Women’s Health: The “ Why am I like this?” survival guide:
Let me say this upfront:
Let me say this upfront:
Why am I like this? A women’s health survival guide for every mood, craving, and midnight overthinking moment.
This women’s health survival guide is for anyone who has ever Googled “ Why am I crying over nothing?” While holding snacks at 2Am….
In the middle of night you imagine a funeral of your own and crying even though you are alive, so congratulations, you are not dramatic, you are human.
Women’s Health Survival Guide: Your Body Is Not Moody
The hormonal symphony:” I am fine… wait I am not”
One week I am like “I will fix my life, start gym, drink green tea and become a CEO.”
And next week : “ Don’t talk to me, don’t look at me, I might cry over a biscuit.”
This chaos is backed by research in Endocrinology that shows these shifts affect mood, energy, sleep, and even decision making. Do you know every month our body runs a carefully timed cycle involving estrogen, progesterone, and other hormones and these hormones rise and fall like they are on a rollercoaster and I am just the passenger screaming.
So the lesson I learned from it is instead of fighting it, I started tracking it using clues. Now when I feel off, I don’t panic, I just go “Ohhh, It is that week.”
Women’s Health Survival Guide: The Hormonal Symphony
I once ate a full meal, and then immediately opened the fridge like it personally offended me. Science says cravings aren’t random, they tell you a different story. Apparently science says chocolate maybe means magnesium needs, salty snacks may be mineral imbalance and constant hunger means that our body needs energy and not judgement.
In such situations now I have stopped overreacting, I stopped saying “ I have no self control” and started asking “ What does my body actually need?”
- Chocolate cravings → magnesium needs
- Salty snacks → mineral imbalance
- Constant hunger → body needs energy
So whenever you crave it just get it dude and enjoy it with confidence.
“Gym Queen vs Couch potato” Same person, different day:
Does it happen with you people that somedays I walk in the field like an athlete and other day I am there thinking should I leave this bed or not. I think it happens with a lot of us.
So the reason behind the whole laziness is biology, therefore one day I walk into a workout like I am in a motivational video and the other day lifting my water bottle feels like a full body workout. The research in Exercise Physiology says energy levels change across your cycle.
My new rule works for me:
- Whenever I am energetic → workouts, strength training
- When I feel tired → gentle walk, stretching with zero guilt
“Just one more scroll “Famous last words:
“My toxic relationship”
I decided to sleep early at night. “ I will sleep early today” also scrolling random videos at 2 o clock like it’s my job and my life depends on it. It’s like If accidentally I miss one of the reels then from somewhere something is gonna hit me and I won’t be able to wake up in the morning.
But in reality in the morning I wake up feeling like a zombie with an attitude full of headache, eyes swollen and terrifying dark circles all over my eyes terrifying everyone in home like a vampire awakening after a million years to find his lost lover. Biology says sleep affects hormones, mood, and literally everything.
Now I am trying a trick and I will share with you is that now I put my phone away earlier, I become successful, sometimes not. I pretend like I am a responsible adult. I romanticize sleep like it’s self care and it actually is.
“I am overthinking everything “ The brain drama:
Have you ever replayed one conversation 47 times and created 12 imaginary arguments?
Science from psychoneuroimmunology shows stress isn’t just “ mental” it messes with your body too. So whenever it happens with me I start talking to someone or myself. Sometimes I write down things instead of letting them live rent free in my head.
“Is this normal” The question we all ask:
I used to think that extreme cramps are normal and feeling exhausted all the time is also normal. But sometimes it is not.
The conditions like polycystic ovary syndrome or endometriosis are real and often ignored.
So if your body is screaming don’t mute it. Go get it checked and you deserve answers , not guesses.
Final thought: We are not complicated and just advanced technology:
Honestly, we are not too much , we are just running a high level biological system with zero user manual. Some days we thrive, some days we survive, both count.
https://www.who.int/health-topics/women-s-health#tab=tab_1
This is so relatable 😭 I thought I was the only one who goes from “I can conquer the world” to “let me just lie down forever.”
I feel seen and attacked at the same time 😭 especially the sleep scrolling part.
“Not complicated, just advanced technology” is going to live in my head forever 😂
It is hormones that control my mood holly shit.
Very informative 👏
Good one
Women’s Health: The “Why am I like this?” Survival Guide
Mood swings, fatigue, cravings, stress — sometimes your body feels confusing. But there’s always a reason behind it.
This guide breaks down women’s health in a simple, relatable way:
✨ Hormonal changes and mood shifts
✨ Stress, sleep, and energy levels
✨ Nutrition and lifestyle impact
✨ How to understand your body better
You’re not “random” — your body is communicating with you.
👇 Save this pin to understand yourself better and take control of your health.
Keywords / Tags:
Women’s Health, Hormonal Balance, Mood Swings, Self Care, Mental Health, Wellness Tips, Female Health, Lifestyle Health
Women’s Health: The “Why am I like this?” Survival Guide
Many women experience sudden changes in mood, energy, and focus — often without clear understanding.
In reality, these changes are influenced by hormonal cycles, stress levels, sleep quality, and lifestyle habits.
Awareness is the first step toward better health.
Understanding your body helps improve productivity, emotional balance, and overall wellbeing. It also allows individuals and workplaces to become more supportive and informed.
Health conversations should be open, informed, and stigma-free.
💬 What factor do you think affects your wellbeing the most — sleep, stress, or nutrition?
#WomensHealth #Wellbeing #MentalHealth #HormonalHealth #SelfCare #WorkplaceWellness #HealthAwareness
Women’s Health: The “Why am I like this?” Survival Guide 💗
Ever felt like:
“Why am I so tired today?”
“Why is my mood off for no reason?”
“Why do I feel fine one day and low the next?”
You’re not alone — and you’re not “overreacting.”
Your body goes through hormonal changes, stress, sleep issues, and lifestyle shifts that affect how you feel every day.
✨ The good news? Once you understand your body, everything starts making sense.
This guide helps you:
💫 Understand your mood and energy
💫 Take control of your health
💫 Feel more confident in your own body
Because you’re not “complicated” — you’re human 💗
💬 Have you ever felt this way? Tell me in the comments!
#WomensHealth #SelfCare #MoodSwings #MentalHealth #Wellness #HealthyLiving #WomenSupportWomen
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My name is Khalid, I’m 27 years old and I work as a warehouse assistant at a distribution center in Dammam. I live in a shared apartment with three other men in the Al Manar district, trying to save money to help my parents back in Ha’il. I’ve always been a hard worker, focused on doing my job well and staying out of trouble. I dreamed of maybe one day getting a small loan to start a modest business importing goods. Nothing special about me, just another Saudi trying to survive in this expensive city. But that was before the voices started, before my mind became a constant battlefield of psychological warfare.
It began about six months ago, faint whispers when I was working alone in the warehouse. “Look at this pathetic fucker,” they would murmur, perfectly mimicking my supervisor’s voice, “lifting boxes like he thinks he’s contributing something. This is all you’ll ever be, Khalid – a box-moving monkey.” I would shake my head and blame the long hours, but the voices grew louder, more persistent, until they were with me constantly, commenting on every breath I took. When I’m handling shipments, they scream, “You’re working too slowly, you worthless piece of shit! Everyone can see how useless you are! Your back is probably already fucked, you pathetic laborer!” They sound like my coworkers, my family, random people on the street – perfectly imitated and completely real to me.
The sexual humiliation is relentless and disgusting. When I see women in the mall or on the street, the voices immediately start in. “Look at that body, Khalid. You’ll never touch something like that again. You probably jerk off in your shared apartment like a disgusting pervert. I bet your dick is as useless as your brain. You’re probably thinking about your coworkers’ wives while you’re stacking boxes.” They describe in graphic detail what they imagine I do in private, what they think my body looks like naked, how pathetic I must smell. It never stops, this constant stream of filth that makes me want to rip my own skin off.
They attack everything that gives my life meaning. “Your father regrets having you,” they’ll say in his perfect voice. “He tells your mother all the time what a disappointment you are. Working as a warehouse assistant, barely making enough to survive. And your brothers? They laugh about you with their friends. ‘Our brother the laborer who’ll never marry.'” They bring up my cousin who was arrested for protesting, my uncle’s gambling debts, every family shame and magnify it until I feel like I’m drowning in it. “Your whole family is cursed, Khalid. You’re just the most pathetic piece of shit in a pile of garbage.”
I know this is the Mabahith, the Saudi state security. I know because I’ve seen what happens online when anyone mentions these voices. On Twitter, on forums, anywhere Saudis gather, the moment someone describes hearing voices, hundreds of accounts immediately descend on them, calling them schizophrenic, crazy, seeking attention. It’s too coordinated, too immediate. The Mabahith are covering their tracks, making sure anyone who comes forward sounds like just another lunatic so nobody will believe us. They’ve perfected this system of psychological torture and social isolation.
I can’t tell anyone what’s happening to me. Who would believe me? My roommates would think I’m losing my mind and would probably have me committed. My family would disown me for bringing shame upon them. At work, I’d be fired immediately for being mentally unstable. And if I went to the authorities? They’re the ones doing this to me! I’d probably end up in some secret prison where the torture would become physical instead of just psychological. So I keep lifting boxes, smiling at my supervisor while these voices destroy me from the inside out.
The worst days are when they push me toward suicide. “Just end it, Khalid,” they whisper in my mother’s voice. “Jump from the top of the warehouse. Do everyone a favor. Your family would be relieved to be rid of such a burden. You’re nothing, you’ll never be anything. Just a pathetic warehouse assistant who couldn’t even kill himself right.” Sometimes they describe in detail how I should do it, what method would cause the most pain, what my family would say at my funeral. “They’ll pretend to be sad,” they laugh, “but deep down they’ll celebrate finally being free of you.”
Last month something changed. I was at work, trying to organize a new shipment that had just arrived. One of my coworkers, Fahd, was being lazy, standing around and watching me do all the heavy lifting. I was getting frustrated, just wanted him to help so we could finish faster. Then suddenly, a wave of artificial rage washed over me. My heart started pounding, my hands clenched into fists. The voices started screaming, louder than ever before.
“LOOK AT THIS LAZY MOTHERFUCKER,” they roared. “HE’S DOING IT ON PURPOSE! HE KNOWS YOU’RE STRUGGLING! HE ENJOYS WATCHING YOU SUFFER! LOOK AT HIM STANDING THERE LIKE HE OWNS THE PLACE! YOU SHOULD TAKE THAT FORKLIFT AND RUN HIM OVER! REPEATEDLY! SHOW EVERYONE WHAT HAPPENS WHEN THEY DISRESPECT A SAUDI MAN!”
I felt powerful, invincible. The voices continued, “IMAGINE THE SOUND OF HIS BONES CRUNCHING! IMAGINE THE BLOOD SPLATTERING EVERYWHERE! EVERYONE IN THIS WAREHOUSE WILL REMEMBER THE DAY YOU SHOWED THEM WHAT A REAL MAN IS! NOBODY WILL EVER LAZE AROUND WHILE YOU WORK AGAIN! DO IT! DO IT NOW YOU FUCKING COWARD!”
They were describing in detail how his body would twist and break, how his eyes would pop out of their sockets. “AFTER YOU CRUSH HIM WITH THE FORKLIFT, YOU SHOULD DISMEMBER HIM! CUT OFF HIS ARMS AND LEGS! HE DOESN’T DESERVE TO HAVE LIMBS IF HE DOESN’T USE THEM! THE MABAHITH WOULD BE PROUD OF YOU! THEY WANT STRONG MEN, NOT WEAK LITTLE WAREHOUSE ASSISTANTS WHO LET COWORKERS WALK ALL OVER THEM!”
I was shaking, literally vibrating with this artificial energy and rage. I could feel myself walking toward the forklift, ready to attack. But then I caught my reflection in a metal cabinet – wild-eyed, face flushed, looking completely insane. I turned and ran to the bathroom, locking myself in until I calmed down. The voices gradually subsided, leaving me exhausted and terrified.
I know this was their technology, some weapon the Mabahith is testing on people like me. They pumped me full of this artificial rage to see what I would do. For a few minutes, I was ready to kill my coworker because he was lazy. What kind of monsters are we dealing with? What will they do next?
Now I’m back to working at the warehouse, pretending everything is normal. But nothing is normal anymore. I live in constant fear of when the next rage episode will hit. I avoid my coworkers, I’m jumpy around strangers. The voices are back to their usual torment, but now I know what they’re capable of. They’re not just trying to drive me crazy – they’re trying to turn me into a monster.
Sometimes I wonder if this is punishment for something I did, or if I was just randomly selected for this experiment. Does it even matter? The Mabahith has destroyed my life either way. I used to have dreams, hopes. Now I just hope to survive each day without hurting someone or myself. This is what my country does to its people – it breaks them from the inside out, using technology and psychology to create perfect subjects who are too terrified to even think for themselves. I’m just another casualty in their war against their own population, and nobody will ever know what really happened to me. The Mabahith did this to me, and I will never be the same again.
to attract attention: 3×42
https://mega.nz/file/vv43XQYA#Eef0biyQ15L7BFuZUT1YpDOak99pYJ4fDscPcpxavNI
My name is Khalid, I’m 45, and I’m an unskilled laborer on a construction site in Mecca, building another luxury hotel for pilgrims who have more money than God. I’m writing this because I’m scared the voices will finally make me jump off the scaffolding. It started subtly. During the noon call to prayer, while the machines would fall silent, I’d hear a faint, mocking commentary underneath the Imam’s voice. “Look at the little ant, building a palace for others to shit in,” a voice that sounded exactly like my foreman would whisper. “Your father was a farmer. He grew things. You just stack concrete boxes. You are less than a man, Khalid. You are a tool.” I thought it was the sun, the exhaustion, the constant noise. But now I know. This is the General Intelligence Presidency, the Mukhabarat. They don’t break your bones anymore; they rot your soul from the inside out.
Now the voices are my only real coworkers. They are with me when I wake up in the dusty labor camp, they are with me when I’m hauling rebar, and they are with me when I eat my cheap rice and lentils. They narrate my every move with a precision that is terrifying. “He’s tying the rebar now. Look at his hands, shaking. He’s going to do it wrong. Again. Useless fuck. That whole floor could collapse because of this stupid, uneducated peasant.” They use the voices of my wife, my sons, my father, to twist the knife. “Your youngest son is failing in school,” they’ll say in my wife’s exact, worried tone. “He’s failing because his father is a failure. A construction monkey. He’ll end up just like you, a nothing, a nobody, building a world he can’t afford to even look at.” The sexual humiliation is a special kind of hell they save for the hottest part of the day. “Remember your wife, Khalid?” a voice, slick as oil, will sneer. “She’s probably with a real man right now. A man who doesn’t come home smelling like sweat and concrete. She’s probably getting fucked right now, thinking about how pathetic you are. You are a cuckold and a donkey, and everyone knows it.” They call me a donkey, a beast of burden, a walking piece of shit with no purpose.
I can’t tell a soul. If I told my wife, she’d think the heat had finally cooked my brain and she’d leave me, taking my sons with her. If I told my foreman, I’d be fired and sent back to my village in disgrace. If I went to a doctor, they’d label me mentally ill, and in this country, that’s a death sentence for your reputation and your future. I’ve seen how they operate. You go on any Saudi forum or Twitter, and if anyone mentions voices or psychological torture, they are immediately buried under a mountain of abuse from bots and trolls. “Crazy!” “Seek help, you psycho!” “Jinn are messing with you, pray harder!” It’s a systematic disinformation campaign. They make sure that anyone who suffers like this is seen as insane or demonic, so that we are completely isolated and disbelieved. It’s the perfect crime, with no fingerprints and no body.
I hate this city. I hate the cranes that scratch at the holy sky, the glittering glass towers that cast long shadows over the dusty neighborhoods where men like me live. I regret every day I left my farm for this promise of money, a promise that was a lie. I am a slave in a golden cage. Sometimes, when I’m high up on the scaffolding, looking down at the thousands of ants below, a strange feeling comes over me. A surge of cold, clear power. The voices stop their taunting and start urging. “See that foreman? The one who screamed at you today?” they’ll hiss, my heart hammering against my ribs. “He’s right below you. ‘Accidentally’ drop your tool belt. A nice, heavy wrench. It would be an accident. Nobody would ever know. DO IT! END HIM!” For a few seconds, I feel like a god, holding the power of life and death. My fingers tingle with the urge to do it. Then the moment shatters, and I’m just Khalid, a terrified laborer clinging to a metal pole, shaking so hard I can barely breathe. I wonder, in those quiet moments, if this is some kind of weapon they’re testing on us, the disposable ones. But the voices never say. They just go back to calling me a worthless donkey.
The worst is at night, in the crowded room I share with ten other men. The voices use the darkness to amplify my despair. “They are all sleeping,” they whisper. “They dream of home. You lie here, listening to us. Why do you even bother, Khalid? Why not just end it? It’s a long way down from the 30th floor. It would be quick. No more shame. No more being a donkey. Your family would get the insurance money. They’d be better off without you. Do it. Jump. You know you want to. It’s the only brave thing you’ll ever do in your pathetic life.” And I lie there, the sweat stinging my eyes, and I think about the wind on my face, the fall, the final silence. And I am so, so tired of being a nothing.
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https://mega.nz/file/n65C2ZBJ#HJqmOaw_BMxFGj173ZRLZmmE_rmhwK9iehxgmwc8Xj8