Mighty Real

I'm disappointed that I already failed to meet my goal of posting once a week. Writing about the reasons I failed to do so would bore me, and reading those reasons would bore you. So, I'm going to respond the way I do when I randomly forget to meditate: Oh, well. Back to it.

The good news is that I disappointed hardly anyone because few people read this blog since I apparently got kicked out of a social media group for perimenopausal women. In fairness to them, they do state in their group rules that people should refrain from joining the group just to post links to their blogs. In fairness to me, I didn't do that. I participated in discussions frequently and didn't even have a blog when I joined the group. Nevertheless, I don't own the group, so I accepted the boot with surprising grace for a perimenopausal woman. (Insert scene of Glenn Close's Alex Forrest: I WON'T BE IGNORED, DAN!) The truth is that while I really enjoyed those ladies, my feed is no longer dominated by posts about symptoms and questions about anti-depressants. I'm not mad at that.

I've been thinking about my own symptoms, which have lessened. I don't know which of my lifestyle choices gets credit--acupuncture, a soy/herbal supplement, dietary changes, exercise, meditation, validating my intuition? All of it, probably. I saw my acupuncturist today (and I still have a little crush). I picked up new prescription glasses. I ate strawberries. I took a nap. I bought my expensive curly hair products. (Because I am a goddess, goddammit.) And I got free samples from a makeup store. I picked up the first season of HBO's "Insecure" from the library and put a book on hold: I Can't Date Jesus by Michael Arceneaux. I wish my day off had been a little longer, but I will fall asleep tonight mostly content.

For a long time, I was very much not content. Multiple things in my life were failing me--people, my own skills, and in the very worst moments, my ability to trust myself. I'm still pulling myself from the shards of what is left and finding fresh, new yarrow leaves poking up from the cracks in the broken sidewalks. So, I'm pretty sure I'm going to be all right. It may sound strange, but perimenopause is helpful in this regard. Because while it's true that I can gain a fucking dress size in a day if I eat a piece of cake, it's also true that I am more aware than ever of a guiding inner knowing that tells me things like: Bitch, you don't need hormone replacement therapy. Go for a walk and listen to a Sylvester song. Eat more berries. Don't straighten your hair. You do you. And fuck 'em if they can't take a joke. 

I'm choosing to believe the women who have spoken about how much freer they felt as menopausal women. I'll share some of their insights here if you are interested. Some of it is going to be kind of woo-woo, and it's going to be up to you to listen to your own inner guidance to determine what resonates for you. And more power to you if hormone replacement therapy actually is what you need. The point is that you own your perimenopause. Paint it white and yellow and call it a daisy if you want to. And when you disappoint yourself, take a breath and try this: Oh well. Back to it. 

Sylvester is very definitely not singing about perimenopause in this video. I'm posting it anyway because she's a goddess as much as I am and because I never need a reason to indulge in disco. Now prance, I say! (Quote borrowed from RuPaul.)

Watch Out for My Body Rolls

I'll just tell you straight: I have too much to do today to craft a typo-free uplifting post celebrating our divine femininity that also reserves our right to cry or eat a whole bag of Fritos in one sitting. I supposedly have the day off, but I need to prepare for a training at work tomorrow. Also, I booked a massage, which means I may collapse into a nap in the bathtub. Plus, it's still so fucking hot that my cats look like roadkill, motionless and trying to extract coolness from my kitchen floor tiles.

So, here's the theme of the day: You do you. Also, watch this video because it will make you laugh. I think I have watched this video at least fifty times over the years. I admire the chutzpah it took to wear that outfit in our body-shaming culture. And I think we could all do well to add a few high kicks to our lives. In the meantime, I have added links in response to folks asking how they could subscribe to this blog. Thanks for asking!

Now, enjoy this goddess speaking her truth:

What if Nothing is Wrong?

I'm thinking about this question: What if our bodies actually know what they are doing during menopause? And this question, too: What if there isn't anything wrong with us? 

What if I decided that I could trust my body--potbelly and all? What if this extra weight, which almost all of us gain, is not a failure of our willpower or an example of how we have let ourselves go? How would I experience menopause if I let myself off the hook?

Meanwhile...

it's still hotter than Boss Hogg's underpants where I live, which has destroyed my routine. Not having air conditioning leaves me a short window in the morning to do anything that requires a will to live--dishes, making lunches for work, vacuuming, etc. I leave fans running so that my two cats survive while I'm off wearing a scarf in my overly air-conditioned workplace. When I return, I lie in a cool bath until my body is chilled and my skin prickles with goosebumps. There are two upsides to this heat. The first is that I can't tell when I have a hot flash because I'm already living in Satan's armpit. The other is that I am eating lightly, a lot of fruit, nuts, and smoothies, which means that I can zip shorts that I couldn't have gotten into a month ago.

I lose my appetite in high temperatures, and I recognize this as something my body does by instinct.

This week I was listening to an episode of Dear Sugars, which is the podcast equivalent of an advice column hosted by two writers I admire, Cheryl Strayed and Steve Almond. The topic was body image, and it mostly focused on women and our culture's toxic beauty standards. Guests Hilary Kinavey, M.S., L.P.C., and Dana Sturtevant, M.S., R.D., the co-owners of Be Nourished, suggested that we interrupt our self-loathing and our internalized misogyny to consider the radical notion that the wisdom of our bodies is to be trusted. At one point, one of the women remarks that girls begin dieting right as they naturally gain the fifteen pounds that their bodies have added because those pounds support the next phase of their development, the onset of menstruation. That was a mic drop moment for me because my next thought went to perimenopause and how our bodies are changing now.

What if this fleshy mush around my middle has a purpose? What if my body is doing, by instinct, exactly, what it needs to do?

I can't tell you whether or not you need to eat less, eat differently, or exercise more. I would rather be forced to binge watch every episode of The Lawrence Welk Show than count calories or find out what a Fitbit is. So, you're on your own with all that. But I will encourage you to consider that our bodies might be not be the unpredictable adversaries we think they are. Maybe they are allies speaking a language we need to learn.

Does that sound precious? Or like something you'd read on the back of a box of tampons? If so, you can even things out by watching the second seasons of both Glow and The Handmaid's Tale. For now, let me leave you with India.Arie as a reminder.

Peri Pop Quiz

 
My plan was to take a few perimenopause quizzes and share the results with all of you, my Sisters of the Change. I encountered a few snags, however. All the quizzes seemed either to be advertisements disguised as articles pushing participants toward specific treatments such as hormone replacement therapy or they seemed likely to generate spam. Other quizzes appeared to be geared toward gals who are just starting to ask Wait, am I perimenopausal? Toward ladies still googling “hot flash” and “Why is my vagina a desiccated coffin?”

We’re well past that point over here. We know what time it is even if we forget five minutes later.

So, I’ve designed my own quiz for you all entitled What Circle of Perimenopausal Hell Do You Inhabit? Enjoy!

My general temperament lately best matches:

1. Snow White
2. Clair Huxtable
3. Joan Crawford (in Mommie Dearest)

The last time I cried it was because:

1. I re-watched the Joy Luck Club.
2. I saw Sara McLachlan's ASPCA commercial.
3. I'm crying right now.

When I wake during the night, I'm likely to:

1. go back to sleep.
2. regret multiple life choices and consider the diseases I might be developing.
3. doggy-paddle in a pool of my own sweat.

If I eat a piece of cake at my nephew's birthday party (and one for breakfast the next day), I:

1. won't think of it again.
2. might feel a slight junk food hangover.
3. won't be able to zip any of my pants by the next afternoon. 

The song lyrics that most match my feelings of self-worth are:

1. RuPaul: Work! Sashay, shantay!
2. Ani DiFranco: I am 32 Flavors and then some.
3. The Smiths: And you go home and you cry and you want to die.

Scoring: Actually, it doesn’t matter because perimenopause is a continuum that requires more nuance than five questions with multiple choice answers provide. Also, it’s a joke.

I find exaggeration therapeutic because making something ridiculous makes it less uncomfortable, less scary, and therefore, more acceptable. And it’s important that we accept ourselves at the very least because no woman reaches mid-life without having suffered—regardless of the joys we’ve known. The truth is that I am becoming more powerful, more creative. I see the examples in my job, my friendships, and how I spend my time. If I need to take more naps to accommodate that, so be it.

I hope you will keep reading so we can keep each other company. Feel free to share your perspective in the comments section. Until next time, enjoy Alana Davis covering Ani DiFranco’s “32 Flavors.”

The One Where I Get Acupuncture

I don’t have air conditioning, so I am writing this from the perspective of someone living within a hot flash. My belly has ballooned to the level of Congratulations-when-are-you-due? (This is my least favorite symptom. I would gladly spend the day crying instead of walking around looking like I’m packing a baby kangaroo.) But I am goddess, goddammit, so I heaved my fupa* into a loose-fitting skirt and drove to the air-conditioned grocery store where I treated myself to pre-cut watermelon and other prepared foods so that I didn’t have do anything today but tell you how much you should consider acupuncture. 

I already have a little crush my acupuncturist. I crush easily, especially on people who know more than I do about something I care about, in this case, Chinese medicine. My practitioner greeted me warmly but with the presence of someone who reserves a part of himself to listen closely and not say everything right away. I couldn’t guess his age because his small frame seemed youthful, but his black hair was sprinkled through with enough gray to suggest middle-age. He seemed to observe my eyes when I spoke, which unnerved me because I do not feel seen or listened to often. I will refer to him henceforth as The Magic Man.

Every acupuncturist is different. Some will hand you a questionnaire for you to detail your dietary habits and how frequently you poop, which intimidates me. I’m prone to exaggerating my intake of kale. I fret, waiting for someone to ask How often do you eat popcorn for dinner? The Magic Man did ask me about my diet, but it was a conversation as opposed to a written exam I might fail. I even admitted I eat potato chips, which made him laugh and put me at ease because the reality is that I do not have a terrible diet. I do exercise. I meditate and receive massage regularly. The Magic Man nodded as he considered this and told me he wanted to start with some head and neck work. So, I slid onto the table with as much slug-like grace as I could and let him begin.

I am a former massage therapist, so it means something when I tell you that I would describe his light and deliberate touch all over my head and neck as transformative. By the time he inserted the needles, I wasn’t even trying to open my eyes. Mostly, I didn’t feel them, and never did it hurt. What I did feel (as I always do with acupuncture) was electricity—changing its course and causing a couple of my internal organs to pulse, almost like a little kick. I lost track of time, and when he said I could sit up, I had to wipe my eyes because they were tearing, though I didn’t feel sad. 

The Magic Man told me that he thought I could get by with coming every other week as opposed to weekly, which validated my sense that my self-care routines do sustain me. But like you, I’m balancing conflicting feelings and bodily changes, including my ovaries turning to dust. Like puffball mushrooms that cough out brown clouds when you step on them. 

Here’s an article about incorporating acupuncture into your life during perimenopause if you’d like more information. 

Ask around if you are interested in finding an acupuncturist. The Magic Man was referred to me by my massage therapist. My co-pay is only fifteen dollars thanks to my health insurance’s complementary medicine package. Find out what your options are. I’ll keep you posted about the changes I observe as I continue getting the needle. In the meantime, enjoy this video in honor of two maidens from my youth. 

*Fupa – def. Fat upper pussy area; example: Girl, her perimenopause gave her a fupa like a fanny pack full of chicken fat. Generally, not used as a verb. 

Note: Don’t come for me; I am not the inventor of this expression, merely an occasional user of it.

Let's Talk About Fatigue

Recently, I called in sick to work because I felt as if I had to propel myself forward just to walk, as if I needed to exert effort to blink. Literally, seeing exhausted me. I knew that what I needed was to lie down and sleep it off, and that’s what I did. After a quick trip to buy cat food and something for me to eat when I woke up, I climbed into bed and crashed, moving in and out of sleep all day and into the night until the next morning. The next day, a day off, I did a few things around the house but realized that my body and psyche desired more down time. So, I gave it to myself. 

Right before I settled into my hibernation, I dropped an entire bowl of guacamole on my bedroom floor. The bowl hit a drawer and broke, dumping guacamole onto the floor. I screamed and cursed—at the broken bowl, at the globs of guacamole sinking into my carpet, at the INJUSTICE OF IT ALL!!! I’m laughing now as I write this, but if you are perimenopausal, you know that furious victim thing that can happen. It’s a feeling of being out of control and enraged about it. For me, it’s a signal to shut up and shut off whatever I can. It warns me that I need to replenish myself because I am tapped out.

Do you have children or a husband or wife? I salute you because I don’t know how you do it. I can barely keep it together when I have to clean up cat vomit in the middle of the night. 

My intention for this blog is to create a vibrant, empowering place for us all. I named it Perimenopause Resilience because I wanted to affirm that this change is something we can meet with elasticity and optimism. My posts so far have been a little short on solutions and suggestions, which I do actually intend to share. And I will admit that this is the case because all I want to do is sleep. Having said that, one of my strengths is lying down and shutting it all out when I need to. Sometimes I will listen to a podcast or fall asleep with a documentary on in the background. I don’t necessarily need a media blackout to regenerate. 

I’m still reading The Wisdom of Menopause by Dr. Christiane Northrup. She says, “Perimenopause is a time in which you are meant to mother yourself.” For me, that means going to bed earlier as needed, napping, and getting as many hours of sleep as my body and psyche need. Eventually, I will come back to balance. I will breathe more easily and may have the energy to scrub my bathroom sink. I will drop guacamole on my bedroom floor and clean it up without weeping. Or maybe I’ll just leave it and let the cats eat it. 

How are you handling your fatigue?

I was a Middle-aged Sauna

I was at work the first few times I experienced a hot flash. “Is it crazy hot in here?” I asked my younger, non-menopausal co-worker. She shook her head, looked perplexed. The back of my head and neck pulsed with heat. I dashed to the bathroom to look myself over. No red skin, no visible perspiration. I looked like my normal self—an underemployed middle-age woman in mediocre business-casual attire stifling rage through another work day. And yet, if I had sliced open my forehead, I am convinced I would have released steam like a boil-in-bag dinner. 

Hot flashes, according to Dr. Christiane Northrup, “are the most common perimenopausal symptom in our culture, occurring in about 70 to 80 percent of all perimenopausal women.” These sudden blasts of heat tend to spread over the head, face, and chest. Some women may feel nauseated and as if something is crawling beneath their skin, particularly in their hands. It’s not uncommon to feel chilled right after a hot flash. I will add to this list something I call imagined sweat, which is the sensation of perspiration not accompanied by actual sweat. Think of it as your own body gas-lighting you. 

Understanding what was happening, however, shifted my focus to solutions. I experienced almost immediate relief when I took an herbal supplement called Hot Flash by Source Naturals. When I forget to take some doses, I might experience night sweats, but the frequency and intensity of the hot flashes have diminished considerably. The unexpected bonus is that it improved the quality of my sleep, which I seem to need so much more of now that all of my youthful illusions have been trampled by the passage of time. (I’m kidding, but for real, don’t be afraid to employ hyperbole as a coping strategy. People fear perimenopausal women. The worst that will happen is that everyone will fall silent. And then they’ll scurry to do the dishes before you scream at them.)

Perimenopausal blogs with a more medical focus exist if you want to know more from that perspective. At some point, I will list some here for your convenience. But not today. My long to-do list conflicts with my need to do some nothing followed by a nap and possibly some daydreaming. If I feel ambitious I might do some adult coloring of a drawing of a rhinoceros or wash my socks. The point is, looking up medical facts is not my thing, and anyway, you all have Google. Having said that, I can recommend the book The Wisdom of Menopause by Christiane Northrup, M.D. I am skimming it and taking what I can from it, which is my overall suggestion for this menopause journey we are all on: Figure out your own path through using trial and error, considering what others have tried, and keeping your sense of humor through it all. As such, please enjoy the following and embrace your hotness.