Dear Molly, my strong, funny, tenacious, independent, courageous daughter.
So if I got paid for every time someone told me my daughter looks fabulous,
I’d be a millionaire.
A millionaire for every doctor who ignored you,
for every professional who let you slip through the cracks,
for every moment when the full information,
the full picture,
the full respect
wasn’t given.
Just because you can’t see it
doesn’t mean it isn’t there.
Today is for you, Molly.
And for the future generations of our family —
because this is genetic,
because this is inherited,
because someone needs to notice
and someone needs to ask the right questions.
I have become, by necessity,
a hormonal expert.
A mother who had to learn what the system refused to teach.
And through it all, your husband —
your rock —
has moved mountains beside you,
carrying what others refused to see,
loving you through every unseen storm.
I wish PMDD looked like your arm falling off.
Because if people could see it,
they’d care.
Doctors would care.
But when they can’t see you,
they don’t see you.
Not our truth.
Why do we give emotion and compassion
to everything we can see?
But brush under the carpet
the things we can’t.
Tori did my sleeve ten years ago — Tori Treasure.
And today, she added the word PMDD to my body.
A decade between needles,
a decade between who I was then
and who I am now.
My sleeve gets attention every day.
So hopefully now, so will PMDD.
If the road has already been paved with loss,
I’ll walk it loudly.
I’ll become a human billboard
for disease, illness, disability,
for the sixteen years my daughter has suffered
because of a lack of education,
a lack of care,
a lack of listening.
And this is also
a quiet, unwavering
fuck you
to everyone who hurt her.
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