This is PMS, not BAD or TBI. Rarely are these shifts in mood so obviously predictable, like the grinding gears of clicking clockwork. I routinely, rapidly cycle through highs and lows, but rarely is it this specific brand of irritability and desolation. This is not the elated energy of hypomania nor the insecure musings from memory loss. The clipped quips and the stifled sniffles are simply, thankfully, the announcement of menses. Rarely are my moods so simple.

My conditions more often create strange combinations: Chirpy chatter about disease and death, creative endeavors from depression and despair, savage libido, anxious insomnia. Bits of one slide seamlessly into another. The T swaps with the P, and sometimes the B joins the D. I am never sure which will I meet in the morning. BBD? TAS? Or would it be TMI?

When I woke, sun had already filled the room. I shut my eyes against the light, knowing I wouldn’t need an alarm again until September. I had seen the clock. It was already 5 AM.

I needed to get to work.

The palette of emotions spread behind my closed lids. Absent were the scarlet irritation pinching my tongue and the amber anxiety that made my hands quaver. Was I depressed? No, the Prussian blue wasn’t there to weigh upon my heart. But at my throat was the smokey grey, that dreadful insecurity. The past few weeks weren’t gentle to my confidence. I’d stopped wondering what I was good at to question what I was good for. Just at that thought, tiny dots of blue sprouted in the grey, darkening the shade. Too much blue, I knew, would lead to a deathly black.

In the past, even just last year, I would have been overwhelmed by the colors, until I was lambasted with black and blue. I knew this grey now. A calm reasoned ivory would keep the color light, and a joyful lemon yellow should keep my day bright. Though competition was tough in the job market, I was still competitive. If looking for work became too stressful, I was to relax with friends over the weekend. I released a sigh as the grey faded to translucence. Finally, I could see my saffron orange shine through.

Every day is a different array of moods and colors, but I have long stopped sorting their origins and implications. Grey is normal. The colorful eruptions throughout my days are normal. This acceptance helps me focus, helps me keep the blacks and blues at bay.

All I need is assurance, the confidence that I will still be here tomorrow despite the flares of reds and fogs of grey. I’ve been menstruating for sixteen years and I am still here. I’ve been cycling through hypomania and depression week after week and I am still here.

My inner world is deeply unstable, but I am not. Behind all these moods, my orange is still here. I am still here. I am still here.

After weeks of fair weather, April arrived with snow sitting upon my windowsill. I watched large white flakes tumble past the glass planes to dust the grass plainly struggling across the lawn. Hours later, the snow would vanish, chased away by a cold shower. But grey skies and their heavy clouds would still linger. For New England, capricious weather is not unusual, but even I thought that a taste of winter after the tease of spring was at best a cruel joke.

Still, I walked into the city in suede heels and sequined skirt. No amount of snow would deter me from my weekend. But the sky continued to drizzle and the temperature continued to sink. I wasn’t sure when I first felt the cold bite at my thighs or when I noticed my breath expel in compact puffs of fog. Winter creeped under my clothes. Cold kissed my fingers, my nose, my nipples, my toes. His bed couldn’t keep me warm. Their rowdy company still left me chilled. Winter had nestled deep beneath my skin once more.

Monday was miserable. It was an effort to leave bed. Tuesday was one prolonged anxious afternoon as I asked for letters of recommendation. Wednesday morning, I saw blue skies again, but I still worried about the clouds on the horizon. I hadn’t seen the greys of depression in months. Even these past few weeks, I had been energetic, productive, active. The exhaustion was sudden. The anxiety was frightening. Were these warnings for my shifting moods? Or were these normal responses from one too many weekends out on the town?

Sam told me without telling me that I should take my medication. I hadn’t touched the pills in months. Busy with work and problems with insurance, I had let this health regimen lapse. But I reopened the bottle this morning. I couldn’t ignore his advice, the same that I had given so many times to so many others. My moods were unexpected but predictable. Further neglect could mean another, more serious trip to the hospital.

I swallowed the little white pills easily. I didn’t need water anymore. Outside my window, the sky was still a beautiful bright blue. Inside, silently, I prayed.

Stay, spring. Please stay.