memory

Plainly; Men Suck.

PMS makes everything more intense in my world.

Everything.

I can munch my way through the contents of the fridge, finishing the gluttonous deed by licking my fingers and moaning with delight and/or guilt.  My moods become, well … moodier.  Where one moment I can be happily giggling because of something The Blokey is doing or saying, within nanoseconds I can be haughtily telling him that it ain’t funny, quit it!  I don’t mean to hurt him.  My body and mind become more lethargic than usual, and I tense up.  I open iTunes and find myself listening to Justin Timberlake or Avril Lavigne, through no fault of my own.  Sometimes my fingers may as well be doing their own thing, ignoring any signals from my brain.

At the best of times my concentration and memory are absolutely appalling, but when PMS toddles by they may as well be non-existent.

This Blog Now! page has been open all day.  And I do mean all day

So, I’m the person who regularly walks into a room and has to immediately walk out again because the reason for entering the room slipped my mind.  In truth, this often happens on Xanga too.   Opening a page and staring blankly at it for a while is not particularly entertaining, but my mind seems to think it is, such is the frequency with which it occurs.  I start doing one thing and often turn my mind to something else, which frustrates The Blokey.

I’m quite a stickler for routine.  It’s incredibly important to me that my days are mapped out – none of this impulsive behaviour for me, no thanks – and that everything is put in its rightful place [even if I’m the only person who is aware of the rightful place].  I also have OCD tendencies.  If the floor needs hoovering, it must be done NOW!  If we’ve watched a programme that was recorded through Sky+ it must be deleted off the box post haste or it looks messy and somehow that gets into my head.  I did lock the door didn’t I?  I can’t let The Blokey clean and tidy and cook and make the bed and hoover and dust and everything else, because he wouldn’t do it right.  He wouldn’t [and besides, he’s not complaining]!

So, you can imagine what life must be like in the World of Katiefinger in the run up to The Bloody Massacre.  Take a teaspoon of poor concentration, a dash of memory loss and a pinch of too much routine, shake it all up, and then wait for it to explode spectacularly.  Let the bedlam commence!

It’s pure torture.  I lost my rings on Friday afternoon.  I took them off to do the gardening, and they weren’t where they should have been when I went to put them back on.  After fifteen minutes of panic we found them in a place I never would have put them in a sane moment.  Yesterday morning I lost my phone.  It takes a long time and a huge amount of panic to find a phone that’s been hiding in Gym’s bag for two nights. 

It sounds trivial.  It sounds normal.  And in my world, it is normal.  But the intensity with which I lose things, both objects and memory, and the rate at which I forget something I did only three minutes ago, and the scary way I let my routine suffer … it’s bloody freaky.  Surreal.  I can’t even begin to explain it, really.  Still, at least it only happens for one week in every four.  And the other three weeks?  I can just about cope with the way my mind works …

Of course, drinking lots of wine doesn’t really help.

please God bless my memory xxx Elsabeth