P is for Perimenopause

Most of my blogs are about my recent divorce. Can I say for a fact that it was brought on by perimenopause? Yes. Because with this ever-growing list of ridiculous symptoms, I no longer had time for additional BULLSHIT.

I had early-onset perimenopause…like at 40. So, of course, no doctors believed me. At 46 and 3/4, the perils, they do persist.

I have stood in the fridge/freezer doors no less than three times this week.

I have invested in pimple patches. But not those stupid stars. WTF is that about? I’m 46, not a 13-year-old attending a sleepover.

I can’t remember anything. Like, where I put my phone while it is IN MY HAND. I know you just told me something. I still don’t remember. And why am I looking in this closet right now???

My brain is basically a browser with 47 tabs open, and I have no idea which one is playing music. Mainly “MOOOOVE BITCH, GET OUT THE WAY…” or similar.

I am taking care of my very active teens—literal chauffeur here and there and there and back and then here and there, and then start all over the next day. Does the team at least win? No.

Meanwhile, I’m supporting an aging parent with their own major health issues.

It’s too much.

Put myself first and try to shed some pounds? BAM. Put on meds that make you gain weight.

Try to eat healthy? DIARRHEA LETTUCE.

Try to destress to lose the cortisol face puffiness and spare tire? The news and the state of the country send me directly into stress eating.

Sleep? Hahahahahaha.

I am exhausted, but apparently 3:26 a.m. is the perfect time for my brain to review every embarrassing thing I’ve done since 1998.

And then there are the hot flashes.

Nothing like sitting peacefully on the couch and suddenly feeling like I have been selected as the human sacrifice in some sort of tropical ritual.

The sensory overload, OMG.

The lights are too bright. Don’t even THINK about turning on the BIG LIGHT.

Lamps only.

Or candles.

As long as there’s someone else here to remember to blow them out.

People are too loud.

People are too people-y.

Leave me alone.

And my tolerance for bullshit? Gone.

Not reduced.

Gone.

I can go from “That’s annoying” to “I would like to launch myself directly into the ocean” in approximately 4.6 seconds.

My nervous system has apparently confused “someone sent an email” with WE ARE UNDER ATTACK.

So to also have a needy husband who doesn’t respect boundaries or you as a person—even when you’re at your best, which you are not—nope.

Pass.

Thank you for coming to my menopause monologue.

Please blow out the candle on your way out.