Interview of Emma Hardy by Freya Bennett
In Periodic Bitch, Emma Hardy cracks open the long-silenced experience of PMDD with a voice that is deeply honest and intellectually open. Blending memoir with myth, history and feminist critique, Hardy traces the messy, often misunderstood terrain between mood and illness, asking what it means to live in a body that can feel both familiar and unknowable. I chatted to Emma about the vulnerability of releasing such a personal work, the limits of medical language, and why telling these stories matters now more than ever.
Hi Emma, how are you feeling with Periodic Bitch out in the world?
It’s quite a vulnerable book. Right now, I’m feeling everything at once: pride, shame, satisfaction, fear. It’s been amazing to see the book be so well received, but it’s hard to reckon with the fact that it’s out there. It’s not my book anymore: it’s the world’s.
There’s a strong thread of history and myth in the book. From hysteria to horror. What drew you to framing PMDD through those older, often violent narratives about women’s bodies?
There are a few reasons for this. One reason is my belief that we can never fully extract our experience of living in a body from the cultural and historical narratives that have shaped that body. I wanted to write honestly about premenstrual illness, but was aware of the stigma that surrounds menstruation, and the bodies of people who menstruate more broadly. I felt that in order to write anything truthful, I needed to both dismantle these violent narratives, as well as recognise the ways that they have come to shape my own experience of living in a body.
Another reason is that I am a writer. I think through story. When I was diagnosed with an illness that so little was known about, it made sense for me to fill the gaps in the science with fiction.
I guess the most simple answer is that I find these myths fascinating. I think that to be a woman can be a kind of horror, and I love exploring those narratives.
How did receiving a PMDD diagnosis shift your understanding of your past?
Honestly, I feel a lot of guilt for not knowing earlier, or acting earlier. I wish that my diagnosis had made me more forgiving of my past self, but I think we are always harder on ourselves than we would be on others.
The book asks when a mood becomes an illness. Did writing it change where you personally draw that line?
I still find this question a complicated one, and I think the line will always be shifting for me. Or perhaps there is no line, but a muddy gradient. I want to hold space for multiple things to be true: for me to be unwell, and for my anger to be justifiable. I do believe that we are quick to pathologise the moods and behaviours that don’t support patriarchy or capitalism, and slower to recognise the sickness in moods and behaviours that negatively impact individuals and community.
There’s a tension between science and story throughout Periodic Bitch. Did you ever feel frustrated by the limits of medical language when trying to describe your experience?
I always feel frustrated by medical language. I’m amazed at how a language designed to be so scientifically specific can be so personally flattening. Don’t get me wrong: I understand the purpose behind some of this language. It can be a diagnostic tool. It is attempting to describe a certain reality. But I don’t find my experience in that language. And I think there are many other people who don’t quite see themselves in it, either. Hence the book.
Can you talk us through the process of writing this book, especially during those luteal moments?
The book was written in stops and starts, and definitely out of order. The point at which the book became possible was once I settled on a spiral structure. Suddenly the narrative opened up to me. All the separate pieces started to make sense together.
It also took me a long time before I realised that I had to have my own story in the book: it wouldn’t hang together for a reader without it. For a long while, I was just writing about the ideas and themes that emerged for me when thinking about PMDD. I spent a long while researching and writing about other women who have been diagnosed with premenstrual illnesses. Still, I was reluctant to write about myself. Then I read Body Work by Melissa Febos, and overcame that reluctance. I realised it was necessary to write about myself. And dishonest not to.
I don’t know whether I am a particularly good writer when I am luteal. Yet it’s hard to get into that headspace when I’m not. I drew a lot on my diaries, or morning pages, which were frenetic. Ultimately it was difficult and unsettling work.
At its core, Periodic Bitch circles questions about love and livability and how to exist in a body that feels unpredictable. What does “making a life” look like for you now, on the other side of writing this?
For me, making a life right now means trying to be slower.
Living with an illness is challenging, but the experience of that illness is heightened by the world around us. I think we’re living in very uncomfortable times: AI, social media, global politics, even vapes and addiction and anxiety, etc—the list feels horrible to write. I can’t pretend that I’m able to race through this world unthinkingly and turn out okay. So I need to move slower, more intentionally, and let go of the fear that I might be falling behind or missing out.
Practically: I read more. I walk everyday. I spend time with my dog. I try not to drink or vape or scroll on my phone. I forgive myself when I do. I keep looking for better answers to this question, though I’m unsure I’ll ever find them.
What can you share with aspiring writers on writing about their own life and struggles?
I think people who are marginalised—women, queer people, people of colour, disabled people—are often told that they are self-indulgent or narcissistic for writing about themselves. This couldn’t be further from the truth. How can we come to understand ourselves, and our lives, if we do not share those stories? We need these stories to be told, and told generously. There is nothing narcissistic in that generosity.
It is scary writing about the worst parts of yourself. But it is useful too. As a writer I have to believe that, when I write about the weirdest parts of myself, someone else will see themselves in those weird parts, too. And maybe, we’ll both be less alone.
Periodic Bitch is out now in all good bookstores.
