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An Open Letter To My 48 Year Old Hormones

[My] Dear 48 Year Hormones,

Hi. Um. Hmm. So I’ve been thinking about how to approach this without risk of being misunderstood. I want to be incredibly transparent about my feelings so we can avoid any confusion because the last thing I need is unnecessary conflict. So, yah, I’ve got to get this off my heavily weighted, anxiety riddled chest and I guess the simplest way is just to come right out with it and ask you point blank:

What The Actual F*ck?

Stop looking at me that way. You seem mysteriously puzzled, as if you have no idea what I’m talking about. Have I not made myself clear? Was I not direct enough? Okay. Hmm. Okay. Let’s see if I can put this another way:




No, No. Don’t do that. I see you looking at me with that snarky smirk. Cut it out. Why are you toying with me? It’s as if you knew exactly what I was gonna say. I can tell it’s almost like you’re [not so] secretly satisfied to have pushed me over the edge. Are you enjoying watching me suffer through this unwanted torture? You are, aren’t you? You’re a crazy bitch.

Shh. Shh. Don’t talk. I’m not done. I’m speaking now. Let me fly off the handle, scream like a fucking lunatic and start sobbing calmly convey my thoughts like a lady without interruption and then you can have the floor.

Seriously, what the hell did I ever do to piss you off so much that you’ve completely driven me mad? Is this some sort of sick, demented joke you’ve been plotting to play on my physical and mental well-being in an effort to get my attention?  Well if it is, congrat-u-fucking-lations. You’ve succeeded.

Hasn’t the chaos of the external world produced more than enough anxiety for me to contend with? I think my plate [of paranoia] has runneth over. Do I really need the added anxiety produced from whatever twisted voodoo spell you’ve casted on me internally as well?  Have you no mercy?

I really thought I’ve been good to you. Actually, I know I’ve been good to you; I won’t allow you to manipulate my mind. I eat well; I routinely exercise. I drink plenty of water. Fine, so I drink alcohol too, but why are you holding that against me now? Why are you making my life so erratic, deranged, unhinged disarrayed? I had so much energy earlier today and all of a sudden, POOF! Out of nowhere it feels like I got hit by a mack truck. Hold on. Gimme a minute. I might need to lay down. Oh wait. I’m okay now. Phew. Hmm. Whoa, excuse me. I don’t know what just happened there; it was like this crashing wave of uninvited irrationally psychotic weird emotions swept in to drag me down for no good reason and then, WHOOPS, false alarm…and we’re back! Oh God, I spoke too soon; here it comes again. Just a sec. I need to cry. Jesus Christ, is it hot in here? Did someone touch the air? Didn’t I tell those kids not to touch the thermostat? I need to cool off.  I really need to cool off. I’m soaked; My tits are now swimming in a pool of sweat. Holy shit, it just dawned on me; is that why they call it the breast stroke? My entire body is aching. Oh no, could I have Covid? What if it’s Covid? But I’ve been so careful. Should I get a test? I gotta get a test. Why am I crying again? I’m overwhelmed and exhausted. It’s overwhelming being this exhausted over…. wait, remind me. What am I exhausted about? I’m confused. What was I ranting about saying? Did I just lose my train of thought? Oh yes, I was telling you how tired I am; how achy I’ve been but I lost track of my thoughts smack in the middle of my thoughts. This has been happening a lot. This can’t be normal, can it? Hormones, my once stellar memory and impeccable recall is now blemished and I don’t wanna be rude but THIS IS ALL YOUR FAULT! Should I add it to the list of things you seem to be conspiring against me? Want another? Okay, up until recently I had no issues with my sleep. My patterns were perfect! At bedtime I’d lay down, close my eyes and voilà next thing I knew the sun was shining and it was a brand new day; but now I see you’re fucking with me in that department too. Who’s decision was it to set my internal alarm clock for 4am? I thought we were a democracy. Why are you being such a dictator? The snooze button at that hour appears to be broken. No wonder I’m so wiped out; I’ve fought an entire war by noon. Who do I talk to about that? I’d like to file a formal complaint.

While we’re on the topic of decision making, who’s bright idea was it to unleash your little menstrual minions whenever you so desire? What happened, you’re not sticking to our system anymore? Ya know, the system we’ve had in place for nearly four decades? The system that as far as I was concerned seemed to be working fine given how organized I am. Didn’t we used to coordinate calendars and plan appropriately for these visits? We were doing great, or so I thought. If you’re gonna go all bait and switch on me shouldn’t I at least get a heads up? I’m sorry but I have to put my foot down on this one. You can’t just flow in on a maxi pad whim one month then assume I won’t wonder what the fuck happened when you go AWOL the next and then think there won’t be any collateral damage when you randomly show up in one of two polarizing ways, that being either in [literal] drips and drabs barely visible to the naked uterus eye or presenting as if I’ve been bludgeoned to death in the middle of the night and I have to pray for the miracle of Leah and her sister wives to show up and carry me into The Red Tent they’ve pitched in my backyard, armed with home remedies to alleviate the stabbing pains which have me keeled over in a fetal position. C’mon you raging Hormones, I’m calling you out. Pick your poison; it’s one or the other; let’s stick to the goddamn plan shall we?

JUST TO LET YOU KNOW… I’m willing to call a truce if you are too. We need to figure out a way to quit the tension and sage the rage. I want nothing more than to be turned on by you instead of completely horrified by your wild temper tantrums and delusional antics. Hormones, maybe it’s not realistic to think we can go all the way back to the days when you and I were properly aligned, in sync and raging in the feel good kind of way; the days when we happily welcomed a hot flash because it was reserved strictly for the regions of the body eager to be hot when flashed rather than drowning in what’s now an undercurrent of a ferocious tidal wave of perspiration that shows up unannounced with no warning whatsoever while in the cereal aisle at the supermarket. Let’s get our shit together. We’re big girls. Big girls don’t cry [all the fucking time].  

I’ll look forward to your response.

Unpolishedly Yours,



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