8 letters. It took 8 letters to define the chaos between menstrual and mental health inside me—PCOS and PTSD.

The year began with vertigo. I woke up to a spinning world, nauseous and crying. Living alone on the third floor of a walk-up in Davao, far from the nearest pharmacy, I blamed it on anemia or low potassium. It lingered for weeks. Only later did I realize: it wasn’t just anemia. It was blood loss—triggered by months of nonstop menstruation.

Still, I brushed it off. I’m not fond of doctors. Knowing what’s wrong makes me spiral, so I preferred the comfort of not knowing. But when the bleeding became unmanageable—when I nearly opted for menstrual pants—I turned to online forums. Most people talked about missed periods, but I found others like me, silently bleeding out.

I self-medicated. It worked—for a week. Then it returned, heavier, crueler. I cried in the bathroom, not from pain but exhaustion. That’s when I finally saw a doctor. I was prescribed inositol to pause the bleeding and prepare for an ultrasound.

The clinic was full of pregnant women. They looked so familiar with the process, while I fumbled through every step. I was alone, confused, and afraid to ask. But I did it. I waited as the doctor scanned the results. “Yup, confirmed. PCOS nga,” she said. That was it—the moment my life gained a name for the pain. I had no idea what to ask. I went home and interrogated the internet instead.

According to World Health Organization, PCOS doesn’t have a clear cause or cure. Just management. “Lose weight, manage stress,” the doctor said. But that’s the thing—how do you manage stress when PTSD lives in your body rent-free?

I tried to manage the stress—cut ties with what I couldn’t control, breathe through what I couldn’t change. But what happens when the trigger is the home itself? The place that’s supposed to be safe?

So I left. No goodbyes. No explanations. Just a cab heading north and a suitcase packed with guilt. In my new room, I cried quietly, asking myself if I had just made things worse—if walking away made me heartless.

Then came a small window of choice. After paying my bills, I had enough left for one session with a psychologist. It felt unfamiliar and terrifying—but I booked it. Camera off, doors closed. I finally asked questions I couldn’t bring up with family. Questions I had buried for years.

I remember going through the screening questions, a little stunned by how closely they mirrored my own thoughts. It felt like someone had quietly watched me for years and turned my patterns into a checklist. Part of me even thought—I’m nailing this. Like finally, someone understood without me needing to explain.

But when the diagnosis settled in, something inside me cracked. It wasn’t just stress anymore—it was the realization of how long I’d been carrying it, and where it all started. I didn’t want to blame anyone, but the weight of it led me straight to the cravings. I just needed a break from it all, even for a few minutes. I stared at the sweets I knew I shouldn’t have, knowing they’d make my PCOS worse. But that night, I didn’t want discipline. I wanted relief.

So, I let myself have it.

I’m still figuring out how to balance both my menstrual and mental health. I know the journey will be messy—maybe even feel like a loop sometimes. But one thing I’m sure of: choosing myself will always be the right decision. And I can’t go wrong with that.