Manic Monday Menstrual Meltdown

HOW I LOVE BEING A WOMAN WOOOOH!

Step on the scale. Up 3 pounds. Maybe I should start skipping breakfast. Unless I wake up really hungry, and then I’ll skip lunch instead.

I’m hungry. I eat 3 sad scrambled eggs and a handful of cotton candy grapes.

Having my period isn’t just uncomfortable and painful, but it also makes me feel empty inside, so I draw the blinds and sob while watching Outlander. Four hours later I emerge from my couch-cocoon, riddled with guilt for wasting a sunny Monday morning in my PJs. I cry some more.

I have some lunch, an organic Gala apple with an individually wrapped cube of parm and 3 slices of prosciutto, clearly forgetting about the eating disorder I planned to have this morning. I do some client work, the bare minimum is all I can handle today, and post a silly little reel to my personal Instagram, filmed prior to the hormone-induced breakdown I’m currently having.

My husband returns home from work and I dramatically collapse into his arms and sob. “What’s wrong?” he asks. He will immediately regret asking this question.

I’m fat, I’m crampy. I have no creative ideas. All day, every day, I think about how I feel nowhere near ready to start a family and I’m not sure I ever will. I haven’t accomplished anything personally and definitely not professionally in a really long time. My hip hurts. My hair color looks weird. My back hurts. I wish I could afford to do CrossFit because everyone I know who does CrossFit is ripped. It’s too hot out. It’s too cold in here. I hate all my clothes. I can’t go to yoga because I am afraid I’ll bleed everywhere. What if I’m never ready to have a kid and then you have to divorce me because how would you be able to give up something as big as that? Remember when we didn’t want to have a kid at all? I just want more time. Oh my God, we’ll be dead before they’re 45. Should I just swallow my pride and go on Ozempic? Or Tirzepatide? Google the difference. I only want to lose 40 more pounds. But I don’t want to be on it forever. I’d probably gain it all back. And remember when my sister couldn’t shit for 2 weeks when she was on it? I hate my teeth. I hate our dishwasher.

He doesn’t flinch, just hugs me tighter. He’s used to this sort of thing. God bless a man who can hold your feelings.

For dinner I cook ground beef in a tablespoon of butter and throw it into a bowl with half an avocado, grated pecorino, sauerkraut, and a drizzle of honey. It’s a weirdly delicious combo I picked up from eating animal-based/carnivore. Somehow it’s the only way I’ve been able to lose weight the last few years. I wish it was pasta. I wish I was normal about food, like a French woman who can eat bread and drink wine every day without completely overdoing it. I feel the waterworks wanting to emerge again, a lump forming in my throat. Get it together, Kristina. You cannot cry over pasta. I swallow it down. Enough is enough.

We sit down to watch the new Harlan Coben show on Netflix. This one isn’t set in the UK, booooo. It doesn’t hit the same without the British accents. I wish I had some ice cream. I think about Ozempic again.

I wake up the next morning and the scale is down 1 pound. I don’t cry.

i’m fine now hehe

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