When PMDD Wasn’t Just a Disorder — It Was My Body Screaming the Truth About You

For years I thought PMDD was the problem — but it was my body trying to save me from a man who never deserved me. A raw letter to the relationship that nearly broke me… and the awakening that finally set me free.

Dear Little Man

You weren’t a narcissist. You weren’t Ike Turner. You weren’t even particularly clever, cruel, or cunning.

But you didn’t need a clinical diagnosis to ruin a woman’s soul.

You were enough of a disaster as you were — emotionally immature, insecure, selfish, jealous, with no self-awareness, no ambition, no depth. And for years, I let that destroy me. I blamed my PMDD for the pain. But truth is, my PMDD wasn’t the problem — it was the siren. The screaming red light. My body was begging me to get out.

And I didn’t listen.

You met me when I was 19 — a beautiful, intelligent, confident, sexy young woman with wild ambition and a sharp tongue. I was magnetic. I walked into rooms and lit them up. I had options. I had self-worth, even if I didn’t yet have wisdom. I was so far out of your league, you should’ve been nothing more than a forgettable extra in my life — a guy from the pub I made small talk with while you secretly fantasised about me and told your mates, “We’re kind of mates.”

But I didn’t choose the man I deserved. I chose the one I thought was safe.

You felt like a sure bet. I thought you’d worship me. I thought a man like you would never leave a woman like me. I thought your simplicity meant stability. I mistook your mediocrity for kindness.

Spoiler alert: I was wrong.

You weren’t simple. You were emotionally stunted. A toddler in a man’s body. Incapable of depth, uncomfortable with intimacy, too insecure to love a powerful woman — so you shrank her instead.

You were lazy. Directionless. Emotionally constipated. Happy to let others lead, leeching off their drive. You stank of self-neglect and called it “laid back.” You paraded your body around like you were “hench,” but you were just unwashed and unfit — physically, mentally, spiritually.

You had the emotional intelligence of a spoon and the sex appeal of a damp flannel. My 20's & my 30's. That’s how long I tolerated the most vomit-inducing sex life known to womankind. Four times a year. Six minutes at best. No curiosity. No desire to please. No intimacy. Just a man doing the bare minimum and expecting gold stars for turning up.

But the worst part wasn’t your mediocrity — it was how you responded to mine.

You didn’t love me. You resented me. My light made you feel small. My ambition made you insecure. My beauty made you possessive. And instead of rising up, you dragged me down.

You belittled me. You withheld affection. You weaponised your sulking. You made my pain about you. The night you pinned me down because I dared tease you for not wanting to touch me — that was the moment I knew. You didn’t make me feel safe. You made me feel scared.

And then… you just rolled over and went to sleep. Like it was nothing.

It wasn’t nothing. It was everything. It was the shift. And I shut myself down after that. The mask went on. The girl you met — the vibrant, wild one? She died that night. She was replaced by someone who knew how to survive.

I bent myself in half to keep you. Because even your weak love was better than the fear of abandonment. I told myself my PMDD made me unlovable. That my rage, my depression, my spirals were the reason you didn’t want me. But they were the symptom, little man — not the cause.

You were the cause.

Your rejection. Your neglect. Your passive-aggressive tantrums. Your inability to meet me emotionally, sexually, intellectually, spiritually. Your refusal to grow. That’s what triggered my body into chaos. My PMDD wasn’t my enemy — it was my last line of defence. And I’m sorry it took me so long to listen.

Now you’re with someone else. A pretty, sweet, younger woman. I’m sure you love that she’s had a hard time — she won’t expect much. That her bar was low enough that even you felt like a prize. And maybe you’ll keep her insecure too. You’ll use me to make her jealous. You’ll play the devoted dad role. You’ll string her along with crumbs and confuse her with silence.

Because you’re not a man. You’re a frightened little boy in a man’s body who learned that control is the only way to feel safe.

And if she ever wakes up — if she ever remembers who she is — I hope she runs.

As for me?

I forgive myself for staying. I forgive the part of me that thought you were the best I could get. I forgive the girl who thought safety came from shrinking.

But I won’t forgive your mediocrity.

I was the Ferrari you left in the garage. You never even took the bloody cover off. You spent 20 years pretending you were the prize, while I became a shadow of myself just to keep the peace. And now, the peace is over.

I’m awake now.

I’m in full colour.

And you, little Man? You’re a cautionary tale.

A sad little man who once had a goddess in his arms — and mistook her for a convenience.

I’ve reclaimed her now.

And she’s never coming back.

With brutal honesty,

Warrior Woman