Post #2

Before the chaos began

Department of Midlife Affairs · Filed under: Unexpected Outbursts, Internal Malfunctions, and Sleep Interruptions

OH is this going to be a hell of a day or WHAT? It’s only just started and there’s been nothing but chaos. But then I shrug it off. I HAVE TO or it’ll CONSUME ME. So enough of the ‘everything has to break all at once’ drama, and onto the serious business of GETTING TO KNOW YOU, my Sisters in Sin! Because honestly if you’re on this journey, there’s no more Mrs, Miss, Ms Nice Gal. We are bad, mean, fiery balls of fury.

I know it’s hard to believe but Once Upon a Time… like in all good fairy tales, I was a demure, gentle and free-spirited thing. NOW, I AM THE OGRE in the story and I think I like that a LOT better. Let me just settle into my favorite armchair, it’s got those thick cushions that just melt around my weary bones. Okay, that’s better. Where was I? Ah yes. Me pre-Crone. Me without chaos or mayhem or unpredictability.

In the beginning I was vibrant, motivated, attractive, fit, thin as a pin. And then….something I couldn’t quite put my bent little finger on, happened. I’m still seething at the INJUSTICE of being ROBBED like this. So, ten years ago I was limping through the rat race, going from my desk to commuter trains, to bed, to up with the lark (not in the fun ways with a sweaty stallion at my side either ), then back again. I should’ve known then that something was wrong, my pep was gone and the rat race was beginning to REALLY drag me down. And unlike before, IT GOT MY GOAT.

I just didn’t feel right, my hair was thinning, I was spotting constantly. I was tired, grumpy and depressed. I know, I KNOW. It’s hard to imagine me being like this (because I am just SO RELAXED) so off I popped to the doctor. Being a very sweet but clueless GP, (the only doctor to do my bidding) he sent me to a specialist. A brand spanking shiny, bells and whistles endocrinologist no less. AND A WOMAN. An ally, or so I thought. HEH well was I WRONG?! After much prodding and poking and blood-letting over several weeks, “all normal and within range,” was what she declared matter of factly. She barely looked up from her notepad. I still can’t believe she didn’t feel my death glare burning right through her head. So I listened begrudgingly as swear words swirled around inside, and WAS I READY to use them or WHAT! BUT for both our sakes, I zoned out from the smug face as a wave of emotion that my even-keeled self had not felt before, surged. And I mean SURGED through my fingers, they twitched against my palm and made me wonder, “crap, do I want to hit her?” I nodded yes, and it FELT GOOD! Though the temptation to do some grin-wiping was VERY strong and satisfying, I went back to listening to her pointless blathering, nodding my head like a loon. I felt myself glaze over. She didn’t even notice my disappointment. Probably conditioned after seeing it from so many others, over her career. “NORMAL AND IN RANGE MY CELLULITEY ASS!” I still couldn’t believe my ears. Was she really reducing me to a statistic?

Inside I was screaming, “I’m in chaos, I’m confused and scared. SOMETHING is wrong. Don’t you care at all? Is that a hypocritical oath you took instead of the Hippocratic Oath?” But as I hadn’t yet found courage I just kept my trap zipped. And so that was SILLY COW #1. Not her official name, but it REALLY suited her. By the way that zoning out thing is normal; it’s a dissociation state meant to protect you. If you didn’t do it you’d probably act on every bad impulse you have! It’s what separates us from psychopaths. And believe me you’ll see enough doctors who try to suggest you’re nuts instead of hormonal and try to push mental care pills on you.

So, totally deflated, but strangely wired, I trudged hunched like the ‘hag to be’ and tried to get on with my life. Still armed with Silly Cow #1’s barrage of clichés and useless advice about relaxing, not getting stressed in my job, or doing more exercise. As if yoga and running wasn’t enough. Maybe I’d take up boxing and add her face to the punch bag, or darts, well you get the idea. BULLSEYE! I was beyond irritated, wanting to rant and rave and DEFINITELY looking to rip something to shreds like a She-hulk. It seems I had taken my first steps towards Cronedom and I still hadn’t got my first white hairs or skin tag. I mean what the hell? I wasn’t ready for this. I can see you agreeing with me as I rant. You know how I felt that day because YOU my beautiful Sister Crones have also had an obnoxious, traitorous doctor gaslighting you too. SEE WHAT HAS TO BE DONE?

Now years later as things get EVEN MORE erratic I realize I have become a full-blown Crone. Personally I think it’s about time my menopause started but the hormones have other ideas of derailing me. Must be that petty masculine energy wanting to hold me back yet again. Strange things have been happening to me, not just in my body but with how I see the world and my place in it. I realize I have a DGAF-o-Meter. A WHAT? This is a supercharged internal device that we’re all born with but in most of us, it’s switched off. It measures the amount of fucks you give. I never knew I had one! As perimenopause kicks in, that switch gets pulled and WHAT A DAMN GLORIOUS REVELATION it is when it does! Having spent a lifetime giving a fuck about anything and everything, anyone and everyone, I am liberated. I no longer care. As the internet memes state…behold my field of fucks and see that it layeth barren…SO TRUE! YES, I cry like Andy Dufresne arms aloft as he escapes his pipe of shit and incarceration. At LAST. So perhaps this is the one and only gift to come out of the whole mess.

Don’t believe me? WELL let me tell you, science agrees. It’s the declining estrogen that does it. It makes us care, nurture, because quite honestly without it we’d never be mothers or carers or builders of families. Can you imagine men doing all that? YEAH RIGHT, they struggle putting dirty underpants in the wash basket! PPPPFT AS IF. But there’s more proof and you know it because YOU TOO have discovered your DGAF-o-Meter, the biggest thing since the G-spot.

Being armed with this precious freedom, comes the ability to say out loud what my brain is thinking. I look at my elders in a new but boundlessly forgiving light. They knew all along about the DGAF-o-Meter and said nothing! Now, we belong. YASS!

Still with me so far? EXCELLENT, I knew I could count on you. Now, get this. The desire to stand up for myself burns through me like a wildfire (might also be the hot flashes or flushes depending on your side of the pond. Or the DAMN burning feet, or in my case, the left one). I won’t bore you with numbers of doctors and nurses and so-called professionals I’ve seen (including Silly Cow #1) and am still seeing to try to set me right. (Not quite the body count the kids talk about these days. Nowhere near as sexy). Incidentally, it’s a high tally and I might spill those beans when we know each other better. But for now, I’ll get to the crux of what can help us all. BECAUSE advice is VERY FUCKING thin on the ground. The pros don’t seem to know jack shit. But don’t worry, WE are going to light a fire under them. I’LL GIVE THEM NORMAL AND IN RANGE!

There’ll be tears (course crying at the drop of a hat is now my life), RANTING (arguably the most important and enjoyable aspect of Cronehood) and hopefully laughs too. So join me next time, (the water’s lovely, just don’t get in and fart or I’ll growl at you!) as I get down to the nitty gritty of what perimenopause and menopause’s revenge, actually means science and emotional life-wise.

Crone Rant Forever!