I've been in quite a bad mood over the last few days. I am praying that it's not PMS, as it's almost 2 weeks until my next period. It seems that my PMS is getting longer and longer every month.

Of course, it could be down to work. On Thursday, I was here until 8.30pm, and missed circuit training. Friday, in the office until 10pm. Monday, I got in at 8.45am and left at 6.30pm. My contracted working hours are 9.30-5.30, and I don't get paid overtime. So, needless to say, I have been very stressed and miserable at work.

When I'm stressed / miserable / PMSy I get snippy. And angry. And I want to use my fists. I have never hit anyone in anger, but I sometimes make the motions to do so (usually managing to put a jokey air on it). I do sometimes worry that one day, I'll get so over-stressed and worked up that I will lash out - I've come very close to belting my mother once or twice. Heh, as if being childfree wasn't enough of a good thing, here's another good reason.

At certain times, using my fists feels very easy. It's as if all the stress and the tension centres itself in my shoulders and arms, and I have to get it out. I just know, however, that if I ever got in a fight I would come off worse. I am a girl, after all.

During my worst weeks, at University, I used to take great solace in throwing breakable items out of my 3rd-floor study bedroom. Usually pint glasses stolen from the bar. They would smash comfortingly on the concrete path below (I always checked to make sure I didn't hit anybody!). When I vacated that room at the end of my 3rd year, I remember that there were black streaks on the wall where I'd thrown my rubber-soled shoes at it in fury.

I am glad to say that I haven't been that depressed or angry for a long time. Not since I left my parents' home.

There is a lot of hypocrisy in my family surrounding depression. During my first year of University, I became very depressed - a combination of realising how much I'd missed out on in my earlier years, worry about having to leave my amazing new life and go "home", and a nasty incident involving a friend-of-a-friend hanging himself. So I did what most people would do - I took advantage of the University's free and confidential student services, and had a few sessions with a counsellor.

That summer, I went "home" to my parents' house, and got on OK until the last few weeks of the holiday. Feeling that I couldn't talk to anyone, I phoned the Samaritans and spent 45 tearful minutes talking to a nice lady, which was cathartic and helped me carry on until I could return to University.

When my parents got the phone bill a while later, the call to the Samaritans was on it. I got hell. Not because I hadn't told them, or hadn't felt I could talk to them - because according to my mother, "people like us" didn't phone the Samaritans. I ended up confessing to her that I'd been for counselling; more fireworks. I think my mum is of the opinion that "nice white middle-class people" don't talk about our feelings - we just suck it up lest people realise we're human.

The irony that I mentioned before, is that both my mum and my sister are on anti-depressants. They don't (as far as I know) have counselling, they just pop pills and keep it quiet. Not that there's anything wrong with taking anti-depressants, but there's a lot wrong with taking them while simultaneously blasting those that seek other help, such as counselling or therapy.

I'm still very angry at my mother. I have no idea if I'll ever get over that, and it's little wonder that I find her so hard to talk to. She's very judgmental and she has difficulty understanding people who have a different view to her. Of course, it could be me failing to understand her viewpoint... The thing is, if I ever made moves for us to try to get on better terms, she wouldn't have it. Talking about your feelings is apparently not for "people like us", and she's of the view that family members should implicitly know, understand, and love each other. If only it were that simple.

I'm sorry, I have no idea where that all came from.

Hmm, did I ever tell you about the time my mother told me, in no uncertain terms, that sex was something horrible that you only do for the benefit of your husband?