I know that soon it is time for the cocoon, an entrapment that determines what my body will do for me. My apartment is the perfect place for hibernation, ready for the changes that are about to take hold.

During these re-occurring nights, I stare at the ceiling. I measure every edge, appreciate the stillness of the curtains. The anticipation is a waiting room at the clinic, an understanding that although the needle will hurt, the prick will just have to happen.

But this is an extended, deep pinch that will last longer than the moment I hold my breath during the pierce. In fact, it will last about 3 and a half days.

And it arrives. The knock on the door is just a warning that it will come in, not a request for permission to enter. The door will open to this vicinity, it will step into the hallway, and demand that the power to reproduce comes with a sacrifice perfectly timed every month.

It will stand above my bed, as I lie there in the midst of hormonal chaos infiltrating my veins. The cocoon engulfs me and my insides ooze onto the carpet, another stain to add to the collection.

For 3 and a half days, I will sit there motionless in my bed sheets, wondering why I’m still here. For 3 and a half days, I will out pour my sorrows into pots in the kitchen. For 3 and a half days, I will wonder when I will become me again.

For 3 and a half days, Premenstrual Dysphoric Disorder will take over every part of my being, feeling more complicated than its pronunciation. It will make certain that my ability to wake up in the morning again is not done without being earned in agony.

I’ve gone through these motions, trapped in this suffocating silk since sex ed failed to mention there could be more than just cramps. Trapped in here, hopelessly attempting to convince my enclosure that I was better off as the infertile caterpillar anyway.