Me, PMDD, and My Male Doctor: A Love Story Gone Wrong

 If you’ve never cried because your sandwich fell apart while simultaneously plotting the downfall of capitalism, congratulations — you probably don’t have PMDD.

I do.

And the thing about PMDD is, it’s like PMS but with more drama, bigger explosions, and the kind of mood swings that could qualify me for a NASA centrifuge test. It shows up monthly, ruins my life like clockwork, then vanishes just in time for everyone around me to pretend it wasn’t that bad.

So, I did the sensible thing: I saw my doctor.

My doctor, by the way, is a man. Not that this is always a bad thing, but let’s just say he looked at me the way I look at Ikea instructions: vaguely concerned, a little sweaty, and absolutely lost. His entire medical wisdom on periods began and ended with:

“I can offer you the birth control pill…”

As if that is the magical cure-all for hormonal mayhem, rage spirals, and sobbing in my car because someone took too long at a stop sign.

I asked about actual treatment options. Research. Anything. He blinked twice, said, “We could refer you to a gynecologist,” like he was offering me a spa package, and then booked me for October 2023.

Now, somewhere along the way, someone decided I also needed an internal ultrasound. For the uninitiated, this involves a medical professional casually handing you a device that looks like it was designed by a retired lightsaber engineer and saying, “We’re just going to take a quick look inside.”

Oh, sure. Just a quick look. Because nothing says ‘routine medical care’ like lying on a paper-covered table while someone steers the experienced-level dildo wand around like they’re playing Pelvic Mario Kart.

Me, staring at the ceiling tiles, wondering if anyone has ever died of sheer awkwardness: This is fine. Totally fine. Love this for me.

Fast forward to last week — September 2025 — when the hospital finally calls to ask if the gynecologist appointment is still needed.

Oh no, you’re right. Silly me. I completely forgot that PMDD and PCOS just disappear if you ignore them long enough. My hormones simply packed their bags, left a note that said “Sorry for the drama,” and moved to Florida.

Spoiler: I said yes. The appointment is still needed. Shockingly, my uterus did not cure itself out of sheer optimism.

So here I am. Back where I started. Still crying over sandwiches. Still raging at capitalism. And apparently still waiting for modern medicine to catch up with… well, me.

But hey, maybe by the time my appointment finally happens, science will have invented a cure for PMDD. Or at least a doctor who doesn’t look at periods like they’re a plot twist in a horror film.


S&S

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