In lieu of Monocycle this week...

I spent 136 minutes recording and re-recording content for my weekly podcast, Monocycle, in my kitchen this morning. None of it is usable. I was talking into my portable sound booth and at about every sixth word, I had to stop myself and start over because nothing I wanted to say was coming out how I intended it to. The circuits weren't coming together, none of my words were syncing, which was getting me so frustrated that at several points, I actually stopped to yell and kick my feet on the ground like a 7-year-old being denied dessert. I thought about bashing my head against a table hoping that it would make my brain work better, but the rational me — whatever inkling of her remained — didn't let the version of me possessed by demonic hormones inflict the physical abuse on my head.

My fertility specialist recently put me on birth control to trigger my period so that we can get this baby-making show on the road. And because of it, for the past ten days, I have been a fire breathing dragon. I am almost positive that once I am restored to human, I will have to undo all of the terrible work I put in during the course of these days, eradicate all of the bad judgement calls I made and apologize to at least 20 people who I genuinely care about for how I treated them. So I keep thinking: I'm experiencing an elongated bout of PMS.

But instead of it lasting three, maybe four days, it's been two weeks. That's enough time to turn my life upside down if I don't shut up and tie my hands behind my back soon. So I'm wondering: when I get irritable or sad or start to feel paranoid and I'm asked if it's because I'm getting my period, why do I get so upset? Why do I try to defend myself? It isbecause I'm getting my period!

Am I offended because it seems like my emotions are being discounted, or am I trying to safeguard these false, hormone-induced feelings as genuine? If that's the case, why the hell am I trying to do that? None of this is real. Reminding myself of that is the only thing that keeps me off the ledge.

But I'm still walking dangerously close. I want to shout that yes, I know I'm acting out and no, I don't want you to pay less attention to what I am saying or how I am feeling. I do, however, want you to take into consideration, the same way you would a person coming down with the flu, that I might be driving on a somewhat faulty cylinder.

Maybe what I need to do is turn this inward. I wouldn't expect myself to operate at full potential with a broken leg so do I really believe that I could make decisions as the best version of myself with a broken head? I recently read about a company based in the UK that is offering paid period leave for its female employees. When I read that I was confronted with simultaneous thoughts of relief: Finally! Someone gets it! But as a feminist, I was conflicted: does this kind of treatment help or hurt The Cause? Will it be blown out of proportion? Abused and ultimately eradicated? Will it bring up resentment among our male colleagues?

Across the genders, we should be treated as equals, yes, but do things get more complicated when we consider being treated equally? No two people are the same, experience is unique to the individual, so how can we expect to handle everyone with the same hand?

As women — emotional or not — we can't expect ourselves to operate as though we don't bleed consecutively for x-days and like it doesn't hurt (it feels like cats with long finger nails are having a bar fight inside your body), or that it doesn't affect our moods (imagine having to watch your favorite football team lose the Superbowl because someone slipped on nachos, now multiply that by 6). Doing that would be like sweeping a condition that, surprise!, doesn't go away, under the rug instead of dealing with it. So, really, why should we — why do we — expect our male peers, purported equals, not to acknowledge it? Why don't we acknowledge it?

Hey, Leandra. Hey, world: I'm really sad and kind of angry and don't feel particularly stable and — this just in! I'm bleeding too, so it's because of hormones.

That helped — I actually think I can get back to work now.

—by Leandra Medine

Collage by Emily Zirimis; background painting is Red Canna by Georgia O'Keeffe.