Embracing the Journey of Healing: My Struggle with PMDD

No one tells you that after you surrender, you open a whole new world of even more unhealed issues. After the moment of clarity, the purpose, and the divine knowing that you are here to heal and help others, comes the unraveling. It is loud, brutal, and right in your face!

It’s as if my soul had finally whispered, “This is who you really are.” But my body, my nervous system, and my mind were still stuck in the trenches of trauma, hormones, and a lifetime of being in survival mode. Even though I had found this deeper sense of purpose, I couldn’t stop the storm that came next.

When PMDD Took the Wheel

At first, I thought I was just tired, hormonal, and overwhelmed. But then I started to notice a pattern—like clockwork—every month. The mood swings, the intrusive thoughts, the unbearable irritability, the shame, and the hopelessness. It felt like being hijacked by a version of me I didn’t recognize.

Thanks to putting down the booze, I was finally able to track my cycle, and that’s when it hit me. These crashes weren’t random; they were cyclical. Every month, about 10-14 days before my period, the darkness would descend. When it lifted, I felt like I had just survived a war I couldn’t remember signing up for. I now know it was PMDD, but from about age 15 to 38, all I knew was that I felt like a monster—and a failure.

Misdiagnosis & Overmedication

Desperate for relief, I did what I was taught to do: I went to the doctor. I told them I couldn’t handle this anymore. I didn’t feel like myself. I had a child to raise and another (adult) child who still needed me, and they both needed the stable me. I needed the stable me.

Instead of support, I received prescriptions, diagnoses, more therapy, more labs, and more pills. At one point, I was on six different psychiatric medications. But nothing was getting better. In fact, I was losing pieces of myself—my sparkle, my clarity, my connection to God, and my friends. All gone.

When I Almost Didn’t Make It

Eventually, it got so dark that I didn’t trust myself to be alone. Not because I was scared of the world, but because I was scared of my own thoughts. During one of those brutal luteal phases—the part of my cycle that hijacked my brain—I had finally justified what I once thought I’d never do.

I had Clonidine in one hand and a goodbye letter in the other. I had written a note to my daughter and truly believed that my mom and my children would understand why I chose not to keep living like this. There had been no relief, no break, and no escape. I was tired of apologizing for my behavior only to have it happen all over again, month after month.

Fifty percent of my life was spent living in hell. The other fifty percent was spent hating myself for who I became during that hell. One night, Luke was spending the night at Grandma and Grandpa’s, and I had planned to fall asleep and never wake up again. I took a picture of my goodbye note and texted it to my daughter, along with a final reminder of how much I loved her.

But before I took the pills, my mom and son showed up, followed by police officers. They were there to take me to the hospital. I was humiliated and refused. But seeing my son—his face, his innocence, his love—cracked something open. I didn’t take the pills. I didn’t leave this world that night.

Instead, I wallowed in misery, white-knuckling it for the rest of that hellish cycle. My mom, my daughter, and my boyfriend had to babysit me until my period came because that was the only thing that would bring me back to myself. Like clockwork, as soon as it started, the relief came—instant, real, and cruel.

But this time, I didn’t wait for the shame to swallow me whole. My daughter convinced me to go to the hospital—and I listened. I checked myself into a psychiatric hospital. Wouldn’t you know it? The very next day, I started my period.

Shame, Silence, and the Ache to Feel “Normal”

No one knew what I was going through. On the outside, I was still smiling, still “strong,” and still surviving. But on the inside, I was drowning in shame, confusion, and a deep ache to just feel normal again. I didn’t recognize myself in the mirror or in my own mind.

I kept asking God, “If I’m meant to help others heal, then why do I feel so broken?”

The ECT Chapter

While I was still inpatient, a psychiatrist visited me and mentioned ECT treatments—Electroconvulsive Therapy. Now, I had a new diagnosis: treatment-resistant depression, along with OCD because the doctor was convinced that I was obsessed with my diagnosis of PMDD. I said, “F*ck yes. Put me under. Shock my brain. Do whatever you need to do—just give me some relief.”

The first treatment happened while I was still in the hospital. It wasn’t bad. I was groggy afterward but hopeful. I was discharged the next day and scheduled for more treatments every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday for the next 4 to 6 weeks. But after the second treatment, something felt off. My arms started hurting—not sore, but hurting. Deep, sharp, radiating pain.

By the third treatment, they couldn’t even use my arm veins; they had to inject the anesthesia through my hand. After that one, the pain became unbearable. My daughter rushed me to the ER. It turned out I had multiple blood clots in my arms—likely caused by the new birth control patch I had been prescribed during this circus of meds and mismanagement. So, the ECT treatments stopped, the birth control stopped, and just like that, I was back at square one.

When the Shame Followed Me to Work

After I got out of the hospital, one of my psychiatric doctors had to write a letter to my employer stating I was “mentally fit” and able to fully perform all of my job duties. But that letter didn’t stop the judgment. I felt like a child being punished by the principal for not having my mental health under control. It was humiliating and dehumanizing. Walking into that building every day, knowing people were whispering or watching, was pure torture.

My ego-self was grateful I still had a job. But my soul was screaming, “You deserve better than this.” Looking back now, I wish I would’ve told them to kiss my ass and walked out right then and there. But at the time, I needed to prove to them—and maybe to myself—that I was not my PMDD. So I stayed.

Here’s the kicker: While I was still on probation at work—not fully trusted to handle my normal caseload—I was somehow trusted to foster a high-needs 10-year-old girl. Of course, my people-pleasing, overcompensating side said yes. There was so much that came along with this sweet child. Yet, about two weeks after welcoming her into my home, my employer fired me. The reason? They said I was "unable to balance work and life."

But here’s what I believe to be the truth: I had been a whistleblower. I had called them out—both as a foster parent and as an employee—for their lack of support, their cold professionalism, and their unethical behavior. My boss always used to say, “Don’t talk shit about my agency.” Others had been fired for the same reason. It was an emotionally toxic, hypocritical place—and I couldn’t fully see it for what it was until I was finally out.

And here’s the wildest part of all: I’m grateful. Grateful for the job loss, the PMDD, the hospitalization, the breakdowns, the grief, the drinking problem, and the sobriety. All of it. Because that was the final nudge from the universe. The push I needed to stop living for other people’s expectations and start living for truth.

This was the catalyst that launched me into the work I do now. Honestly? I don’t even call it work anymore. It’s a lifestyle. It’s who I am. Helping people heal. Guiding others through the darkness I once thought I’d never escape. Bringing light into the lives of people who feel like they’ve lost their way.

Every single piece of my story—the hard, the raw, the unexplainable—was absolutely necessary for me to finally see the bigger picture. And now that I see it? I won’t ever unsee it again.

The Path Forward

As I continue on this journey, I want to share some insights that have helped me along the way. Healing is not linear. It’s a winding road filled with ups and downs. Embrace the journey. Allow yourself to feel every emotion, even the painful ones. They are part of your story.

Finding Support

Connecting with others who understand your struggles can be incredibly healing. Whether it’s through support groups, therapy, or online communities, sharing your experience can lighten the load. You are not alone in this fight.

Practicing Self-Care

Make self-care a priority. Engage in activities that bring you joy and peace. Whether it’s reading, meditating, or spending time in nature, find what nourishes your soul. Remember, you deserve to take care of yourself.

Seeking Professional Help

Don’t hesitate to reach out for professional help. Whether it’s therapy, medication, or alternative treatments, finding the right support can make a world of difference. Your mental health is important, and you deserve to feel better.

Embracing Your Story

Finally, embrace your story. Every struggle, every triumph has shaped you into who you are today. Use your experiences to inspire others. Your journey can be a beacon of hope for those still searching for their way.

With love and gratitude,

Michele

🖊️ Author’s Note:

If this chapter of my story speaks to you—if you’ve ever felt buried under shame, misdiagnosed, or silenced by your own pain—I want you to know something: You are not alone. And you are not broken. Your symptoms might just be signals. Your breakdown might just be the beginning of your becoming.

www.iapmd.org is a great resource if you suspect you or someone you know has PMDD.

💛 If you or someone you love is struggling with suicidal thoughts or a mental health crisis, please know that help is available. You can call or text 988 to reach the Suicide & Crisis Lifeline—available 24/7, free, and confidential.