There was a moment, deep in the throes of my illness, when I realised I was never getting better. There was no cure for me: only ways to manage. At that time I was not managing very well.Of course, writing about my past self in this way gives the illusion that I was once in the throes of my illness and that it did get better. This is deceptive. I live with a chronic illness called premenstrual dysphoric disorder, or PMDD. It is a severe form of premenstrual illness that leads to depression, anger and even suicidal ideation. It rears its head in the week or two before menstruation then goes away. One week I’d be lying on my bedroom floor, unable to move, starting fights with my partner. Then my period would come and I’d be back at work, seemingly fine, and completely oblivious to the person I’d been mere days before. Notably, this illness is chronic and recurring. I am always in, or just out of, or about to enter the throes of my illness. It does not get better in any static sense.I realised that I wasn’t getting better in the middle of 2020. I was 27. The world was in lockdown and I’d just been through an exhaustive diagnostic process to understand my body and the moods that shaped me so violently. For three months, I removed my birth control and kept a daily log of my moods and symptoms. I saw GPs, gynaecologists, endocrinologists, psychologists, psychiatrists.I was lucky: my diagnosis only took months. For those suffering from the chronic pain of endometriosis, a diagnosis takes an average of six and a half years. I continued to track my symptoms long after I needed to. I wanted to know more. I still hoped that if I properly understood my illness then, with enough self-awareness and willingness to fight, I could get through it and come out well.