PMS. It's different for everyone, and different for me from month to month. In the details, anyway. Now bear with me cuz I'm there now and part of it is a distinct lack of creative energy.
This month my body feels heavy and slow...like I have molasses in my arteries. Sludge. Leaden syrup, moving like a mudslide through my body. I'm walking in waist deep ocean water, against the current. Not a strong, bowl-me-over current, just enough to have to strain and lean and put some effort into going the way I know I need to go. Just enough to have to keep part of my mind always on the current. Or it's as if I hadn't slept in a few days. Know that feeling? When you know you have to keep on going but you are soooooooooo tired. The sandman is constantly, insistently calling you, a low incessant nagging voice, pulling you down, dragging at you. All you want to do is lie down and give it up, but you keep....on....going.
And that's just the physical part. Emotionally, I can go from relatively stable (in my progesterone-poisoned opinion) to a gloomy doomsdayer, which is where I dwell most of these PMS days, ready to burst into tears at a perceived slight or a friendly hug, to a raving bee-yotch I claim not to recognize. And it's like someone else is totally in control, pulling my puppet strings this way and that, watching me jerk and twitch just for their own deranged amusement.
Dolly Parton did a wonderful song called "PMS Blues." If you haven't heard it, gals, find it and listen. She clearly knows of what she sings.
"Nothin' fits me when it hits me....Got those- -can't stop cryin', dishes flyin'--PMS Bluuuuuuuues...........................oh, whadda you lookin' at?!"
Watch it with the comments. I might smack you. But I'm not responsible, if I do. It's that demoniacal puppetmaster!