I admire your persistence. I really do. You’re tenacious, and—generally speaking—I like that in a person. Or syndrome. Whatever. But the way you valiantly infiltrate one part of my life after another despite my attempts to tame you with artificial hormone regulation… well, it’s something to behold. I have to give you that.
The slow but steady weight gain as you methodically readjust my metabolism is insidious, true, but not unexpected. I don’t like it. All of this additional shopping for pants is annoying. But were you satisfied to stop there? Oh, no. Not you! You had grander plans for me than just THAT!
And so the broken-internal-thermostat issue has also been intensifying over time. Which is especially lovely when one barely has any pants that fit, let me tell you.
And it couldn’t just be that I’m always too hot or too cold, either. Nope! That would be TOO EASY! Instead I’ve become a thermostatic Goldilocks. In the evenings I shiver on the couch next to my husband until he asks me if I’m feeling okay or until—out of nowhere—a hot flash swoops in with immediate vengeance, and I have to all but strip naked to withstand the sudden onslaught. In the summer I become faint and dizzy in extreme heat despite my noticeable lack of too-tight corset strings or propensity to eat turnips during difficult times. A dip in the pool will rescue me for approximately thirty seconds, until I find myself shivering with the cold of it. Lather, rinse, repeat.
At least I can rest assured knowing that whatever temperature I’m suffering through at the moment, chances are it will swing the other way in a few minutes if I just wait.
The changes in my skin are likewise simply charming. I mean, really, WHO KNEW I could have BOTH wrinkles and acne at the same time? How was I to even dream of the day when the zits would nestle right up against my newly parched and puckering skin around my mouth? Well played, madam. Very dramatic.
But this latest move is truly the crown jewel to top all others, I am certain. I mean, other symptoms have come and gone while my hormone dosage was adjusted, it’s true. But by all accounts my current dosage is “stable” and “therapeutic” and yet here I am with that problem I remember most keenly from those early post-surgical hormone rollercoaster days:
I cannot sleep.
Maybe you’ll be so sly as to try to pin it on something else—stress, perhaps—but this baby has your fingerprints ALL OVER IT. I am (was) a champion sleeper. I can (could) outsleep anyone, any time. Until now. Now I lie awake at night with only my hot flashes to keep me company. And despite having endured this late-to-drop-off, early-to-pop-awake hell for nearly a week, now, I also cannot nap. Furthermore: I’m mean as a snake. We all know who brings THAT particular party to the table.
I’m looking at you, Menopause. I’m on to you. I get it—you won’t be ignored, and I have no pet rabbit to stew to make your point. Hormones or no, you’re here to stay. I GET IT. How about we call a truce? You let me get some rest and chill out, and my family and I will thank you. Heck, go ahead and sprout a couple more of those black hairs from my chin, instead, maybe. I’ve got tweezers handy.
But this “pondering the miracle of womanhood” thing at 3:00 a.m. is getting very, very old. Stop being such a bitch.
Yours (whether I want to be or not),