Letters from the Luteal Phase

Notes on how to love me when I’m hard to love.

It’s Easter Monday and I wake up soaking in sweat. My pyjama bottoms are twisted tight around my pelvis, squeezing the life out of what's inside. My hair has been trying to strangle me all night, and now it either sticks up or clings, matted, to my face. I resist the urge to look at my phone, or the mirror. The crack between the curtains spills sunlight into the room, and the moment I open my eyes fully, I’m wide awake.

Dust particles drift in the beam of light. A free day, for us, to do what we want. My cramping muscles crave movement. The air holds a feeling of promise. But on Cycle Day 24, my skin doesn’t fit properly, and my skeleton itches to break free.

Artwork by Aleksandra Waliszewska

You lie in slumber, peaceful beneath your thick eyelashes, fabric headphones still clamped to your head. They have been helping you sleep. It’s gone ten; you must have needed the extra hours. Against my better judgement, I reach for my phone.

Group chats are full of photos of breakfast spreads, fresh croissants, chocolate eggs and glasses of orange juice. I mentally scan the contents of our cupboards: we’re out of bread. I flick onto Instagram. My feed is filled with immaculately laid tables and glossy pastries. The local baker (shout-out to Mother in Hebden Bridge) is open for the holiday, proudly posting their hot cross buns. Everyone is having Easter fun, and I’m still in bed.

You wake, and I’m a little too eager suggesting a pastry run. Your face shifts from sleepiness to a frown.

‘Ok, you go.’

‘How about you go, and I clean the kitchen?’

We’d left yesterday’s leftovers scattered across the surfaces after a few too many drinks.

‘Ok, I’ll take the dog,’ you sigh, heading for the bathroom.

I drag my aching body down the stairs and start stuffing the dishwasher. Yesterday’s roast chicken carcass sits in a puddle of congealed fat, the worktop is streaked with dried Yorkshire pudding batter.

Upstairs, hurried footsteps thud across the floorboards, and something clatters over. I clear the plates, cramming scraps into an already overflowing bin bag.

You dash into the kitchen, make a quick coffee to go, then rush back to the bedroom. Your footsteps pound the wooden stairs, doors slam and rattle. Then you come hurtling back down, two steps at a time. You’re already wearing sunglasses, coffee clutched in one hand, coaxing the dog into her collar with the other.

‘Could I please have a ham croissant? And a cinnamon roll?’

‘Oh. Ok.’

I know I’m fragile this week, more sensitive than usual, but you seem to bristle at my request. Am I being difficult? I scrub stubborn potato crusts from the baking tray, a tight ball forming in my chest. I must tread carefully.

‘Have you seen my headphones?’ you call, rummaging through a cluttered pile on the kitchen table. ‘The Sony ones?’ Louder now.

It takes a second for my brain to catch up. You’re only walking down the road, yet here you are dithering over headphones and takeaway coffee like you’re embarking on some epic journey.

‘I can see you rolling your eyes, you know.’

‘From the back of my head?’ I turn on my heels, shooting daggers.

‘Don’t roll your eyes at me after making all these requests.’ You let out a forced, scolding laugh.

‘I didn’t roll my eyes,’ I shout – I did. ‘And why do you need headphones for a five-minute walk? They’re going to sell out if you don’t leave now.’

‘I thought we were going running. Why do you want pastries now anyway?’

‘Because it’s Easter and I thought it would be nice.’

I chuck a plate into the filthy dishwater. We can never seem to have nice weekends.

You leave without saying goodbye.

After that, the day went from bad to worse. A walk in the sunshine made me believe we had turned things around, only for us to start a new argument about home improvements. I am always poo-pooing your proposals. You are always telling me off. I have a sharp tongue, and I often bring up things said in confidence, throwing them back at you. You slam the doors.

Either way, it ends with me crying, and a quiet yet oppressive energy hanging around you, which I call the ‘silent treatment’. You insist it is not that, that you are just sad and do not know what to say. But sitting there in silence still feels like a punishment. So when you head off to town and I stay at home, in pieces, I write you a letter. Really, it is a letter for me (I never give it to you), to make sense of my life, and for anyone else who might find it useful.

To my love,

You have probably been aware of past girlfriends and perhaps your mother struggling every month: a few days of grumpiness, low energy, and cramps before their period. I understand it may have felt like none of your business, and something you couldn’t fix. Maybe it wasn’t until you met me, the love of your life, that these struggles became a problem for you too. I know it’s difficult to be around me during those days, but trust me, it’s difficult for me too. For others, pre-menstrual tension might last a few days. For me, a person with PMDD, it can drag on for two weeks, bringing intrusive thoughts, bursts of anger, heightened anxiety, and physical discomfort.

Though this issue is alien to you and feels unsolvable, a bit of understanding would help me, and our relationship, a great deal.

You see, we can divide menstrual cycles (usually 28 days) into segments. Some people like to describe them as seasons, each marked by a different mood: winter, or menstruation, a time of stillness; spring, the follicular phase, when energy returns; summer, around ovulation, when I feel alive but slightly manic; and autumn, the luteal phase, when the storm clouds gather.

Let's start with Cycle Day 1, the first day of my period. Though I’m physically a wreck, you may have noticed that my mood lifts. New cycle, new girlfriend! My period will last a day or three, with the first day being cripplingly heavy, then it eases off. During these days, we can laugh and joke together, though preferably at home. I would love it if you suggested a film to watch. Bonus points for bringing me chocolate.

The first two weeks of my cycle (including my period) are called the follicular phase, during which my ovaries prepare a new egg for ovulation at the midway point of the cycle. During this time, I am the real me: energetic, sassy, and on top of things. I’m sure you have noticed how my eyes sparkle when I look at you. I can't get enough of you, my dearest, sometimes teasing you when you least expect it.

Please remember her when the more challenging times come around. Each month, I tell myself that this month will be different, that I have somehow healed. For a moment, you believe that too, and we live in peace, like we're meant to. But then, during the luteal phase, the second half of my cycle, she begins to claw her way back. The girl you know and love fades, and something darker takes hold, as if some strange, snarling thing has forced its way into my skin.

But first things first, around Cycle Day 14, it is ovulation time. Sometimes this causes me discomfort, with strange twinges in my pelvis. Did you know that one month the right ovary releases an egg, then the next, it’s the left’s turn? I think I have one evil ovary, as I seem to get one really bad month, then the next is more manageable. The cycle repeats. During ovulation, I tend to run around like a headless chicken, making too many plans, reorganising the house, designing my future, often wanting to throw everything away and start again.

Don’t forget that during this time, and most of all, I want you. And I want things to be better for us. Why not take me on a night out during this time? You know how much I love dressing up for date night.

Then comes the part I dread: the luteal phase, or autumn, dark and stormy. My body prepares to shed the unfertilised egg and the womb lining I carefully grew for the maybe-baby. It’s not just a physical shift; it’s like someone pulls the rug out from under me. I’m so sorry, but during this time, I get snappy and quick-tempered. It isn’t because I’ve stopped loving you. It’s because my hormone fluctuations make me sick.

When oestrogen peaks, I feel sparkly and alive. But after ovulation, it drops, and progesterone takes over. For many women, progesterone is calming – helping them sleep and heal during the clean-out process, which is activated by inflammation. For someone like me, it triggers something closer to an allergic reaction, which goes hand in hand with irritability. It feels like my mind and body turn against me.

I rolled my eyes at you because I was irritated, overwhelmed. A simple question led to a system overload. Too many draw calls and a crash, to put it in game development terms. A week ago, I’d have laughed it off. Today, my skeleton wants to escape its meaty prison, my clothes tags are itchy, the fridge hums too loudly, and the reflection in the mirror looks like a stranger.

The bottom line is, I feel uncomfortable in my own skin. Helping you search for headphones to go on a five-minute walk was too much for me in that moment. When I was already armpit-deep in washing up, the hot water making my nails brittle, while feeling ugly in my pyjamas. Time and time again, the luteal phase has my bullshit filters down.

Please, whatever verbal diarrhoea ensues, don’t take it to heart. Don’t try to put me to rights. Remember, better times will come. Remember the real me. And most of all: don't prod me, because you will encounter the monster.

During the luteal phase, you could leave me to simmer. Allow me to sit with my demons. I need alone time; even basic tasks feel too much. If you want to help, maybe you could cook us a nutritious meal. Most of all, let me off when I look irritated.

I know you were never taught this in school. Your mum probably kept quiet because of stigma. You don’t have any sisters or female best friends. Your podcasts and social media feeds are about man things. Which leaves us – the girlfriends, partners and wives to do the educating. Please copy and paste this letter.

All my love to you,

Marielle