I adore my hormones.
That is, I adore the bio-identical hormones that I purchase and apply to my skin and not the poor levels of hormones that my ovaries produce on their own. Lack of hormonal support is what had me feeling so down this last winter.
According to the check off your symptoms tests online I'm estrogen dominant and progesterone deficient. I take this self diagnosis with a grain of salt because the website that supplied the questionnaire wanted me to confirm this with a saliva test they would be happy to sell me for $265. For best results you may want to test every three months. It's a damned shame that this company isn't paying ME to spit all into their test tubes. I'm excellent at spitting.
Besides, I don't need no steenkeeng tests. All I need to know is that when I used 20 to 30mg of progesterone I don't feel like I'm being sucked into a spiralling black hole or feel like I want to deep fry live kittens or feel consumed by a special brand of happy go lucky anxiety. Withing ten minutes of application I'm calm and still able to operate heavy machinery.
It's also been good for thickening the hair on my head and thinning the whiskers on my chin. And for pimples too...and cramping...and gas...and water retention. And gas. Did I mention the gas?
According to the directions on my bottle of progesterone I'm supposed to leave of dosing for a few days in my cycle so I can menstruate. Those few days started yesterday. They ended quite suddenly today. I broke down and applied my 30 to my shins in a moment of desperation.
I was going quite insane. As in, I have a new gallon of vegetable oil, two cats, and a big stock pot sort of insane. Still, that wasn't the point where I thought it would be a good idea to screw the directions on the packaging. I had my aha moment when I actually felt bad that Donald Trump couldn't convince Mitt Romney that Obama faked his birth certificate. Weepy even.
It was THAT bad.
There are many reasons to feel badly for Donald Trump. Merry go round marriages to increasingly younger and perkier women. His fluffy hairdo. Orangey fake-bake. He cuddled with Rudy Guiliani in drag. All of that deserves a melancholy moment or two. The birth certificate? What the hell?
Those birther movement conspiracy whack-a-doos do not deserve any of the tears I shed.
After all, they wouldn't take my burst of emotion as a call for hormonal help but a confirmation of how right they are and how screwed this country will be if we elect Obama again.
Wish I could give all of them some progesterone. It would be great for the economy.
Absent Minded Archives
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