Tag Archives: end of perimenopause

Say Yes to the Menopause

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 road-rage.jpgon 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.



You’re Fired!

I am as grumpy as a bear with a thorn in its arse.  I started my periods at the age of 11 and am now in my fifties, yet does The Curse show any signs of gasping its last breath?  That would be a big, fat, no.  I’ve read all the blurb online about Menopause and every article states that it happens at the average age of 51, but my body clearly hasn’t got the fucking memo.  I’ve had 40 years of cramps, backache, migraines, sore boobs, insomnia, nausea and painful bowel movements and I have had about as much as I can take.  Both my oestrogen and my progesterone need to jog the fuck on and leave me to my old age.

I can’t believe that not only are my periods not stopping, they’re getting ever more frequent.  In fact, Aunt Flo has just been back for a visit only 9 days after she last left the building and she didn’t come alone.  Oh no.  She brought with her Migraine-The-Torturer and his hanger-on Nausea, The Munchies who moaned there were no Star Burst in the house and made me drive 14 miles to buy some, and my old friend Back Pain who still thinks it’s hilarious to keep me awake half the night in agony.  My exhausted ovaries have served them all with an Eviction notice but they’re not playing ball (although it feels like someone’s playing ball with my bladder, the amount of peeing I’m doing!).

There is one person who has vacated the premises, however.  Energy.  Yup, he deserted me months ago and only flits back now and again to have his washing done before packing his bags and sodding off back to Siberia.  Traitor!  I hope he gets frostbite or eaten by Cossacks.

I’ve worked out that in the last 40 years I’ve spent at least £2,400 on sanitary products and what has my Uterus given me in return?  Agonizing, fiery pain that’s what.  I could have gone on a cruise with that cash.

Hormones you’re fired, and if you don’t vacate the building soon I’ll have security escort you off the premises!