes, inquire about my interests, plan (lots and lots of) stuff. Then comes week three; the slow decline into week four. It’s a bit of a nothing week. I cope, I do, I function, but I fear the inevitable: week four. The dreaded week four. The week in which I cancel everything I planned in week two. The week in which I beat myself so harshly with my imaginary stick that there is no way I would even imagine attempting any of the things I dreamt up in week two. It’s the week where I shout at my children the most. The week where I hide in various corners of my house, reading LinkedIn profiles of people far more successful in every aspect of life and therefore fuelling my feelings of failure on all levels.

MenstrualI try loving kindness. I really do. I try compassion. I really, really do. It’s not working very well. Or at least not in week four.

Then back comes week one. It feels like a flushing away of the pent-up frustrations, depression, anxiety, and self-hatred of week four. A release. All the while realizing, with a sense of Groundhog Day, that I am back to square one. Freshly bled out to naively embark on another week two.

And on it goes like this. No matter how much I run. No matter how much I meditate. No matter how much therapy I have. It feels like a relief to blame something. So I blame the hormones. It is yet another way to try and make sense of my human condition. So all that is left is acceptance. Acceptance of imperfection. Acceptance of having to go with the flow (quite literally). Acceptance of my human condition. And so I will continue, battered and bruised, heroic and full of enthusiasm (in week two, at least) on my journey.

—Murielle

photos by: 欠我兩千塊 and gaelx used with creative commons license

photo(2)Murielle was born and raised in Switzerland. She speaks four languages, and has travelled extensively. Murielle spent ten years living in London, working in PR and marketing in the tourism industry. Becoming a mother marked a career change. She now pursues writing and teaching, and lives in Chicago with her husband and two sons.

 

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