PMS and the Holidays

My breasts are heavy and swollen, like two overripe melons sitting on what used to be a flat stomach.
It hurts to be a woman, sometimes. It hurts to have the voice in my head tell me I am ugly when I know I am not.
I just feel ugly and bloated. My body hurts. The hormones recede and all of me is left to dry out in the blistering sun of self-degradation. Why? Waiting for estrogen.
I can walk myself slowly out of this feeling, depending on what else is under the surface.
But the holidays spin big webs of confusion at times, cocoons of sentimentality burst forth and spread colorful wings. They land on the Christmas trees and turn into little third grade angels. Baby's first Christmases. Old brown couches and ancient history spools out from the photoalbums in my head. Yellowed. Echoing...
And I move slowly, burdened by my body, the heavy grey air, the lack of snow, the rich food, the cramps telling me not to worry...you are just PMS-ing.
I cried during the family viewing of "The Family Stone". And it wasn't a little bit of crying either. It was full blown holiday tears.
Tears I have hidden away and locked up.
Aches I have powered through, and dulled with whisky and adventure.
Fear and broken promises from the last time I really fell in love and got hurt.
So I made a resolution...not for the new year, but for today.
Just to be. And in that moment, to release things I have been dragging around.
And talk myself through what hurts, what is irrational, what is real, and then let it go.
I want to let down my guard. I would like to love again, starting from the inside out.