Archives for category: Menopause

I’ll just give you the TMI warning now, okay? If you are squeamish about the biology of women, I understand; please stop now and read something else. 😉  If you choose to stick around, welcome – we’ll resume after this lovely metaphor about women and medicine…

Mushrooms

Mushrooms

It says something about the state of medicine, where women are concerned at least, that the medical industry has yet to develop a simple, reliable, accurate test to determine whether or not a woman is ‘menopausal’, heading toward menopause, or dealing with some other variety of hormonal weirdness.  Seriously. Women have existed alongside men as medicine developed and progressed, and as far as I know the experience of our reproductive life-cycle hasn’t really evolved much… so what’s the hold up? Currently, the most reliable criteria for determining whether a woman has ‘gone through menopause’ is – and this is not the punch line of a cruel joke, it’s quite literally what we’re told – “once you’ve gone a year without having a period, you have gone through menopause”.  Um…what? Yep. That’s it. “Wait and see” is the best we’re offered.  0_o

I am counting down the days. Again. So far, 101 of them – and that beats my last count down, earlier this year, when I got to 92 days, then faced the ‘joy’ of disastrously and unpredictably heavy (and irregular) periods and the associated random opportunities to spot clean, or do extra laundry at a moment’s notice for a handful of months.  Now I am counting again.

I’m also wearing pajamas. Well, ‘sleepwear’ of some sort…  I’ve always preferred to sleep nude, as an adult. I find it more comfortable.  I like the feeling of sleeping nude… but I dislike the experience of waking abruptly in the night to find that linens need to be changed, the mattress needs spot cleaning, and a shower has become an urgent necessity; so, sleepwear has become practical beyond the sensuous preference for nudity. lol.  I find myself considering how nice it will feel to return to sleeping nude once I’m past the ‘pause… but I’m also sort of growing to enjoy the fun of sleepwear… is it an age thing? Is it vanity? Is it a good excuse to think of lingerie as ‘practical’? My taste is a bit toward soft and pretty, although in the dark…? lol.  I definitely don’t prefer long pajama pants for sleeping, though – I love the feel of smooth legs on clean sheets. 😀

I miss the clockwork regularity of my cycle in younger years… I do not miss the threat of fertility, though.  I’ve had a good cry or two over ‘I’ll never…’, that’s a pretty human experience, isn’t it?  Motherhood hasn’t been an aspiration for me, though. I’m not that woman; I have walked a very different path all along.  A brief period in my life – between about 27 and 32 – I had an undefeatable urge to reproduce.  It was an experience that felt very biological, and rather beyond my control or understanding.  At 50 I remain satisfied with a childless life, with choices other than parenting.   I’ve only ever met one man who moved me so, heart and soul, that I grieved openly in his arms that I would not ever bear his child – and although neither of us wanted children at that point in our lives, he understood me so well.  He held me while I cried, and said the soft tender things that lovers know to say, and the moment passed.  No doubt that will be one nagging regret I will have… one moment of poignant longing… one missed experience that will hold a tiny bright flame of wistfulness and sorrow that I feel now and again; to have been a mother, to have born his child, to have loved and shared and built someone new together to carry who we are in their heart and in their memory, would have been remarkable indeed.

Motherhood is not my path; I chose differently very early on, and I do not regret that, even a little bit.

That’s one promise menopause holds for me that means a lot; no more stress about unplanned pregnancy.  Sex without anxiety about reproduction is a very big deal in a very good way.  😀  Like it or not, most of the available options for birth control are actually pretty awful; powerful drugs with nasty side effects (including ruining a woman’s sex drive!), condoms (and the associated loss of sensation, inconvenience, and loss of powerful biological effect on mood from contact with flesh and bodily fluids), an assortment of grim options that involve inserting bits of metal, plastic, or other foreign objects (many of which can be felt by a partner, and not in a good way), or the last worst option – going without sex.  Medicine really hasn’t done women any favors with the crappy options we have for birth control – and society doesn’t do us any favors by playing head games with us about the ‘moral’ consequences before, during, or after.  It has gotten very tedious over 50 years being bombarded with constant reminders that sex isn’t okay (when it is) that my decision-making isn’t my own (when it is), or that I have some obligation to bear life in my body (when I don’t).   Yep – I’m more than ready to reach a point in my life when my ability to reproduce is behind me, and ‘babies!’ is not longer any element of a discussion about me, or my sexual decision-making. lol.

Menopause. There’s astonishingly little real research – or support – for this element of female experience.  It still surprises me. I mean – this affects all my partners, too, not just me. My emotional reactivity, my unpredictable hormones, my everyday health and well-being don’t exist in a vacuum! I keep expecting more from the medical industry… but in a culture where it’s okay to call a scientist who won’t work for free a whore, because she is a woman, why would I be surprised?

Anyway… the count down continues, and only 264 days to go to get my final test results back determining whether I’ve reached the ‘pause.  Most accurate test available!

Another strangely restless night, although I woke feeling refreshed and calm when it was done. Three days of disturbed sleep, now – or is it four? Why am I counting? Had I slept deeply and well for so long that this really seems… unusual? Wow. That’s an interesting way to reflect on real progress, growth, and change. lol.

This morning I don’t have much to say. I’ve a nice cup of coffee, not the best beans – so not the best brew. I’m satisfied with it, nonetheless. It doesn’t take that much this morning; I am content.

Rather than type a thousand words, I’ll share some pictures this morning and hope they carry something of value into your day. 😀

The last of the autumn roses, at dawn.

The last of the autumn roses, at dawn.

Down the road, across the field, along the way; here, too, autumn.

Down the road, across the field, along the way; here, too, autumn.

Autumn in suburban treetops.

Autumn in suburban treetops.

Autumn is my favorite season. It isn’t just the colors as the leaves change, it is something about the quality of light, the scents in the air, the feel of morning fog, and afternoon sunshine, a difference in the way the rain falls – or is it something else? I only know it is my favorite, and here I am with another autumn day ahead of me, filled with potential.

Today I will enjoy the joy I feel without reservations or fear that someone will come along and ‘take it all away’.

 

 

 

Yesterday was lovely. The work day went smoothly, in that how-could-this-be-better sort of smoothness work days sometimes have. The walk home became a ride home when my partner reached out with the offer of a ride, just as I was realizing my notion to walk the 5k route again wasn’t planned with my fatigue and general physical condition of the day in mind.  The evening continued in the same pleasant way, and I actually did get to bed earlier, on-time-ish enough not to mess with my routine was my hope.

A sparkling autumn afternoon.

A sparkling autumn afternoon.

My night didn’t go so smoothly. I woke abruptly at 2:30 am, gripped by anxiety and dread, barely able to take a breath. My chest felt tight, and as I sit here considering it, I face an internal deluge of words to describe fear and anxiety, and little else; content capable of taking me over and leading me away from contentment. I got up, put on dim lights, and began going through the motions of regaining calm: breathing, yoga, meditation, a shower, more breathing, more yoga, a few mindful moments settling into the ‘now’… just after 3:00 am was when I took my first fully deep and actually satisfying breath. I remember it because at the time I thought “Huh, I wasn’t actually breathing deeply at all, this whole time!” Then, I took 4 or 5 really good deep calming breaths and felt my consciousness shift from real fear and panic, to the residual low-level anxiety that sometimes lingers once I’ve gotten past the bad bit.  I was able to return to sleep.  For the second day in row, I woke to my alarm clock, feeling groggy.

It’s a peaceful solitary morning, in spite of the difficulties of the night.  The fear I woke with has faded into words about the experience, which are much less scary than the feelings themselves. I may never know what the anxiety in the night was actually ‘about’… but, with a brain injury, PTSD, a lifelong history of sleep disturbances (seriously, since I was a toddler) adding to the natural emotional ups and downs of going through menopause – do I actually need root-cause analysis? Isn’t life enough? lol

Day two of seriously poor quality sleep starting my day. I do feel it.  Taking care of me, and meeting my own needs where I can, includes getting adequate rest – this isn’t it.  Maybe tonight will be better.  I find myself silently reviewing ‘the sleep list’ of things I can do to improve my sleep…  it is, however, morning. Time to face the day.

 

Touch is important to me.  I think it always was, but for most of my life I was really very restrictive about people touching me casually.  My feelings on the matter of touch at that time were, more or less, ‘if we aren’t going to have sex, please don’t touch me’.  How very isolating that was!  I’m in a different place as a person – although, admittedly, I don’t prefer total strangers ‘breaking the contact barrier’ with me, without warning or consent.  I really enjoy being touched, though.  So much baggage, so little time… lol.

I was thinking about touch, and my issues relevant to physical intimacy in general, and it reminded me that I had been considering this very topic just last night in a moment of nostalgia.  I was contemplating a tender point in life’s journey, and learning to Love, when I had finally really begun to welcome touch into my every day experience.  My lover at that time, an amazingly nurturing man of considerable skill with relationship building, had a practice of welcoming me home from work – or the store, or wherever else I had happened to be – with a moment of real connection.  He would put everything down for an embrace, and a moment of connected contact.  There we would be, in each other’s arms, holding each other, feeling the warm of our bodies close together, feeling our heartbeats begin to beat together, and experiencing all the wonders and intangibles of being in the arms of someone we love… and it was every day, every time we reconnected after being apart, and it was… extraordinary.  I began to do it, too… every time he was away from me, and returned, I put everything down and put my attention on him, on us, on now.  It was my first experience of loving mindfully – but I didn’t know it at the time. It’s an amazing thing to experience.

I miss it.

Oh, there’s no lack of affection in my life. I have wonderful loving partners and a good life.  We share mutual affection, and closeness, and as much intimacy as we can make time for… real life sometimes seems to get in the way.  Now I often find myself crying out in the wilderness of my chaos and damage for this something that seems missing… those seemingly infinite moments of connection and intimacy are far more rare now, and kind of hit or miss.  I feel it.  I’m learning enough about love, and loving well, to recognize what I miss. (Hey! That’s real progress for me!)  I guess now I need to learn the words to say ‘I love this. I want this.’ and then go about the business of ‘being the change’… that’s the harder part; making it a verb, an action, a reality.  Being the change.  How do I build something I don’t understand? Life’s curriculum apparently gets more challenging as I progress through the lesson plan.  🙂

I do want to say something more… if you have this level of intimacy and connection with your friends and lovers and partners – any or all of them – cherish it! Nurture it! Value it above all things, because taking it for granted can result in a loss that feels…well, it’s very similar for me to grieving the loss of someone dear to me, actually.  The sense of ‘being without it’ is hard to overstate.

Today, I will learn something more about being intimate, and fostering intimacy in my relationships.

It is a pretty morning, and Dave Matthews sings songs of love and life while I sip my morning coffee. My loved ones are home from their weekend getaway, and returning with them, the tension and stress of everyday life, notably absent while they were away. I am considering that, and perspective, this morning.

Much of my PTSD is related to family and romantic relationships, and associated with trauma over time, and small ‘inconsequential’ things that somehow destroy my sense of balance and calm very suddenly.  Fears that overcome me are often based on some historical detail that results in my utter uncertainty about whether or not I am still ‘rational’, whether my here-and-now experience is ‘real’.  The rapid swings between paralyzing panic and trapped-animal rage result in wildly unpredictable behavior – most of it  unpleasant.  One of my highest priorities right now is really getting that under control.  Strangely…’getting it under control’ is turning out to mean ‘accepting myself’, and my feelings, and not exerting so much control; giving up on forcing myself to comply with some arbitrary standard of performance in the face of my own suffering.  In the past, the ferocity applied to ‘forcing myself to be okay’ resulted in splitting headaches, problems with my blood pressure, anxiety and panic attacks, and fits of uncontrollable crying that would sweep up out of nowhere, leaving me feeling like I had, on top of everything else, failed to ‘control myself’.

“Myself”. My self. My self. My self.  Damn. Who am I? Where does my experience begin, where does it end? What is the boundary between what is me, and what is someone else? You’d think an adult would have this one mastered by 50.  Well, sometimes the answers to my questions, the understanding I seek, the resolution to a challenging problem, are inconveniently buried in the basics.   So, this weekend, in addition to being about ‘perspective’, is about applying an understanding of perspective, an experience of perspective, to the question ‘who am I?’

Sorting out the difference between what stresses me, and me stressing over other people’s stress, turns out to be more complicated than I expect.  I’m learning to ‘make room’ for my feelings, and learning to accept myself.  I’m also having to learn to take those new tools, and accept my loved ones, and ‘make room’ for them to have their experience, without that urgent need to intervene, ‘make it right’, ‘force it to work’, or ‘fix things’ sweeping aside the very things that make us individuals sharing a relationship – our unique and individual experiences that we are having, and choosing.

Sometimes words by themselves are not enough for me to gain real clarity.  Maybe I don’t have the right words, or enough words, or maybe I don’t choose them well, or define them with sufficient clarity.  I have painted a number of self-portraits over the years, and studies of my state of being in the abstract.  This morning it occurred to me to take a look at them all, as a body of work with a story to tell – a story to tell me.

"Portrait of the Artist's Tears" 1984?

“Portrait of the Artist’s Tears” 1984?

My shoddy bookkeeping tends to indicate this is my oldest surviving self-portrait.  A small work on watercolor, my recollection is that I was hesitant to make my unhappiness with life too obvious, for fear of making it a great deal worse.  The cries for help just kept coming…

"All I Am" 1985

“All I Am” 1985

Slipped between sheets of rice paper, stored in a box, shoved into the back of a closet for many years, “All I Am” stayed quietly hidden, along with my truths.  i struggled with myself, with my experience, with my PTSD – although I didn’t know then, what I struggled with.  I knew I wanted something else, and I knew my relationships were a core concern…

unfinished "Brownie" 1986

unfinished “Brownie” 1986

I clung fiercely to the illusions I loved most, hoping that somehow wishing hard enough would be enough…

"Waiting for Morning" 1986

“Waiting for Morning” 1986

It wasn’t enough, and I didn’t yet have the tools I needed to find peace, or clarity, and my cynicism and ancient pain overwhelmed me.  Futility became an everyday experience, and romantic love did not exist in my experience in any recognizable form…

"Marriage" 1987

“Marriage” 1987

Grim, bleak landscapes figured prominently in much of my work by 1987, and expansive vistas of far away places. I wanted to get away, but I lacked certainty about what I was running from, or to.  It wasn’t all tears and trauma, and even our worst trials may be interrupted by some wonderful moments.  Marriage didn’t treat me well, and love was pure fiction as far as I could tell, then, but…

"Lovers" 1991

“Lovers” 1991

I found love for the first time, later on. It, too, was a momentary interruption on a very scary ride through life, then.  It was something to hold onto for later, and that would mean so much…

"Joy" 1995

“Joy” 1995

“Joy” is still my singular favorite self-portrait, because it speaks to me of that moment of wondrous realization that love exists.  It was a mundane enough moment, at the dining table, watercolors out, painting simple sketches of moments and feelings, and suddenly… joy, desire, love, passion, and a feeling of being filled with something powerful, something beyond me, and something that was – and is – profoundly positive and transcendent of pain, and chaos and damage.  If I had any thought I could ‘take it with me’, this is a painting I’d want buried with me – it is the best of all that I have within me.

Life is complicated stuff, and I have rarely been able to ‘hang on to’ the best bits.  I struggled for years, and did what I could to ‘keep it to myself’, even suppressing as much pain as I could through Rx psych meds. The next self-portrait I painted was from within an altered state so profound that I got lost, all the pieces of me separating as mists and fogs, dissipating and leaving me alone, and naked with who I had become…

"Separated from Self"

“Separated from Self” 2010

I began making profound changes to, well, almost everything, shortly after that point. Life as it was couldn’t be borne much longer, and it was obvious, even to me.  I can’t take credit for being a willful adult being making reasoned changes… I’ve got to be as honest as I can on that one. I began grabbing any foothold and laying waste to my moment, to my status quo, hanging on to what felt like a change for the better with real ferocity, and discarding anything that hurt… and of course, circumstances, life, and the free will of others in my life threw assorted changes into the mix, too.

"Communion" 2010

“Communion” 2010

I experienced profound love – that magical, amazing, wondrous sort of love often promised, rarely found.   Of course, life rarely limits our unexpected circumstances to the ‘magical, wondrous’ variety…

"A Ratio of 13 to 1" 2011

“A Ratio of 13 to 1” 2011

A sudden, unexpected, unsought career change resulted in anger, insecurity, and… freedom. I was suddenly free to make radical new choices about that pesky ‘who am I?’ question, free to redefine myself, willfully, as I came off the psych meds and regained my soul, and my intellect, and began to develop a sense of self that didn’t rely on any evaluation but my own.  Damn, that sounds awesome when I read it.  Actually, it sucked.  It sucked a lot, and it was one of the most difficult things I’ve undertaken, and more than 2 years later I am still working on it – although it is now as much a joy and delight, as a challenge.  There will never be enough ‘thank you’s’ to give to the dear ones who have been there for me throughout this incredible period of growth.

"Taking Another Look at Me" 2011

“Taking Another Look at Me” 2011

I have re-examined myself from a number of angles since then…

"His Bitch II" 2012

“His Bitch II” 2012

Who am I as a lover? As a partner? What is sex to me, now? Can I  put my demons to rest?

"Agent of Chaos" 2012

“Agent of Chaos” 2012

Can I ‘get it under control’? Can I ‘figure it all out’? What’s wrong with me? I continued to struggle, and somehow the things I expected would help me… data… analysis… writing in my journal… seemed to be making it all so much worse.  I was ‘spinning my wheels’ and not getting anywhere… I stopped writing. I stopped painting. My soul seemed to be stalled. Hormones. Relationship challenges.  Choices and actions that didn’t align to values I thought I had.  The chaos and damage were taking over, the wreckage in my head was becoming the experience in my life… I felt utterly lost.

"Broken" 2012

“Broken” 2012

At the end of 2012 I painted “Broken”. I was trying to say… something. Trying to explain what it felt like on the inside, to communicate something I couldn’t quite seem to put my finger on… and as 2012 became 2013, I found out about the brain injury I had received as a tween.  (I still don’t remember it in any concrete ‘this is my experience’ sort of way… but the crack in my forehead refutes any desire to wish it away now.)  The new information, and beginning therapy more appropriate to my experiences and needs, kick started 2013 as a year of growth – and real healing.

These are who I have been.  I am somewhere new, now, getting to know this amazing being that i am… facing my world, my life, my experience with real hope, and real healing… I look at these self-portraits now, and it is tempting to be frustrated that I wasn’t listening to me, but I am done punishing myself for what has been, and waltzing endlessly with my demons.

I painted “Perspective” this weekend.  It isn’t as much a self-portrait as a meditation, a reflection on a bigger picture, a useful skill, a necessary step in the process of ‘knowing’ – or unknowing – what is, and what is not, and what may be.  I am 50 this year, and there is a lot to celebrate, to observe, to experience.  Soon… a new self-portrait.

I am learning that ‘who I am?’ is not a question to be answered with words.  🙂