My perimenopause should have an alter ego because some days I feel like a completely different human being. She’d be named Lydia, one of those girls with black lipstick, a short plaid skirt and chomps gum. Lydia is straight trouble–pokes angry bears, doesn’t wash her hands, plays with matches.
“I’m a good person. I’m a nice person. I love people,” I repeat to myself in my office like a crazy woman reciting a magical mantra. I’m struggling with wild hormonal fluctuations that make me feel like a hateful person. How can I admit this to someone? Who will understand? My fuse is very short after always being a highly tolerant person. I’ve gently tried explaining to the men in my life…I’m going through a change. I can’t handle what I used to handle. No one seems to understand. No one seems supportive of me slowing down.
My primary care doctor’s office calls. The nurse asks if I want to have a Pap smear done during my appointment. I tell her no, I’m going to the OBGYN the next day. She sounds concerned, “Oh, do you have a cancer concern?” I tell her, “No, I’m dealing with the craziness of perimenopause. I’m considering HRT.” Her professional tone completely drops, “Oh, girl. It’s so terrible. I’ve been not sleeping. Work has been so rough.” We spend the next ten minutes candidly talking as if we are girlfriends. She laughs when I tell her my mantra and replies, “Same. Same.” After we end the call, I say a prayer of thanks for our brief conversation and pray that the nurse gets much deserved rest. For a moment, I feel seen. That’s the power of sisterhood. That is the power of open conversations.
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