Dear April....

A letter to the month that always makes me feel like I've been buried under rocks.

Dear April,

You are such a popular month, it's Easter, there's chocolate and Sunday lunches, countless awareness months—including two very close to my heart—PMDD awareness month and Neurodiversity Celebration Month, and so very many more. And for the last five years, I have spent the whole of you, actively working in the charity space to promote PMDD awareness. I've written about it as a journalist, and been actively fundraising for organisation IAPMD global.

But what happens so often during your reign though, April, is that, for two weeks of you I experience my own PMDD hell and a lot of “awareness fatigue”.

Last year I missed my birthday in it's entirety whilst on holiday in Ireland because I was unable to quell the intrusive thoughts, insufferable anxiety, and genuine despair enough to even get out of bed and meet my kids on the beach for some birthday cake. Instead, I had to use medication to essentially sedate myself while in a hotel room, in order to prevent having a panic attack every few hours.

This year, I will again be away with my family. There's no getting around or away from it. My birthday is four days after my daughter’s and every year during your month, we take her away for some of the Easter holidays to celebrate. And usually I wouldn't even want to find a way around or out of it, but I'm due to ovulate in a few days and so, will be welcoming back PMDD with utter disdain.

Every year, I beg the universe to let me have a cycle at the opposite end of the month, but of course, it never works out quite like that.

It's not just PMDD I have to deal with though. The stress of shopping for presents and organising fun things for my daughter's day, in between migraine attacks and crying spells, functional seizures and intolerable fatigue—never gets easier. No matter how much I plan in advance to alleviate some of the stress, I cannot plan for the unpredictability of my health, and I certainly can't plan to be absent from my own child on what is the biggest day of the year for her.

You also come with the promise of longer days, and brighter light—as much as I love sun, it's a migraine waiting to happen—and when my own inner light is dimmed and my sparkle non existent, I can't enjoy the sunsets and the greener grass. I want to. I try to get outside more, but sometimes only a dark room will suffice and that, April, is fucking soul destroying. I'm always trying, and still so rarely—let’s be real I mean never—thriving!

Then comes the Easter egg hunts and school fetes, assemblies in churches and parents’ evenings for two. You signify a new financial year bringing with you, council tax bills, benefit cuts and rent increases. Followed by: endless lost hours. All spent trying to get our children to adjust their circadian rhythm to more daylight at bedtime.

I used to say I loved you, because you brought my birthday. Though, the truth is I said a lot of things before I got sick, April. I also said a lot of things that in retrospect weren't really ever true. As a rejection sensitive ADHD’er I always tried to make my birthday a week long affair. I tried to fit in everything possible and as much booze as I could drink, but even then I was always overstimulated—sometimes to the point of rage, often to the point of tears—and I always felt perpetually disappointed. I'd plan big events for your arrival and be devastated when people couldn't make it. I'd take it so personally it would eat me up inside, negating any initial joy I’d felt about the occasion, gone. Evaporated. All that was left were memories, and those memories were about how disappointed I’d been.

Then, a few years ago, after the birth of my children and my health really declined, I realised the only things that matter are whether or not I'm with the people I love most, doing the things I love the most. I still get hurt by rejection, but I can better understand now, April, that people have their own shit going on and they deserve grace. Lord knows I have enough of my own physical and emotional baggage preventing me from showing up. In fact I have so much you could fill a small city with it.

I’ve also learned that I genuinely prefer quiet connection over pubs and parties. So this year, April, I’ve put down the unrealistic expectations of perfection, a too insurmountable goal to meet. All I want is to be well enough to enjoy your milder temperatures, fuller trees and greener pastures.

I want to spend my birthday next to an Irish waterfall, sat on a picnic blanket reading a book. Or spending time with my family outdoors looking at beautiful views, and maybe a few of your sunsets—no showers please, April!!

I'd take up the offer of coffee in a park under a pretty tree, chatting with my closest friend, or a small group in the garden with snacks and a cocktail—over presents and chaotic bars, surrounded by twenty drunk acquaintances. I'd take that any month of the year, but especially during you.

You are my birthday month—and my daughter's obviously—and birthday's are supposed to be spent doing whatever makes one happy. I'm happiest when my nervous system is calm. I can't change the PMDD cycle, I can't stop the migraine attacks, nor the swelling that takes over my body. I can't even stop the restlessness of my brain, but I can choose acceptance. I can choose calm, and I can choose connection.

Anticipating your arrival, April.

Best regards,

Steph

Ps: as it's my birthday, if you would like, you can leave a one off secure donation on the button below. 👇🏼

To read some of my own personal stories about PMDD I include some links below.