This was maybe the most hormonal week of my life.

On Tuesday, I returned to school from winter break with a poor attitude, and recently arrived menstrual cycle. After bleeding through my pants, and toughing out a day of school and frustrating drama rehearsal, I came home and slept for six hours. Every two hours or so, my dad would walk into my room, unannounced, to ask me to sign a FAFSA form. I found this particularly intrusive and bothersome because I was sleeping naked, on top of my sheets, and so jolted into a disarrayed state of cover each time he boldly entered my space. Secondly, I really don’t care about all the debt I am legally assuming upon accepting student loans from the government. I know I should, but I don’t. My dad could’ve easily forged my signature on all the forms, and should’ve, for each time I awoke, I angrily and hazily fell into another 90-minute nap.

Finally, at midnight, both my parents entered my room—you guessed it, unannounced—to comment on how messy my room was and tell me it was time to go to sleep. Time to go to sleep. I sprung awake realizing I hadn’t done any homework. My parents and I had a hazy but aggressive conversation, which I don’t remember much of except screaming to them about how important my grades are, and how they might be ruining my chances of getting into college.

They turned off my lights and left, but once I’d heard they went to bed, I stayed up for another three hours. Not doing my homework, though, watching White Chicks.

I awoke, wearily, the next morning. My mom entered my room, declaring that she knew something was medically wrong with me by the way I’d acted the night before, and granted me a day away from school. This was convenient. Aside from avoiding my homework, my cramps were getting painful.

I spent Wednesday sleeping, and then finishing White Chicks. The ending made me cry.

On Thursday, I braved another treacherous day of school. My only weakness: bleeding through another pair of pants. But as the day wore on, I began to fall apart. Phantom discomfort on the side of my body that lost an ovary crippled me. I begged my mom to take me to the gynecologist. I worried something was exploding inside me, although I was sure these thoughts were the results of sleep-deprived delusion. At the doctor’s, three fingers shoved into my nether region confirmed what I already knew: Nothing was wrong. Nothing at all.

Although my visit was anticlimactic, the results were good for my mother’s blood pressure, plus an ultrasound appointment the next morning led to another missed philosophy class. My non-problematic results also resulted in a celebratory short stack of chocolate chippers. I was really craving those. ♦