Hello Wall - Hormonal Heart Poetry

  Intro -  This is all my rushed notes , things to do and check.  Not Fact , contact the relevant person this is my nutshell the things I took away from listening. Diary Notes After the First UK PMDD Summit The first UK PMDD Summit was one of the most validating things I’ve ever listened to. It was organised by the PMDD Project on Instagram, and if you don’t follow them, you should — their work feels like oxygen in a world where women’s hormonal health is still treated as background noise. This is a diary entry rather than a finished blog post. I’ll add the full details once I’ve confirmed the names and studies. The Canadian Specialist One of the speakers was an older Canadian specialist whose name I still need to track down. She discussed HIGH OESTROGEN breast‑tenderness research from around 1980 — a study of roughly 66 women looking at cyclical breast pain, temperature changes, weight shifts, and hormonal patterns. Her talk hit me hard because I’ve lived with mastalgi...

  Anger. Boundary. Delete. Anger. Boundary. Delete. There’s a part of me that acts fast — too fast — at the detriment of myself. When a boundary snaps, I don’t pause or weigh the cost. I delete, cut, burn, erase. A switch flips, and I act. Anger. Boundary. Delete. It’s not dramatic; it’s neurological — AuDHD impulsivity, hormonal volatility, the sharpness that rises before thought can catch it. My hands move before my mind does. My mind moves before my fear does. Anger. Boundary. Delete. This is the pattern, the reflex, the truth. Fast, too fast, always fast. The instinct that protects and destroys in the same breath. The part of me that spills out and refuses to go back in.

True Story Anger. Boundary. Delete - Feelings There’s a part of me that acts fast — too fast — at the detriment of myself. When a boundary snaps, I don’t pause or weigh the cost. I delete, cut, burn, erase. It’s not dramatic; it’s neurological. AuDHD impulsivity mixed with hormonal volatility. A switch flips, and I act.

   — “To All My Friends Who Went Before” To all my friends who went before, the ones I carried as far as I could, the ones I left without a proper goodbye because goodbye was always just too hard for me. Hello was easy. Hello was my language. Goodbye was the part I never learned. It hurt to much. Remember when — a patchwork of people who have shaped me, stitched from smiles, my sometimes sharp tongue, laughs, time, kindness, passing through, carrying as many as I could, until they began to drop and this whirlwind stepped forward taking whoever she could mange to hold. As I moved through turbulent times,  trauma has been a huge part of my life.  Acquaintances and people who didn’t really know me felt good to be around for a moment — a kind of fleeting ease.  But only my circle moved with me, growing as I did. I don’t always remember names, (I ALWAYS NEED TIME TO ROLL THROUGH  MY ROLODEX BRAIN) but I never forget faces or kind actio...

  The Weight in the Middle A Narrative Essay Sometimes I describe myself as a tennis ball — bouncing between people, roles, needs, crises — but that was always the soft version of the truth. A metaphor that made the chaos sound almost playful. This one is better. Truer. Heavier. It’s the weight. The weight on my shoulders. The weight I carry. The weight I’ve always carried. The weight of everyone else. And the weight of me. My whole adult life, I’ve been sitting on a scale — the old‑fashioned kind, the ones they used to have in sweet shops. A scale with two pans that tip depending on where the weight falls. A scale that looks balanced from a distance but never truly is. On one side: my husband. On the other side: my children. As time went on, the “children” side grew heavier — partners, grandchildren, the dog, more needs, more life, more emotional gravity. That side became a whole ecosystem, a living, breathing constellation of people who needed me, called for me, leaned on me. A w...

 Date 06/26 The Weight in the Middle – Feelings Sometimes I describe myself as a tennis ball — bouncing between people, roles, needs, crises — but this metaphor is better. Truer. Heavier. It’s the weight. The weight on my shoulders. The weight I carry. The weight I’ve always carried. The weight of everyone else. And the weight of me. My whole adult life, I’ve been sitting on a scale — the old‑fashioned kind, the ones they used to have in sweet shops. A scale with two pans that tip depending on where the weight falls. On one side: my husband. On the other side: my children. As time went on, the “children” side grew heavier — partners, grandchildren, the dogs, more needs, more life, more emotional gravity. That side became a whole ecosystem. My husband’s side stayed the same shape but filled itself with his world: the high‑powered job, the hobbies that were never small — the rock star era, the studio engineer, the Scalextric - full loft cover , then double garage scale era, the swimm...

Intro: Today’s post is all about the difference between how we look on the outside and what’s going on inside. The piece is short, but it’s a glimpse into how even on a “good outfit” day, the inside story can be something completely different. Reel - Gold Bandanna  Inside vs Outside I think I look really good on the outside today. But if you didn’t know me, and I didn’t do this journey and say how I feel, you’d never guess that on the inside I feel absolutely awful. I have clarity now  which is new — I can now step outside myself and look back and see how these waves roll, how they affect me, how moving forward they will always affect me. But when you’re actually in it, when you have to force yourself to do what you do, it’s hard. My eyes show how I feel .

Loathe -  (irony that the dictionary definition refers to house work) aka the female load. /ləʊð/ To loathe (pronounced /loʊð/) is a verb that means to feel an intense aversion, disgust, or hatred for someone or something . It goes far beyond simply disliking a person or object, often triggering a powerful, shuddering feeling of repugnance. [ 1 , 2 , 3 ] Examples in a Sentence "From an early age, the brothers loathed each other." "I completely loathe doing housework ." [ 1 ] Synonyms Detest Abhor Abominate Despise

What Support Really Looks Like for AuDHD Women in Menopause -  Understand that  “I need space”  is not rejection  — it’s regulation  Quiet Thoughts — The Regulation I Didn’t Know I Had For years, life was one week on and one week off. My other half worked away, and I didn’t have the language then, but now I can see it clearly: that was my regulation time. A rhythm. A pattern. A built‑in reset I never questioned because it simply worked. The quiet was part of my nervous system. The space was part of my balance. The routine was the thing that held me together. I’d spend those off‑weeks in my own head — quiet thoughts, alone hours , battery reset, the kind of stillness that lets an AuDHD brain settle instead of scatter. Then 2020 happened. Everything collapsed into one space, one timeline, one constant presence. I couldn’t understand why it felt so hard, why I was unravelling, why my coping vanished overnight. I didn’t know I was stepping straight into perimenopaus...

What is the best way to treat a women who is Audhd, menopausal and progesterone intolerant. random question, I asked copilot – it's answer made me cry. 1. Respect her sensory reality AuDHD + menopause = sensory overwhelm on steroids. Heat intolerance, noise sensitivity, fabric irritation, sudden discomfort — all amplified. General supportive approaches people often use: Keep environments predictable and calm when possible Reduce sensory load (noise, bright lights, chaotic spaces) Let her choose clothing, temperature, and physical comfort without judgement Understand that “I need space” is not rejection — it’s regulation 2. Honour her hormonal instability Menopause can cause hour‑to‑hour shifts. AuDHD makes those shifts sharper. Progesterone intolerance makes them dangerous and unmanageable . General supportive approaches: Don’t minimise her symptoms Don’t say “everyone gets menopause” Understand that her reactions are physiological, not personality Offer steadiness when her body ...

  The Modern Uniform: Vest + Real‑Denim Shorts Labels: Personal Style • Wardrobe Rituals • Slow Fashion • ND Living • Everyday Uniforms What’s your go‑to garment of choice — and why? For me, the answer has never changed. It’s always been the same: a simple racer vest and a pair of real‑denim shorts I’ve cut myself. My forever‑uniform. My tradition. My constant. This isn’t fashion. It isn’t a trend. It’s a ritual — one I’ve carried from pre‑teen years into adulthood, through motherhood, through every version of myself. It’s the outfit I reach for whether I’m running on empty or fully charged, accessorized or basic. It’s the thing that feels like me even when I don’t feel like myself. The Ritual: Why I Cut My Own Shorts I’ve never been a premade‑shorts person. My denim has always been 100% real, 0% stretch, cut by my own hands. It started young: charity‑shop jeans, scissors, instinct. Every summer, every year, every era of me. I’d find the perfect length by feel, not measurement. I’m...

Menopause, Heatwaves & Veoza: What’s Actually Happening Inside My Body Here’s the truth nobody tells you: in menopause, you cannot maintain your core temperature the way you used to. Your brain’s thermostat — the hypothalamus — becomes miswired because of the drop in oestrogen. Your hormones are dysregulated. Your internal signals are confused. Everything that used to be automatic becomes unreliable. So when a heatwave hits, menopausal women feel it as intensely as tiny babies and very elderly people — because all three groups struggle to regulate temperature. We are right up there with the most vulnerable. I take Veoza for my hot flushes. Before it, I couldn’t drink a warm drink or eat hot food for years. My body would go into instant overheating — a full internal alarm. So here’s what I needed to know this week: Does Veoza still work in 40‑degree heat? And the answer is: yes — but the heat still overwhelms the body. Veoza blocks the misfiring brain pathway that causes hot flushes...

  The Shark and the Blue Whale It’s the great white shark that has circled Maverick George. From amniotic fluid, to the first breath that nearly drowned him. From lungs collapsing and being filled with nitrous oxide, to lungs littered with cysts — barnacles clinging to the shore‑rocks of his ribs. To water he couldn’t drink without slowly drowning. Aspiration — a word I never knew before I feared it. From the fluid thickener that saved him but also trapped him, to the bowel impaction nobody saw coming, the silent bite beneath the surface, to the water they poured into him with medication that bypassed the bowel and came straight back up — dangerously — because he was level‑three thickener only. A boy who could only have thickened fluids — and couldn’t have water — was pumped full of water. And the shark was there for all of it — every crisis, every edge, every near‑miss. But yesterday, for the first time, the shark wasn’t there. Their big blue pool. I was in the water, steady and w...

  Camping With My Brilliant Resilient Girl I’ve just been camping with my strong, amazing, resilient, brilliant daughter. (Huge tent we put up between us - kids dog and a Bestie, camping magic) My daughter who now has an autoimmune condition because of her PMDD treatment. My daughter who has PMDD because NHS doctors didn’t listen, didn’t follow up after chemical menopause, didn’t take her seriously. My daughter who lost half her life to PMDD — sixteen years of it — only to then be pushed into a lifelong thyroid condition on top. And yet there she was, camping, taking me with her, laughing, living, carrying on with that stubborn spark she’s always had, even while she’s completely exhausted from fighting her insides and her outside. While we were away, we kept seeing these really elderly women — the kind who shuffle along with their families, wrapped in blankets, being gently guided. Or in this lady’s case: a proper old bird, nails painted, dapper outfit, bold jewels, a teenager on ...

  PUNCHLINE / HOOK I didn’t run metaphorically — I ran. Down the corridor, hurt, terrified, and already learning that a uniform can hurt you more than the pain you came in with. Mastalgia — Trauma Memoir Shard I was 25 when I first went to the RBH, with a breast Lump. Dr Courtaney — same name as my son, so I stupidly thought he’d be kind. Magical thinking. He wasn’t. Not necessarily his fault but lack of knowledge of hormone education, also not to mention UN-diagnosed learning difficulties - trust in a uniform. I went in with a lump and pain. They stuck a needle in. (lumpectomy) No warning. No real explanation. (and if there was i would have been able to take it onboard) No pain relief. JUST CONFUSION Just a needle straight into a hormonal lump — like someone pushing a knife into a delicate breast. I froze. ND freeze. Couldn’t speak. Couldn’t process. I ran. Literally ran out of the room, down the corridor, out of the building. I actually collided with a man I knew — he pani...

  Steamy Windows and an AI With Ideas Above Its Station All I wanted was a simple image: me, I repeat me in a steamed up mirror , for a blog post about masking, exhaustion, and that blurry moment where you barely recognise yourself. Apparently, that was too much for the Robot aka my copilot assistant. I typed in my innocent little request — “me in a steamy mirror” — and the AI immediately acted like I’d invited it to a private audition for a perfume advert filmed by the male gaze. Suddenly it was sending warnings, blocking the request, and implying I was the problem. Excuse me? I’m a mother. I have a daughter. We’ve spent our whole lives..... not dodging (defending?) inappropriateness - the male gaze like it’s an Olympic sport. The last thing I need is a digital assistant deciding I’m trying to recreate a scene from a late night adult channel.  (you can tell my age, lets face it the internet is full) To make it worse, it tried to blame me — as if I’d typed som...