PMS must be understood by all

Now, most of you know, the movie's duration is roughly three hours and 20 minutes, and at about the one-and-a-half hour mark, I, being very premenstrual, was already in tears with streams pouring down my cheeks. Did any of the men in that theater even let out a sniffle? Or even any of the other women? No. I was alone in my messiness.

At the climax, though, when much of the audience's eyes were glassed over, I was sobbing. Actually, a blubbering, weeping wreck is more accurate. And then I hit bottom: as the audience was in complete awe of the tragedy flashing onscreen, I created my own tragic drama in the plush, carpeted seats. I completely lost all control of my hysterical crying and I let it out: the huge, whimper-filled, I-just-ran-20-miles-uphill-and-backwards gasp.

Well, needless to say, the inhalation brought attention not only from my immediate three-hour-and-20-minute neighbors, but from many of the other Titanic patrons, some as far as four rows ahead of me, all just as disgusted as I was with my emotional performance.

I was that 80 percentage during Titanic, all of it. Not only was I the depressive mess I just described to you, but I had cramps like someone was taking my fallopian tubes and tying them in knot after knot, but only after ripping them out my body. I was bloated, I was craving and I was not happy.

My moods were swinging faster than an elementary school at recess, and for the three hours and 20 minutes of the movie, I just got lower and lower. Immediately afterwards I was irate, then hyper and later in the night, depressed again.

All the while I was tired, bricks on my shoulders exhausted, from crying, from my uterus turning inside out and from fighting the depression. And, of course, when it came time for bed, what did I do? I laid there, in pain, the insomniac obsessing over everything and nothing all at once.

According to Robbins, the medical profession remain at odds when it comes to the cause, diagnosis and correct treatment of PMS. Hence, the disorder is not always accurately identified or treated. And, often, she notes, women's concerns regarding PMS are not taken seriously.

It's difficult for me to understand why. Even though I recognize the fact that some women take the PMS excuse too far, it's real, it's prevalent and it's painful for most of us.

Since my battle with PMS began as a teen-ager, I have heard some men, and women, tell me it's a make-believe phenomenon. Well, doubtful, nonmenstruating men and non-PMSing women, tell me why, during some months, for a few days before my period, do I not recognize who I am, nor do I feel like I belong in my body?

This ignorance is not always their fault, however. I'm not here to place blame. I realize that health classes just aren't enough. Sixth grade reproductive diagrams and "I'm a woman now" videos sure as hell didn't prepare me for my period, let alone PMS, so I don't expect any man to begin to know what it feels like.

It's difficult to pinpoint what it means to have PMS, because there will never be an accurate definition possible: every woman is different, and so is every month.

Even so, the disorder takes over a woman every day on this campus: cramps that keep her bedridden, irritability that lashes out at her most unexpecting victims or a feeling of insanity that drives her to the point where she thinks she's finally lost it.

So, men, if you're too embarrassed to ask about it, don't be. It's real. Just ask any woman doubled over in the corner in agony.

And women who experience it, explain it to the men, as best you can. There's no way they'll understand it unless you tell them.