I skipped a period last month and am currently on day 55 of my cycle. It’s not the first time I’ve missed a period, it happened 9 months ago and I got all excited thinking Aunt Flo had finally left the building only for her visits to continue on as normal the following month, but this time something feels different.
I am hot. I don’t mean I’m hot (there are chastity belts with more sex appeal than I currently possess), I mean I am boiling. All of the time. I’m still not having traditional hot flushes where you go bright red and sweat like a hog on a spit, but I am definitely having moments where I feel like I’m stood too close to a forest fire and my skin is turning to crackling. Having spent several years bathed in oily sweat at nights, I’m now also roasting every morning and have repetitive strain injury from reaching for the toggle on my ceiling fan. At least I’ll save on heating bills this winter, even if my dog gets hypothermia.
I’ve gone from looking pretty good for my age and still turning the odd male head, to Mr Blobby. I am frumpy, saggy, dried up and have never been this fat in my entire life. I know I need to diet, but I have a crack addiction to sugar and am liable to stab you with a bread knife if you get in the way of me and my cookie jar. The thought of healthy food makes me want to barf but I would crawl over hot coals for just a snif of salted caramel Haagen Dazs. By the time I’m 55 I’ll need to take the window out of my lounge to leave the house cos I won’t be able to fit through the door.
I have insomnia. Again. Due to a combination of M.E. and raging histamine levels I spent the better part of twenty years unable to sleep and just when I finally get everything under control and am rendered unconscious for six blissful hours every night my hormones die a death and I’m back to staring at the ceiling at 3am. It’s just plain rude.
I’m a naturally bubbly person with plenty of joie de vivre. After spending a decade sick in bed, any day I’m not in pyjamas is a good day and although I have strong opinions I don’t sweat the small stuff. However, with Aunt Flo’s imminent departure my personalty seems to have done a bunk and there are now people in locked psychiatric wards who are more emotionally stable than me. Every driver on the road is a twat. Every inventor of anything electrical is a twat, Bill Gates is obviously a twat, politicians are twats, car parks are designed by twats, farmers who own ridiculously loud tractors are twats (in fact, farmers in general are murdering twats) and of course people who place cash offers on bungalows are the biggest twats of all. In fact, every person in the universe bar me is a twat, except my best mate and possibly my dog (although he does have twatish tendancies). And when I’m not calling everyone, and his dog, a twat I’m lying sobbing on the kitchen floor, with snot streaming down my nose, feeling like my Granny has died.
I have zero energy and even less motivation. I’m not depressed, I’m just absolutely and utterly knackered and all I want to do is lie in bed all day eating crap and watching Say Yes To The Dress. This is in stark contrast to a quarter of a century with M.E. where I wanted to do stuff but simply couldn’t. Now I am physically able to do stuff but simply can’t be arsed. Having a tidy house, clean clothes and acceptable levels of personal hygiene are over-rated – I’d rather find out whether she chooses the ballgown or the fit ‘n flare with the sweetheart neckline while stuffing my face with alternating Pringles and peanut M&Ms.
There is, however, good news. The reason I have prayed for the Menoapuse to arrive is that I have spent decades crippled with pain from severe endometriosis and adenomyosis, and while I am still getting cyclical pelvic pain it is nothing compared to the agony I am used to. And while the past six months have seen my migraines ratch up a notch or ten, the past few weeks I’ve barely had any head pain at all, which is another hugely welcome bonus. Long may both continue.