You knew there was something terribly wrong with members of your immediate family when you flew off the handle one day. Were you speaking Klingon? Why could they not understand you? Hmmmm, maybe they simply didn't speak whine, and you were fluent in it. But this is all really hindsight. Now you understand that you were always right and they…well, they couldn't care less one way or the other. Your lean toward things logical has made you a very unhappy 20-something year-old. You have the most asinine arguments with siblings and parents and, dammit all, no amount of logical screams and whines from your quarter seems to make a bit of difference. So, one day, you rent a U-Haul and remove yourself from the source (you think) of your angst. Your mother stood with her back to you as you tried to say good bye. She was crying. You left, nursing a pounding tension headache all the way to your new digs. You didn't fight with your family any more. Instead, you had…how to put it?…verbal skirmishes with your new cohabitants. (As an aside here: unless you have been legally remanded to some correction facility or mental hospital, don't do the group house thing. It never works. There is always one person who is regrettably rather low on the evolutionary totem pole. So, group-houses?- No.)

Over the next two years, you relocate three more times, each time to a place with less people than the last, until you end up on your own. Ahhhhh!! Clean place when you left? Clean when you come back. Light blinking on answering machine? Message for you! You can't argue with yourself…and lose. You can't get mad at yourself…and sulk for days on end. You can't refuse to clean the tub this week hoping that someone else would do it in your absence. In essence, you are on your own - blessedly, tranquilly, happily…alone. Your mother would often ask: You're not afraid to be alone? Nope. Never. You like your own company. Strange (for our community), but true enough for you.

But the thing about being alone is that you finally have no one but yourself to confront. There are no distractions pulling your attention away from that person inside your head, inside your heart, inside your soul. You begin to quantify the number of times you feel low, depressed. Your mood swings fall into a pattern. Some mornings, you simply can't get out of bed. Other days, you pull the blinds, draw the curtains and hibernate inside your apartment, zoning in on the TV, escaping into the horrifically sorry lives of the guests on the Jerry Springer Show. You avoid Dr. Phil on Oprah 'cause that man is so damn annoying. You nap intermittently and ignore the phone when it rings. When you try to explain to your mother what it feels like sometimes, she will say, quite seriously, "Depression? What is depression? simi, all you need is Sebel. And you can't help but wonder if she's right.

Then there are those times when you feel absolutely fantastic…at the top of the world with no "down" button in sight. You're light on your feet, quick to smile, everything is easy. The day flies by. Your job doesn't seem so bad anymore. You can hack it. In fact, you can hack anything. And you wish you could feel this right always. But you know, because you've noticed the pattern by now, that you'll crash again, like you're coming off an unnatural high.

You feel the irritability seep in first. You snap and bark at nothing. The slightest thing makes you livid. You gnash your teeth and wish the world away. Why is everyone so goddamn annoying? Why can't they fucking leave you the fuck alone!? The old lady in front of you at the check out line is counting out change and you have seriously unkind thoughts about wanting to drop-kick her ass out of your way, so you can get your shit scanned through and move on out of hell, get back home where you can escape the moronic world closing in on you. Some idiot cuts you off in traffic, you sit on your horn then flip him off - never mind the tales of road rage and getting shot in the head for not having your blinker on. Right then, you could take on that Cro-Magnon sitting behind his behemoth, elevated truck. You sure could use something to work off this roiling lava in your chest.

A couple of days of bursts of rage and all you want to do is bury your head under the innocuous comfort of your comforter, listen to the whirr of the A/C rushing out of the vent, and fall in and out of sleep, dreaming disturbing dreams, not wanting to eat, drink, or get up and perform the simple task of brushing your teeth, washing your face, taking a shower. It feels like forever, but in reality, this lasts only a couple of days. You come out of it like a bear coming out of hibernation, eager to return to life. Things are great. You don't feel high or low - just magnificently normal. You can smile again and not through your teeth. Your family is not irritating at all. In fact, they're downright loveable. Work is good. You wonder if you should call up a couple of friends…hang out.

And the whole time, at the back of your mind, you are wondering when it's going to start all over again.

You speak of this - hesitantly - to friends, usually, non-Ethiopian. You try to describe the terrible cycle and you think you may have come off looking like some psycho. Of course you're not…despite the frequent homicidal feelings…you are not!! But, Jesus, someone else must feel the way you do. They just won't talk about it - for fear of looking like a psycho, maybe. Or maybe, they really haven't clued into their emotional hell the way you have. Maybe they still live at home or, God forbid, in a group house somewhere, so they end up blaming their frequent bouts with rage and depression on external influences. But you're most definitely clued in. Of course you know that that idiot in the truck will always be a Cro-Magnon, but you probably would have resisted the urge to flip him off were you feeling a little less emotionally overwrought. Okay, okay…a lot less!

So, one day, during a routine visit with your gynecologist, you take in a deep breath and decide to mention it to her. You're thinking, you tell her hesitantly, that your emotional roller coaster may be tied in with your monthly cycle. What is it, she asks, that you experience? Well, you begin, ticking off one finger at a time as you list it out, fatigue, depression, hyperactivity, insomnia, antisocial sentiments, paranoia, anxiety, hopelessness, intense feelings of guilt over negligible things, rage, irritability, forgetfulness, clumsiness, disorientation, confusion, nausea, headaches and…um…sometimes…uh…a heightened sense of…er…. Sexual desires? She asks. Yeah, sure, why not. You'd have used the word, horniness, but sexual desire sounds way better.

Well, my goodness, she begins, and you're thinking: Here goes…what now? I've heard of women having SOME of those symptoms, but I think you have ALL of them! Relief. Of all things, you feel relief. You're not crazy? You're not experiencing a gradual mental breakdown!!? You want to throw yourself across the wide expanse of her expensive desk and hug her. You want to hang your head out her window and shout to all the passersby below: Hey, I'm normal!!

So, you want to know, is there a cure. A cure? Well…no. But help? Yes. Have you heard of PMDD? Your new heroine wants to know. No, you haven't. What is it? PMDD is Premenstrual Dysphoric Disorder. It's a more intense version of PMS. There, she said it, you have a disorder…and there is help for it. Um…you have a disorder. Okay, no biggie. Howard Hughes had one, too, but at least you don't have the need to wear a face mask and scrub your hands raw trying to get them clean. And you figure, Michael Jackson probably has a disorder of some sort, too, but you know yours ain't nothing like that. You just have mood swings, that's all. Severe mood swings…some homicidal thoughts…, but hey, you have yet to bleach your skin white or have your face sculpted to resemble Liz Taylor. So, really, you're way ahead in the disorder game.

So, now what?

Why don't you try this, Dr. Heroine says handing you a sample packet of little blue and pink pills. They're Sarafem, a form of Prozac (Okay!! It's Prozac with a new face!!) and it will help regulate your moods. God, you hope that's true. Hope it works, you tell her. Yeah. Could be the silver bullet that slays the PMS beast, she jokes. From her lips to God's ears!!

Technically speaking, you're not a pill-popper. You think Tylenol is too much medication. Usually you try to wish your headaches away rather than use a chemical aide for fear of eventual dependency problems. So, faced with a daily dosage of 20 milligrams of Sarafem, you decide to take it very seriously. You design a diary of sorts and begin to track your moods, what you eat, whether or not you exercised that day, and note down your cycle. In the beginning , it's hard for you to remember to take your silver bullet, so you track whether or not you've taken your meds. It's a comprehensive spreadsheet that's impresses even you. Eventually, you buy a little vitamin pill box and track your intake more carefully.

Gradually, you notice that your symptoms have all but dissipated. Your family is the first to notice how sweet you've become lately. Your paranoid mother wonders if this means that you're about to leave your earthly existence. You wonder if you should recommend your doctor to your mother. Eventually, you confess to the family that you're on medication. You explain your symptoms, you name the beast, and you tell them that you're taking Sarafem. First, everyone warns you about the dangers of using chemicals to alleviate anything. Your one brother, who is a candidate for the Howard Hughes League of the Germ-wary, tries to instill in you the fear of all things…of all things…well, all things. But you say, quite diffidently, I don't care if I die of cancer at this point. I just wanna be happy. You hope that that expresses the severity of your situation. Eventually, they come around. How could they not? The new you is just so damned happy, so very friendly…so affectionate and loving. One day, your brother picks up your bottle of Sarafem and kisses it soundly. You laugh together. Life is pleasant when viewed through the paisley-pink lenses of dressed-up Prozac.

But being you, you wait for the other shoe to drop. Is this emotional equilibrium psychosomatic? Sort of like the slight changes you experienced when you were popping St. John's Worts? Or is it for real? And by the way, it's not really gonna cause cancer, is it? Am I experiencing headaches more frequently? Was my curious lack of emotions on 9/11 normal? It's been nearly a year. Your prescription is about to run out, so you decide not to renew it, to see if life without Sarafem is going to be okay or revert back to hell.

You've been off your meds for a few weeks now, and you do notice that you cry at sappy cheese commercials with puppy dogs and chubby babies in them, and your housemate (don't ask!) is not so adorably idiosyncratic any more and you are experiencing slight insomnia now and again. The other day, during a road rage episode with a cab driver, you flipped him off…and felt good about it. You can feel yourself striving to maintain emotional balance, but now it's more of an effort. Your sleep pattern is less regular and you have difficulty getting up and out of bed every morning. Still, you're willing to wait it out, to see if things will level out or if you'll begin to spiral down into hell again. But this time, the difference is you know you can get help. So, the next time you find yourself fighting the urge to drop-kick an arthritic old lady paying for her groceries with a purse full of coupons, you know you're only 20 milligrams of Sarafem away from bliss and sanity.

Six months after your Sarafem hiatus, you dial up Dr. Heroine again and request a refill on your prescription for pink and blue bullets.

[All humor aside, PMDD is a serious problem for many women and there is more than one method of dealing with the symptoms. For more information, go to http://www.drdonnica.com/display.asp?article=1086, or go to www.Google.com and key in PMDD in the search bar. Be sure to address the issue with your doctor.]