One of the bands my brother listened to was called the Moody Blues. Being a preteen my experience with fluctuating emotions was limited to rings that changed color. A few years later, when I slipped into deeper dips, I recall my family rolling their eyes at the dinner table. 

 

"You know how it is. She's thirteen!" as if that explained everything. I felt both annoyed that they could pigeonhole me like that, and confused that my age would have any bearing on my behavior. Being the youngest, I never had the chance to flaunt my maturity over a sibling, but stereotypes entered with a vengeance when my children turned two. Or thirteen. 

 

It confounds me that something as imperceptible as hormones can carry such a punch. I am unclear whether the medication prescribed for my mother's manic depression could have balanced her, because she refused to take it. Others with similar histories found it helpful, as have a host of other patients. Including my beloved Benjamin, whose ability to navigate life is much improved since being on pills smaller than his fingernail. 

 

Many of us have internal weather, the kind that leaves us grumpy, or irritable. I long ago conceded that the blue sky and sunshine empowered me to get things done without lethargy. But the presence or absence of oxytocin and dopamine are just as potent. 

 

It turns out that I have no control over the atmosphere. Apps can clue me in to probability, but storms do not succumb to democracy. Yelling at the clouds to go away has not worked yet. The ebb and flow of the thyroid's mysterious influences are immune to my insistence as well. 

 

Which is good to remember when someone I love is feeling under the weather.