This morning, a
gynecologist-slash-menopause doctor on the Today show said it’s good to
document menopause phase of your life with a diary—“Chart any changes,
emotional or physical, to help you better understand yourself and keep it all
in perspective.” And you must BE HONEST she said. A diary can act as a
confidant, she said. “Pour out all your fears, complaints and maladies in the
diary and spare your husband!” Matt Lauer laughed at this in a Hey, I know what
you mean, women can be such pain in the asses, sort of way.
I’d
like to start with the crying. I have been crying for no explicable reason
these days. I thought this crying
was just over-exaggerated manifestation of my usual neurosis, but after being
enlightened by the Today Show, I understand I am not alone. Apparently, lots of
52 plus year old women are wading through the same swamp of unidentifiable
despair, but somehow, that does not make ME feel any better. No one is going through menopause,
as I AM GOING THROUGH IT. I am special.
(When
I used to cry, in my twenties, over men, it did not comfort me that there were
possibly thousands, no, millions of women out there who did not have a
boyfriend. I only cared that I did not
have one. My mother used to sit next to me on my tissue-laden bed and say,
“Lots of girls are single at 27 years old. You are so BEA-U-TI-FUL, think of
the poor ugly ones. They may NEVER find anyone. I assure you, you will find someone, and then the real crying will start! (Ha, ha) Now dry your eyes and
drive me to the supermarket.”)
Last night, again,
I burst out crying for no reason. This should definitely be documented. Oh,
sure, I MADE UP a reason so Husband would not think I was loosing my mind, but
there was NO REAL REASON.
So as not to be
hauled off to an expensive, New York therapist, here are some stock reasons I
use as an excuse for my crying bouts:
1. My
mother is getting older, 75, and it’s sad to see her this way. (She has a
boyfriend with whom she spends every weekend and is never home what with all
the clubs and the dances and the luncheons. This is the weakest of reasons.)
2. Anything job related. (The 8th
graders this year are so awful. They have no respect and they don’t do their
homework. (surprise, surprise) OR—I am overwhelmed with paperwork and can’t
even find time to teach effective lessons. OR—The male teachers I work with do
not pull their weight. And on and on and on. This school related reason is
often real.)
3. My favorite: I
FEEL UGLY. (This one actually does makes me feel better, because Husband will
sit next to me on the bed and put his arm around me and tell me that I’m all
wrong and that I am BEA-U-TI-FUL and if I dry my eyes he will take me to Home
Depot and allow me to wile away an hour or so oogling window treatments and
lighting fixtures he has no intention of ever buying while he discusses the
joys and disappointments of spackle with an “associate”.
4. I miss our
three boys. (One, Jon, away at college, twelve blocks away at NYU. One,
Alex, just graduated NYU and in his own apartment near Washington Square, eight
blocks away, and one, Nick, passed away at 21 from Leukemia a year and a half
ago—very legitimate reason to cry-- but usually not the reason. (I tend to save
up crying over Nick for certain, compartmentalized times, usually in his room
or when I see a picture. Even then, it’s not the real boo-hoo type crying one
would expect or even want to see from a mother under these circumstances. It’s
just a whole lot of head talk, like, think of something else, think of
something else, shit, shit, shit, think of something else. I am
not totally proud of this and sometimes I wonder why I don’t cry harder and
more often, instead of just sitting on the edge of his bed, glazed over, and
forcing myself to look around and remember things that hurt, like tubes and
pill bottles and the way he would shuffle into his room from the bathroom like
a 90 year old man, skinny and pale. It’s like that accident cliché where you
can’t stand to look, but you can’t look away. )
Shit, shit, shit!
I’m going to cry. Let me change the subject. I’m getting very good at that.
The first time
this crying thing happened, I was in Miami, about few years ago. Husband and I
took a little vacation with the 3 boys. The first morning we woke up, husband
goes out for his usual triathlon of exercise and I planned to take a shower.
Funny, the things
you discover about yourself when you are away on vacation and out of your
normal element. I had no idea I was so persnickety about my showers, but
apparently I am. At home, I have a showerhead that can be removed and held
in-hand to wash all those HARD TO REACH PLACES. Places where the sun doesn’t
usually shine, unless you bend over to pick up your sunglasses on a nude beach,
which let’s face it, doesn’t happen all that often. I like things immaculately
clean in those shady places because all the TV advertisements have made me
acutely aware of how important it is to start the day “fresh”, therefore, “more
confident.”
So
I got in the shower, down there in Miami, and I started the water. AND THEN I
looked up and saw it. A stationary showerhead!! STATIONARY. And there was no
water pressure to speak of. The
water was coming out in a dribble—like the drinking fountains in Central Park.
I
tried to play along. I lifted one leg and angled my pelvis skyward. Dribble, dribble. Nothing got wet
except my knees.
Feelings
of frustration and upsetment quickly started to well up in my chest and my
throat and suddenly and without warning, I BURST OUT CRYING. Just like that.
Burst right out in hysterics. Then, even more suddenly, and with even less
warning, I burst into a hysterical laughter—IN THE SHOWER. I was laughing and
crying hysterically in the shower in the middle of Miami Beach because the
water could not, would not, reach my private parts.
The
boys were now pressed to the others side of the bathroom door.
“Mom!
Mom! Are you okay in there? Mom! What’s the matter?”
“Nothing.
Sob, sob. “Nothing.” Ha-ha. “Don’t worry. It’s—sob, my hormones.” Big, long
sob, followed by burst of hysterical laughter. Yes, laughter. That's when I
became alarmed.
And
that, dear reader, was the beginning. The start of the peri-menopausal nightmare
I currently find myself in today—a constant state of indecision, hysteria,
anxiety, and an overwhelming sense of being overwhelmingly overwhelmed all the
time. I went from being a fairly together, emotionally stable wife, mother, and
8th grade teacher to the indecisive, psychotic, and let’s face it,
annoying wreck that I am today.
So here's my question. Am I alone here?
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