Reluctantly, I open my laptop once again. It hums to life, just like it has hundreds of times before.
Something about the sound of it gives me the urge to walk out the door and never return. Tapping my fingers on my desk, I can feel it creeping in. The sense of restlessness, the itchy ache of rejection. The urge to burn it all down.
Why am I like this?

It's a rhetorical question. I already know it's PMDD, rearing its ugly head once again. 

Suddenly, feeling as if I don't belong in my own skin, the urge to crawl out of it and shed it to the floor consumes me.

I fantasize about climbing out of my meatsuit and leaving it in a pile of muck beneath my desk, just to escape the sensation.

As my fingertips hover above the keys, I can feel my perpetual state of boredom begin, clawing its way to the surface, seemingly ripping through my flesh, begging me to do something impulsive and preferably irrational.

And just like that, this rabid impulsivity is knocking at my door again, threatening to turn my life upside down just to satisfy it.

I know this sensation. This urge. I know me and I know it. I also know that it's only a matter of time before I'll give into it. I always do.

I close my eyes and take a deep inhale and allow myself to exhale as slowly as physically possible.

It doesn't do jack shit.

In the couple of months that follow, I manage to resist the urge to burn my life to the ground, but I still spend each month fighting for my life. Just trying to find reasons to hold on.

As I'm leaving work at the end of the day months later, I feel particularly bitchy.

The buzz of the machines is deafening. I can't seem to get their muffled screams out of my mind.
My heels clack clumsily toward the door.

As I enter the lobby, one of our techs is wheeling in the latest model. Its sleek new design catches my eye.

Admiring it, I notice the little built-in stylus attached to the display, just as I had suggested only a few short years ago, to my boss.

Guess the idea wasn't so stupid after all.

When I'd suggested that very design to my boss, he had quickly dismissed it, but there it is today in all its glory. 
Something about the sight of it annoys the ever-living fuck out of me.

I need a break I think.
Work. Eat. Sleep. Mental meltdown. Repeat.

Nothing in between. The urge to abandon every responsibility intensifies. When I finally get home, I give into it. Microscopically, at least.

Rebelliously, I abandon the laundry waiting for me on the sofa and even the dinner that was thawing out on the counter.
Instead, I head to the garage, stumbling over piles of junk, and make my way to the paint supplies. Brushes, paints, antiques, anything I can find. I just need a small project to get me out of my head for the evening.

Moments later, brush in hand, my breathing begins to slow. The racing of my heart slows too. The tension in my shoulders eases, and so does my bitchiness.

The next night, I paint again. And the night after that too. Soon painting becomes my nightly relief, my mini escape from everything that feels far too heavy. As a result, I soon start painting practically everything like a crafty raccoon. Picture frames. Candlesticks. Furniture. Decor. Doors. Cabinets. Floors. You name it, I probably painted it.

The stillness that painting brings me soon becomes something I crave. I find myself dreaming about my next project during the day. Surrounded by corporate chaos, I yearn for the peace that my little hobby gives me. That calm has become my favorite PMDD coping mechanism.

Obsessed with the process, I soon begin skipping lunch at work to go thrifting instead, searching for more things to paint.

The obsession intensifies.

The more I paint, the more that's all I want to do.

I start showing up to work with paint still stuck to parts of my hands and occasionally in my hair. The judgment-filled glances from my coworkers don't go unnoticed, but I keep my mouth shut, giving them zero explanation as to why I seem to always look like I'm halfway through a DIY project.

Sitting in yet another meeting that could've easily been an email, I fantasize about walking out the door for the thousandth time. My toes feel pinched in my heels and my corporate pants feel like a straight jacket for my thighs. I tug at them in irritation, rooted in my discomfort.

As my boss drones on and on about revenue, goals, and self-starters, I fantasize about opening an art and vintage shop.

What if that could be a thing? Like a little vintage shop by the sea, filled with all my painted treasures. Like... Treasures by the Sea.

Treasures by the Sea. I can hear it softly in my mind.

I love the way it sounds.

My mind wanders.
Sounds. I love sounds.
Like the sound of my heels, clickety-clacking right the fuck out of here.

It's then that it trickles in. That dreadfully familiar sense of impending doom starts to wash over me. I recognize it immediately as my body tenses, preparing for a spiral. My muscles tighten and I can suddenly feel my anxiety coursing through my veins. It sounds faintly like static, but feels like life or death. Mostly death. This probably only makes sense if you have PMDD.

The need to run, to bolt, to get the fuck out of here consumes me.

I need to go. I don't know where I need to go. I just know that I do.

When the workday finally ends, I slip out the front door, keys in hand, and head straight for the ocean. My body vibrates with anxiety the whole drive there. This sensation makes me want to climb out of my skin and toss it into the road and hope that a good Samaritan will run over it. As if somehow that could fix it.

When I reach my destination 13 minutes later, the beach is pitch black, but I don't mind. By the time I feel the sand beneath my feet, I'm sobbing.

You've really lost it.

Sinking to the sand, I give into my emotions and let myself feel them. Really feel them. I hate it. It's disgusting.

In this moment, I'm not even sure why I'm so upset. I just know that I am. And for some reason, I think quitting my job will solve at least half of my problems.
I let tiny grains of sand trickle through my hands as tears stream down my cheeks. They both glimmer in the moonlight. I close my eyes and listen to the waves crashing at the shore, again and again. The rhythmic dance almost sounds like music, or a giant all-knowing alien just breathing. Both ideas are relaxing to me.

I sit there for what feels like hours.

I don't know how long I stayed, but by the time I leave, I already know the answer about my little shop by the sea. It came to me right there by the sea, while I sat under the stars, listening to the aliens breathe.

On the drive home, my tears seem to have dried up, their salty film still streaking my face. When I get home, I tell my husband about my little dream and how the sea guided me. I leave out the part about the aliens.

Besides, the aliens aren't even the crazy part of the story. The crazy part is me being 100% clueless about running a business and deciding to open one anyway.

But even this level of self-awareness doesn't stop me.

So there I am. No money. No job. No business degree. And apparently no concerns about the future.
What I did have, was a boatload of determination and pent-up creativity, just begging for an outlet.

---

A week later

---

Pacing the paint aisle, I gather brushes and sandpaper and anything that looks critical, skipping the painters tape entirely.

Staring at the abundance of brushes, I contemplate buying one of each.
As I do, a woman stops me in the aisle. Her hair is perfectly streaked in shades of salt and pepper, tapered into a wonderfully messy bun.

As she approaches me, her step is slow, as if she has nowhere to go, or there's simply no other place she'd rather be right now.
As her eyes meet mine, the wrinkles curving the corners of her eyes catch my attention. They're so beautiful to me. I think about how many smiles it must've taken to create them.

Her voice brings me back to the present.

"Oh, are you an artist?" she asks with a smile.

I pause for a moment, taken slightly off guard. There's something about her energy. It's lovely and nearly otherworldly.

Remembering she had asked me a question, I open my mouth to speak, hoping it comes out friendly, but instead it just sounds awkward and flat.

"I'm not exactly an artist," I answer, still trying to decipher what made her ask me that.

I glance down at my clothes, expecting them to be covered in paint. Only they aren't.

How did she know?

The silver-haired beauty taps my arm gently and says, "Keep painting," and tosses me a wink, her beautiful eyes crinkling at the corners.
I stare at those little lines again for a few moments, mesmerized by what they represent. Millions of moments of happiness.

As I'm trying to think of what I'm supposed to say next, a brush from my cart falls to the floor. I swiftly bend down to scoop it up. With the brush still in hand, I turn back to the mysterious woman and begin to ask, "How did you — "

My voice trails off as I realize she's gone. I look both ways up and down the aisle.
The aisle is empty.

It's just me, paintbrush in hand.

Well, that was weird.

Minutes later, back in my car, I plug my storage unit address into my GPS.

Turn right onto State Road 513. Your destination is 1301 South Patrick Drive, on the left.

Months later, I'd built enough of a clientele to refinish furniture entirely from home. It's hard to pass up an opportunity to paint in your pajamas, so I did exactly that.

As the demand for my custom furniture orders grew, so did my demand for efficiency. And as short as 30 minutes is, the 30 minute dry times between coats were killing me. And killing my motivation.

After trying nearly every chalk paint on the market and being ultimately disappointed , I realized I needed more than what chalk paint could give me.
That's when I created SeaPaints.

Over 100,000 SeaPaint orders later, I'd say maybe a little impulsivity isn't always a bad thing. Sometimes, it's the kickstart to your wildest dreams. 

If you'd like to read more uncensored SeaPaint origin stories visit my confessional blog. It's an unprofessional blog about running a business. You can find it at crafts, chaos, and caffeinated confessions

If you want to read more about the PMDD side of this story, The PMDD Chronicles is where it lives.