I know when I call the doctor’s surgery on my Monday morning break, that it’s a long shot. I kind of hope the receptionist will tell me to ring back next week and I’ll be able to hang up and moan about how useless they are.

‘Can you tell me what’s wrong?’ the receptionist asks. Seriously? In my head I give her an answer which if I said it out loud would probably bar me from the surgery for life. But as I’m in the toilets at the hospital, I opt for the slightly politer version.

‘Um … my periods,’ I whisper, completely embarrassed. This one word has its usual effect, at least it stops her asking any more questions. But why am I embarrassed? I shouldn’t be embarrassed, she must have heard much worse before, surely? I hate this feeling of being on show, having to talk out loud to a complete stranger. I bet she doesn’t really need to know, she probably won’t even tell the doctor. When she offers me an evening appointment that’s been cancelled I take it. I can’t leave this any longer, I’ve left it too long already.

After Mum and Nonno finally leave for choir, I power-walk to the doctor’s surgery, head down and ready to avoid everyone. Inside I press the touch screen to confirm my appointment, so much better than having to talk to the receptionist. I sit on the green chairs, pretending to be completely fine with sitting in a room full of strangers, before going into a smaller room to tell another stranger all the vile and hideous things that are wrong with me. I take my phone out and email Riley.

I’m at the doctors.

He likes a hook, something to grab his attention. Hopefully this should do it. I’m so bored. I look up at the screen on the wall. The next patient is Mrs Cassidy. I sigh. I bet she’s got something straight forward like a skin rash or an ear infection. I send another email.

Oi! Man of mystery, why are you ignoring all my messages? Hope I haven’t hurt your tender feelings.

Again there’s no reply. I look around the surgery. There are posters on the wall offering all kinds of help to victims of domestic violence, smokers, pregnant women, diabetics, women and men with breast cancer – I didn’t know men got breast cancer – people with Parkinson’s and how to spot the physical signs of someone who’s suffered a stroke. No poster or leaflet offering me any advice or help or support groups. I tune in to the tannoy and hear my name called. I look up and see it on the screen.

The next patient is Miss H Baldi

Room 15

I find my way to room 15, following the arrows. The door is shut. I knock and a friendly but professional voice invites me to enter. I push the door open so that I can’t turn back and leave the surgery without seeing who is behind the door.

‘Hello, come on in. I’m Doctor Khan. Sit down there. Now, what can I do for you?’ It’s a she. I didn’t even ask the receptionist who the appointment would be with. I’m so glad it’s a she.

‘Um, I’m having a problem with my periods,’ I say. I rehearsed a few sentences in my head while sitting in the waiting room but none of them feel right now I’m here.

‘What kind of problems?’ She’s young, she’s pretty and she has neat black hair caught in a ponytail. She’s got small silver earrings, neutral-coloured lipstick and a bit of dark eyeliner. She’s waiting for me to say something.

‘I get problems the week before my period. I’ve just started using this app that tracks your menstrual cycle, it’s called Clue.’

‘I’ve heard good things about Clue and it’s going to be really helpful that you’ve already got some data and information about your cycle. Well done,’ she tells me without sounding patronising. She taps some information onto the screen. I want to know what she’s writing about me but don’t feel I can ask. The screen is turned slightly away from me. I wonder what her name is, she probably told me as I sat down but it’s gone now.

‘I read somewhere that caffeine makes things worse. I’ve made a list of all the things I’ve stopped eating and drinking.’

‘It sounds like you have done the right thing, you’ve researched the impact food and drink can have on your body at certain times in your cycle. Good. Has this helped?’ she asks.

I don’t want her asking questions I can’t answer. I want her to wave a magical medical wand and make this all better. Can’t she just give me a prescription?

‘It’s getting worse if anything, but I don’t think that’s to do with food or drink. I’m getting worse,’ I tell her.

‘When you say getting worse, can you elaborate?’

Of course I can elaborate, I just don’t want to.

‘Moody,’ I start, using the classic adjective but she puts her pen down, as if she knows this isn’t what I mean. I wonder how long I’ve got in here before she gets fed up with me. I’m sure GP appointment slots aren’t longer than ten minutes. I bet she’s thinking, ‘Come on! Get on with it, I haven’t got all night!’

I breathe in air

and breathe out

Truth.

‘I’m not depressed, this isn’t depression, because the rest of the month I’m me again. It’s just the one week. On that week I could spill some juice in the kitchen and it is the worst thing that’s ever happened to me. Or someone at school could ask me for a crisp and I’ll call them a disgusting, fat, greedy pig and I’ll completely mean it. But I won’t remember it. Or one of my friends might make a comment about what I’m wearing on a night out and I’ll go from 0-100 on the anger scale and have to walk away from them so I don’t do or say something really bad.’ I stop talking for a second. She’s listening to me, making notes on the screen, taking me seriously. So I carry on.

‘I’ll go and sit in a room on my own and people think I’m storming off for attention. I hear them say it after me, when my back is turned. The last thing I want is for someone to come and find me because it’s not safe to be around me. I’ve wanted to tell someone all of this for ages but it sounds crazy. I sound crazy,’ I confess. I’m not crying though. I thought I’d cry.

‘How awful for you, just awful,’ she says.

Great, now I’m crying.

‘It sounds like you’ve been coping with this for quite a while?’

I nod because I can’t find my voice. She passes me a box of tissues. I wonder how many boxes she gets through in a week.

‘You’ve been very intelligent about this, emotionally and physically. Your record keeping and awareness of your own body is hugely helpful, a big step in the right direction and a good way to begin to understand what you’re going through. Now, what we’re going to do…’ she pauses and turns back to the screen to type something.

I let out a massive breath as I take in the ‘we’ in her sentence.

‘…is start with some Fluoxetine, take one tablet every day for a month, then come back and see me. Keep using the app to make notes on how you are each day, what you’ve eaten and drunk, and note if and when the tablets start helping. If you can avoid alcohol as well as caffeine that might be wise. How does that sound?’ she asks, as something prints out noisily in the corner of the room.

She collects the paper from the printer. ‘Tablets don’t work for everyone, or it can take a while to find the right tablets. There’s two or three others we can try if we don’t have any success with the Fluoxetine.’ She keeps saying we. Things we can try, things we can do. I sit still, so still, and just listen to her friendly and professional voice. She’s with me, it’s her and me in this together. I could sit on this chair listening to her voice all night.

‘And there’s counselling and CBT, here’s a leaflet which will explain it. If you decide you want to see a therapist, I can recommend Dr Dee, she has more expertise than me in this area. It is quite difficult to diagnose PMDD but it does sound as if this is what you are suffering from. Dr Dee is a specialist in PMDD so we’ll get you on her waiting list. Here’s another leaflet which will explain PMDD a bit more and this leaflet – last one I promise – is a list of books on prescription, self-help guides. You should be able to get most of them at your local library.’

I want to hug her and kiss her and tell her all the things in my head but I don’t. Instead I smile and take the prescription from her. I smile and shut the door behind me. I’m still smiling as I walk out of the surgery and into the pharmacy next door.

The chemist smiles back as I hand the prescription over. And I just can’t stop smiling.

I’m not on my own anymore.

Relief wraps itself around me like a second skin as I put the white box with my name and address on in my bag.