May is mental health awareness month and National Women’s Health Month.
As I said to Erica Limlinger
My first period divided my life into before and after. Before I started menstruating, I was a normal 14-year-old girl who skateboarded, swam, and hung out with my friends. Then my period came, and within a year I felt like my personality was split in half.
For two weeks every month, I experienced all the normal ups and downs of being a teenager. For the remaining two weeks, I cried hysterically in my room, crushed by the uncontrollable weight of my grief and anger. I didn’t feel like a human being, I couldn’t even remember what the ‘real me’ felt or thought. Honestly, I didn’t even know which side of me was the real me.
Later, when I understood that my condition was called premenstrual dysphoric disorder (PMDD) and met other women who had the same experience, I heard someone describe it as “being a werewolf.” It stuck with me. When I was 15, I truly believed I had turned into a monster.
Long before I learned about PMDD and knew the language for what I was experiencing, I was told that I had PMS, an underlying mental health disorder. I was diagnosed with depression, anxiety, bipolar disorder, and panic attacks one after another. These explanations explained some of my symptoms, but none of them fully explained what I was experiencing.
I regularly saw a therapist who wasn’t a good fit and a psychiatrist who prescribed me birth control pills. Neither helped. Now, on top of two weeks of PMDD symptoms, I’ve had anxiety and terrible headaches for a whole month. I felt powerless to question anything. I just followed it until the side effects became unbearable.
I refused birth control pills and was given antidepressants. That didn’t work either. At some point I stopped believing in anything. I thought this was me being an angry, reactive and demanding person.
I thought and desperately hoped I could get over it. I didn’t. In college, this pattern continued and got significantly worse. For several difficult weeks, I lay in bed, aching with depression, feeling as if my brain had been hijacked by strangers. The change was total. In that state, I couldn’t recall a time when I felt human.
I hid it as best as I could. I told people I was very sick. I canceled my plans, including celebrating my birthday. No one really understood, and I didn’t know how to explain it. Looking back, I was carrying the weight of trying to live a full life while hiding half of it.
2026
The mood became much darker. I started feeling suicidal. I once casually asked a friend, “How do you deal with suicidal thoughts due to PMS?” She looked at me in shock and said, “PMS does not cause suicidal thoughts.”
That moment stuck with me. I knew something wasn’t right.
I spent the next few years seeking help and finding limited relief. I did everything I could: therapy, medication, doctors. I survived until I decided to get a non-hormonal IUD. Because this contraceptive device doesn’t use hormones to prevent pregnancy, doctors were confident it would be safe from mood-altering side effects.
She was wrong. My mood plummeted and I felt suicidal again. I was embarrassed and immediately called the hospital to have it removed. I felt better after that, but I knew my PMDD was worse than ever.
At that point I had to go on short-term disability at work. During those two months, I devoted myself to getting answers and improving my condition. Alternative therapies, including ketamine therapy, were tried. There was temporary relief, but still no real answers.
Oddly enough, TikTok has finally pointed us in the right direction. By 2025, I had gone deeper into my research and a video explaining PMDD appeared in my TikTok algorithm. The missing pieces fell into place. I had never heard of PMDD and didn’t believe the “PMS is really bad” story for a long time. PMS symptoms did not apply to me. I didn’t feel the slightest irritability or physical discomfort. For several weeks, my ability to feel safe, relate, and function was completely impaired.
After choosing a name, I went to work. I documented everything: every diagnosis, every medication, every pattern I could trace. I organized all the notes I took about my mood, eating, and sleeping habits. Armed, I presented it all to my doctor, who ordered a blood panel. When the results came back normal, she essentially shrugged.
I then vetted specialists and sent my records to a clinic in Chicago. The doctor who showed up late and didn’t even open my file didn’t know much about PMDD. Surprised, I said outright, “This is a mood disorder mentioned in the medical literature, shouldn’t you know this?”
As a teenager, I would sneak out of the office and lose again. But at that point I didn’t want to take it anymore. I understood that if I didn’t fight for my life, no one else would.
The second gynecologist I met was also unfamiliar with PMDD. It’s finally the third time. Not only did she understand the condition, she listened to what I was experiencing, validated it, made a diagnosis, and guided me on the path to treatment.
When I finally got my answer, I cried. Partly out of relief and partly out of sadness for everything I had been through without understanding why. I mourned the relationships that didn’t survive, the opportunities I missed, and the years I spent questioning myself.
Today, I no longer feel the need to hide my PMDD or view it through the lens of shame. I have a treatment plan. I have the tools. And I finally understood what was happening in my body. PMDD remains widely misunderstood, even among medical professionals. But there are answers and ways to manage them. For the first time, I could actually see a future that felt whole.
Do you have a real woman, a real story of your own, that you’d like to share? please let us know.
Our Real Women, Real Stories captures the real experiences of real women. The views, opinions and experiences shared in these stories are not endorsed by HealthyWomen and do not necessarily reflect HealthyWomen’s official policy or position.
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