Unable to speak, my throat constricted by sobs, I ended the call abruptly while the other person on the line was still talking.
The hot, familiar, salty tears cascaded down my face. I stood desperate and hopeless in the middle of the field, crying uncontrollably. The GP receptionist called me back immediately, a concerned tone in her voice. She must have sensed my deep level of distress. This time she listened.
My menopause journey began…well, I can’t even remember when. It’s all such a blur.
The very first sign that something was not right was when I received a demand for an unpaid road toll in the post. When I opened the letter and read it, my anger ignited so quickly that before I knew it, I was swearing, shouting, and tearing the letter up…and then I ate the letter! What the f*ck?
I called my GP the following day to say I thought I was going mad and needed to be assessed as soon as possible. I got the all clear, however, and carried on with life as normal.
Only I wasn’t normal. That was just the beginning.
Increasingly, my moods became unpredictable, and I was on a short fuse. My tolerance levels were plummeting, and my irritation was rising. I was becoming forgetful and confused. I thought I was at the start of dementia—at 47.
I eventually came to the realisation that menopause might be knocking at the door.
I hadn’t been “me” for quite some time before I asked for help from a male GP at my surgery. He refused to give me HRT, quoting some outdated guidance from the 1970s, reading from a script that has since been proven to be completely inaccurate. The solution for me, he stated, was anti-depressants. That’s what I needed. I told him I wasn’t depressed. He refused to listen, so I ended the call.
To help myself, I tried herbal supplements for six months, but they weren’t robust enough to deal with the intensity of moods when I was in the eye of the storm that is menopause.
After calling the GP surgery at 8 a.m. every morning on the dot, and starting at 25th in the queue each time, I finally succeeded in speaking with a female doctor, who seemed more knowledgeable and understanding, and who agreed to give me HRT. I felt relieved and reassured to have the little plastic patch stuck to my buttocks, that 6 cm x 6 cm sliver of hope, my butt cheek soaking up the hormones that would make me “me” again.
I waited and waited for “me” to appear, but I never showed up.
A few weeks after starting HRT, I had a meeting with my boss to discuss my “objectives” as part of the appraisal process. When she asked me what I felt my goals might be for the coming year, and what I wanted to achieve, the floodgates opened. The tears came, and I sat there and cried. I could barely cope with the day in front of me, never mind consider what I wanted to achieve in six months or twelve months down the line. Just making it through each day was success for me. I attempted to explain to my boss through snot and tears, my body heaving with sobs, that currently, my brain could not compute further than the next few hours. My boss kindly terminated the meeting due to my blubbering state.
I knew I needed help, again. I was now in the thick grasp of menopause.
For me, the emotional and psychological symptoms of menopause were far worse than the physical symptoms. They were deep, dark, and terrifying.
At my most desperate, I remember walking in the woods in a daze, looking at a tree, and wondering if I decided to hang myself from it whether it would hold my weight. I wandered around in a stupor. Sitting motionless on a wooden bench, I looked out at the world as if I was trapped in a glass bubble. I could see life going on, but I felt completely dissociated from it. My mind felt like it had totally split.
I begged my GP to check my hormone levels, even though I’d been repeatedly told she wouldn’t do blood tests. After 1 whole year of my asking, she relented and gave me the blood tests.
She called me personally to give me the results, and with a nervous laugh she told me, “No wonder you feel so bad, your Oestrogen levels are the lowest I’ve ever seen.”
To say I was angry is an understatement. I was totally incensed! I had felt ignored and dismissed for so long, and now to be told I was right to be concerned—I’d suffered unnecessarily for months!
I graduated to the highest dose of HRT, with patches the size of large Post-it notes. But because of the high dose of Oestrogen, it led to vaginal bleeding, which is a red flag for possible cancer, and so I had to stop all HRT.
I had to go cold turkey. I had to be in menopause in all its power and intensity without a buffer! This felt totally terrifying. The last three had been the worst.
I started to see things as they were. It felt like I had walked out of Plato’s cave. The intense rage that surged up through my body at the most unexpected moments shocked me because of its mind-blowing power. Its force was like a tsunami of years of built-up resentment, pain, anger, emotional wounds, injustices, betrayals, hurt, and unfairness. I felt possessed, taken over and controlled by an unknown entity. The demon inside was sucking the life out of me, then spewing it back out as hot, toxic poison. Scenes from “The Exorcist” and “The Conjuring 1” come to mind!
This felt like it was a time of reckoning. The lid was off and there was no putting it back on. I wouldn’t silence myself anymore. I wouldn’t take any sh*t or do sh*t I didn’t want to do anymore! No more accommodating and co-operating. Oestrogen was diminished, and with it went the “nice” girl.
But in addition to the rage, extreme forgetfulness, confusion, and brain fog brought intense frustration and fear. I’d forget how to turn the computer on, I left keys in the front door, I left the gas ring burning on the hob, and when driving, I’d forget where I was supposed to go. I had to triple check things because I doubted myself and my sanity. I’d always forget where I parked at the supermarket, and I once tried to climb into someone else’s car!
Being unable to recall my way home was the most upsetting and scary, as it reminded me of the movie “Alice” which is about dementia. The first sign Alice had dementia was when she couldn’t find her way home.
The loss of my old self felt like I was falling into a black hole that had no end.
Who the hell was I? I had no sense of identity. Menopause turned my world upside down and smashed my sense of self and identity to pieces, scattering “me” all over the floor. My relationship with my husband was tested to its limits and stretched to the breaking point. He didn’t know who I was anymore, either.
Grief and loss were big feelings, too. The ginormous grief, loss, and emptiness I felt when both my children flew the nest in consecutive years was something I wasn’t prepared for. Three years later, I still feel that pain.
I grieved for who I used to be—my identity, the loss of my looks, my hair thinning, my skin crepey and saggy, my body creaking at the joints. I grieved the loss of my fertility, the loss of my libido, the loss of my sanity and sharp mind, the loss of my confidence and self-esteem.
I grieved my youth.
Feeling invisible and overlooked in an ageist society reminded me of my getting older. I’d been put out to pasture. I didn’t matter anymore.
In addition, the global pandemic, with enforced lock downs for almost two years contributed enormously to my menopause mix of fear, confusion, and chaos. I also resigned from the job that I loved because I could no longer cope with the mental demands on me. Another loss.
Multiple life changes converging at once did not bode well for a smooth experience of menopause.
The intensity of emotions I experienced in menopause, the ups and downs, remind me of the biggest roller-coaster ride in the world—”The Smiler” at Alton Towers theme park. Only, I wasn’t smiling when I was on the menopause ride, and once you’re on it you can’t get off, having to endure the twists and turns, all the gigantic loops, all the ups and downs, and all at high speed. You have to cling on until the end and trust you’ll get off alive! It was a terrifying, white-knuckle ride.
I’ve had to fight when I had no fight left in me, I’ve had to cling on when I felt I was being dragged down into the depths, and I had to struggle to be heard and taken seriously. When I needed support and understanding, I got judgement and disregard. I was left to get on with it. Suffer in silence. Not make a fuss.
Despite all of this, I have survived and endured the storm, almost intact. I’m a little shell shocked and unsteady, but I’m finding my feet. It’s taken nearly 10 years, but I feel I am now coming through the other side. Like I am shedding old layers, I am emerging, renewing, resetting. I’m able to feel positive and hopeful again for the next chapter of my life.
It feels like a new beginning.
Here are some of the ways that helped me transition through menopause, leaving me feeling even stronger than before.
1. I communicated my needs: I shared with my husband and teenage children how I was feeling. I told them what I needed and forewarned them that my moods were unpredictable. Both my husband and my children were very supportive. I spoke with my friends every day, who understood the turmoil.
2. I reduced stress: My husband offered to take over all of the cooking, as it created too much stress for me. (Cooking is not my strength so it also meant he got to eat decent food!) I gave up my stressful job as a senior lecturer in a university.
3. I stopped watching the news: I deleted my X account and minimised social media use. I fed my mind only positive, nutritious thoughts.
4. I joined a gym: This was so out of character for me, as I hated exercise, and I didn’t like sweating, but I had to do something to help myself. I found when I was in the gym, I could lose myself in the music, or I’d listen to a podcast. It was uninterrupted time for me. I lost weight, built muscle mass, and toned up. Both my body and mind grew stronger.
5. Community and meditation: I attended a “Conscious Connected Breathwork” class every week.
6. My dog: I walked in nature with him in all kinds of weather. He made me laugh, and laughter was in short supply at that time!
7. Art: I participated in online Art Journaling sessions every Monday evening. Each week was a different topic, and learning new techniques. It was a mixed group of women from all over Europe. Sometimes we’d sit in silence, and sometimes in conversation. Art allowed me to process my intense feelings and release any pent-up emotions. I still attend these classes.
8. Writing: I wrote in a journal to capture my confused thoughts, allowing more headspace to deal with everyday life.
9. Sleep and nutrition: I got eight hours a night—no exceptions. I ate foods that provided the nutrients I needed.
10. Reduced alcohol intake: I had more clarity and energy and felt healthier.
11. Self-Care: I became more selfish, though I like to use the words self-care instead.
12. I found myself again: I adapted a “f*ck it” attitude and got creative with it, which provided a great release! I made glittery “F*ck it” wands for my menopausal friends, created candles with offensive messages, which I burned when I had female get togethers, and wore a silver “Fuck off” necklace which felt like my armour. I wore only bright clothes and got addicted to gold and silver boots! Anything that sparkled and was colourfully intense brought me joy. My bright red signature lipstick was a reminder to me of who I was, and my constant connection to my self.
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