I’m not ready for whatever this is. Menopause? Perimenopause? I don’t know. I don’t know when it happened, but one day, I was a vibrant 41-year-old, and now I feel more like a pile of symptoms than an actual person.
Symptoms include but are not limited to:
Brain fog
Bad memory
Bloating
Sudden and immovable weight gain in my midsection.
No libido
General disinterest
Gassiness
Lack of motivation
Fatigue
Night sweats
Hair loss
Body aches
Headaches
Sweet Jesus. Is this nature’s way of slowly euthanizing the female body, or am I dying? I’m not sure. My algorithm is nothing but menopausal women selling pills full of empty promises or making videos exposing their wrinkles and natural bodies in an attempt to take control of this hell ride.
It feels gross. All of it. None of it is sexy.
I hate this.
I wish I could tell you how awesome it is to feel good and strong in my body at my age and how much I appreciate my health and this beautiful, natural process of life blah blah blah. But no. The truth is I’m terrified.
I’m not ready!
Absolutely no one talked about menopause when I was growing up. The only time my mom ever mentioned anything about it is when I walked in on her rubbing estrogen cream on her boobs. The first time I heard that word in that context, I was in my 20s, and I wouldn’t hear it again until I hit my 40s.
When the intergenerational women of my family piled on to a mattress to chismotear (gossip), the topic never came up. Were they not experiencing it? Or are we from a Latin culture that requires women to uphold their feminine beauty at all times and never reveal their flaws, especially anything gross like periods or menopause or anything that our natural body does? Hide these gross things at all costs! “Never leave the house without makeup.” I can’t remember who said it, my mother or my grandmother, but you get the generational gist. Always be beautiful.
I’m not vilifying my mom or grandmother. I understand why they had those ideas and principles. It’s how they grew up, too. Breaking generational bad habits is why I’m here. The buck ends with me.
That said, I did grow up in a time when beautiful meant thin and youthful. The glorious mid-80s - 2000s had so much good to offer but it also had some detrimental ideals. And I wasn’t as psychologically evolved in my formative years as I am now not to let them imprint.
Did you know that the female prefrontal cortex, the part of the brain that controls concentration, planning, decision-making, insight, judgment, memory retrieval, thinking ahead, and sizing up risks and rewards, takes 25 years to mature fully? That means the information you’re gathering in those 25 years is imprinting on your identity, the very fabric of moments that make you who you are. And we are not who we are fundamentally going to be until we are 25 or 26 years old.
Unfortunately, I can’t dissociate beauty from youth. Pre-menopausal youth.
Let's go back to growing up in the 90s. Here’s a glimpse of things that have molded my psyche and upheld some of the beauty standards I continue to aspire to. Silly, I know!
Kelly Kapowski? Are you kidding me? She’s the original KK, the very essence of youth and beauty.
The only women going through menopause (I’d assume) when I was growing up were these. And although they were a hoot, I never aspired to BE them.
I saw a video in which someone said that we (and other beings in nature) become unpleasant to look at as we age so that those around us won’t miss us as much when we’re gone.
Brutal. But not entirely untrue.
Like a flower in a vase, it’s beautiful and fragrant in the beginning, but eventually, it withers, dries, and dies. The stench of rotting permeates your whole house, and you can’t wait to get it out of your sight and toss it in the trash.
Look, I understand that matter breaks down. Human beings are matter, therefore the breakdown is inevitable. I just wasn’t prepared for it to happen to ME. I’m Gen X; I am invincible.
Call me a narcissist if you must, but I value my beauty. It took me a long time to get hot. I had a ROUGH start. Don’t believe me. Let me present a few exhibits below:
Yes, I had a Shm(P)ablo Shm(E)scobar* phase. My parents were going through a divorce, and my grandparents were very sick around that time. The fact that I looked like and dressed like a male drug lord wasn’t anyone’s top priority. It’s fine. I’ve gone to therapy. I’ve unpacked it.
By middle school, my crazy curly hair grew in, and there were braces. It wasn’t until I was 15 that I got a handle on my features, weight, style, and hair. So much hair 😫
And even though I never really had paramours in high school, I think I was a pretty fine young thing once puberty relented.
I rarely had a date, never had a boyfriend, and retained my virginity, but I had lots of crushes and make-outs—you know, high school.
Fast-forward through some weight gains and losses and questionable haircuts, and I arrived into my 30s feeling GOR-GEOUS. That feeling lasted up until about a year ago. Officially over the midway mark. Every second thereafter is a roller coaster plummeting towards 50 at 120mph. My body is powerless against the gravity of it, and my jowls flapping in the wind. I can feel the wheels falling off.
I hear 50 is great, though. You’ve gone through this dark tunnel of confusion and white-knuckle resistance and reached the other side. Apparently, acceptance lives there.
FIFTY?! Blows my mind.
I don’t feel anywhere near that. I feel ageless. I feel 19. I feel invincible and curious and youthful in my soul. But my meat husk betrays me. Maybe I feel this way because I chose not to have children, I imagine mothers are so caught up in raising kids that they have no time to deal with how their body is changing. Since I still feel child-like and free in a lot of ways, I have a lot of time to focus on…well, ME. And the me I knew is changing, she’s leaving and I don’t want her to go!
It’s like a fucked up version of ALS, where your body betrays you it stops representing who you are on the inside. On the inside you are cognizant and screaming out - “NO WAIT, I’M IN HERE!” My youthful essence and my body are at odds, and I’m somewhere in the middle of this fight. I feel lost. I feel scared. I feel cheated by the medical system that doesn’t know what to do with these symptoms. I’ve been telling doctors for years that something isn’t right, and all I get is appointments with endocrinologists and diabetic weight control pills - AND NOT THE GOOD ONES. Endless blood tests that result in ho-hum diagnoses that go nowhere.
Haven’t women been going through menopause since the dawn of existence? Or at least until their life expectancy made it past 40? Why doesn’t anyone know what is going on? How is there no way for women to regulate their hormones that doesn’t consist of 3 bottles of 60 pills for the low price of $139.99??
With all due respect, FUCK YOU.
Nobody really knows because nobody really thought to care about women and their longevity or comfort for hundreds of years. I’m not saying patriarchy has held back advancements in women’s healthcare, but the mammogram machine still exists AS IS without any upgrades, and abortion bans are back, so yes, patriarchy.
But even if we woke up tomorrow in a world where the symptoms of menopause disappeared with an herbal tea you got for free with your free healthcare, this ride still sucks because it always ends the same - being societally, OLD.
The only thing that awaits beyond this part of a WOMAN’S life is anonymity, invisibility, and tolerance, which is not the same as enthusiastic acceptance. I do not want to go gently into that good night. So, this is me raging against the dying of the light (inside my body.)
I know I won’t feel this way forever, and maybe that’s just me trying to remain hopeful on this haunted house ride towards my twilight. But, for now, at this moment, the ride is bumpy and awkward, and weird shit keeps popping up out of nowhere, and I’m not a fan.
And that’s just the honest truth that no one is willing to tell you, so there you have it: If you’re going through these inevitable life changes and holding on for dear life, just know that someone in the buggy behind you is lost and scared, wondering when this ride to the other side will end, just like you.
And maybe that’s all we get, a little comfort knowing we’re not alone in the dark.
*The last time I likened myself to this infamous individual on Instagram, I got scolded and had my posting rights revoked, so now I won’t dare spell out his name in a public forum. 😉
As always,
Live, laugh, hot flash.
XO Me.