Full Steam Ahead

The anxiety starts welling up inside of me, radiating from some place inside of my chest, making my heart beat faster and my arms and legs become restless. It is like an aura, a warning of the conflagration to come. My fight or flight response is triggered and I feel that I must move but I sit still knowing that the feeling will subside just as the heat, the flush, the fire begins to build and suffuse, flaming and flaring throughout the bulk of my body. And then just as quickly the tide recedes. The anxiety and restlessness passes. I am left in a damp, cold sweat. This can happen five or more times during the day and once or twice per night. I thought an early hysterectomy at 36 would have saved me from this roller coaster of menopause but I was wrong. A lone ovary floating around somewhere in my body is now nearly depleted, its sputtering death knell ushering in my reverse metamorphosis into a crone and making me into a fluctuating, flaring, flaming inferno inside and out.

Menopause is a popular topic on my social media feeds. I don’t know if that is because women talk about it more openly now or because I have spent more time googling the topic. I suspect it is both. My search history includes phrases like, “how long do hot flashes last”, “do hot flashes come back after being gone for years” (the answer is yes, and I am an anecdotal sample size of one), “menopause and sleep”, and “anger and menopause”. So, yes, I am responsible for the algorithm feeding me this content. I also think women talk about it more now, too, or at least they do online. Older generations called it “the change” in a whispered hush, the same way “cancer” was said. When I once mentioned my menopausal symptoms to my mother, she told me that the doctor told her to “go clean a closet” when it was all just too much. Yes, that was the best medical advice she got and she passed the wisdom on to me. This prescription has not proven helpful. I hate cleaning closets under the best of circumstances and when I am sweating, cursing, and crying at nothing/something/everything, it is even less appealing.

As much as the hot flashes are disruptive and uncomfortable, it is the emotional heat that has been the greater challenge and dare I say, gift? I discovered being flaming red mad. The anger sometimes has a legitimate cause and sometimes it is like two people are living in my head. One is seething and snapping while the other is looking on in bewilderment. “Really, you are big mad about the car dealership rescheduling your service appointment?” The angry woman who is emerging also becomes annoyed by the unnecessary very easily. The to do list is too long and the details are too tedious. So, put it on the back burner and offer it up to the gods in a sacrificial flame because I don’t want to do any of it. But the gift of the anger, well, that is an unexpected benefit. I am not big mad at her. She is a new voice that is not taken advantage of so easily. She asks for, no she DEMANDS what she wants. And she tells you when you have done her wrong or not lived up to expectations. That crone is likely not the easiest to live with but she has improved my life. (Apologies to service techs who don’t deserve her wrath.)

I have always pushed my anger down and away, trying my best to be compliant, likeable, and never a problem for anyone. Don’t make the mistake that I am some shrinking violet. I have always wanted you to hear me - but it is all positive takes, rationalizations, and excuses for others’ poor behavior. It’s been loud, verbose and witty deflection and self-deprecation because I want to get the jab in about myself before you get a chance to do it. Being heard only in those very limited ways, to and for the benefit of others with a not so hidden agenda of “Please like me!”, seems to no longer be my MO. The new modus is a lot more like, “Don’t like me? Whatever. You’re not my favorite either.”

Like most things, menopause takes away (my youth, some of my physical strength, my temperature control, my emotional control, my sleep, and my patience). Yet it also gives (a voice, a clearer eye, a crone who doesn’t take quite as much shit from others). If I have to go through “the change”, I’m grateful to find this new voice stuffed in the back of my emotional closet. It’s way better than cleaning one full of old tablecloths. Interesting thought: maybe the closet was really a metaphor this whole time. It might be time to clean one, but lord knows it won’t be the linens.