Progesterone? Oh. Hell. No

Pittsburgh winters, in and of themselves, are a real jerk. Endless days of overcast clouds, cold winds that slap you in the face as you walk to work, and barely any snow to pretty things up are common ingredients for the months of November through March. Couple a string of grey days together, with a daily dose of progesterone, and I don’t know who to punch first, metaphorically speaking.

I’m the common combination of a sensitive person with a wall of stones up to protect my heart. I feel things deeply but don’t always want people to know it. A weird glance, a tinge of attitude on the phone, a person who’s in a rush and can’t wait an extra second to hold the door open for me as I clumsily carry four coffees? These experiences all make me question: “What the hell did I do to you?” Misplaced feelings of abandonment, anger, and anxiety? Oh, I am sure of it, but being overly empathetic can be a real bitch, sometimes. While I don’t recommend it in general, this combination of misplaced anger and empathy has led me here; it has made me a writer.

So, when starting a new round of meds for the (hopeful) transfer in February, I was uncharacteristically numb to it all. How could taking a bunch of hormones again, this time progesterone, affect my heart of thin steel? I was convinced that I wouldn’t even notice feeling any different. But, then the temperature dropped, the sun kept hiding behind dark clouds that looked like they were about to dump a bunch of cold rain on the city, and I fell into a puddle of emotions. The thing is, I really thought that I had my emotions under wrap. I acknowledged, to myself, that I was crying more when listening to the “Moth Radio Hour,” but I believed it was a negligible change in my public demeanor. I was wrong.

A couple Saturday nights ago, we walked into our friends’ home, and they immediately smelled that something was up. Do you know what I love? They both gently and supportively said: “You don’t seem like yourself today. Which, is totally fine, but if you want to talk about it, we’re here.” That was all I needed. My perspective changed and things clicked. “Shit, Stefanie,” I thought, “you’re a terrible actor. You don’t have anything under control.”

I think we all know that if I were ever dragged into a police station and put in that dark room with two-way mirrors, I would be so upset and anxious that I would probably take the blame for a crime I didn’t commit. I would fold. I can’t stand the pressure of an authority figure, standing over me, yelling as I drink terrible coffee. We know what would happen. I’d sing like a rat. (Is that even an expression?) I would say whatever the cop wanted me to say but would immediately regret it. With our friends though? It was completely different. I began to spit out that I was on hormones, feeling very dull and sad, and that I had absolutely no energy. My friend Abbie went to pick up dinner as Meghan showed me cartoons on Netflix that make her cry, in a good way. I left their home later feeling better, feeling grateful, and fell asleep as soon as we got home.

A few days later, on the way to work, there was a fresh dusting of snow, and it made the city look beautiful again. So beautiful, that even the Arby’s, early in the morning, looked warm and cozy. It’s funny how a new perspective can make you see your surroundings in a new way.