Thriving After The Death Of My Biological Imperative

Sometimes it feels as if I am damned if I do and damned if I don’t.

Over the holidays I pulled back on my workload. Those few weeks before the New Year typically feel less pressured from a workload perspective. Meetings are easily scheduled or rescheduled for “next” year and the like. So, I took the bait and slowed down. I put things off, which is not my normal modus operandi.

Here’s The Rub:

I am having the dickens of a time re-starting my engine in the new year, so to speak. The lower gear I indulged in for the few weeks in late December seems to be stuck. In particular my writing muse eludes me and my Jack’s Smack page remained blank last week. 

So I did what any self-respecting writer would do: I perused my old files of random thoughts, notes, and “AHA” moments that I often jot down. I found a gem from 2017. It struck such a chord for me that I decided to share it with you.

What A Difference Four Years Make:

“the brand of rage that sparks the detonation of missiles”

Four years ago, one morning I wrote:

Crazy hormonal fluctuations have wreaked havoc on my mind and body the last couple of days. Everything from the typical hot/cold flashes, the heavy headache right behind my eyes, and an inability to sleep. As if the physical discomfort isn’t enough, I have a burning rage inside whereby I KNOW everyone around me is an A-hole. The brand of rage that sparks the detonation of missiles on North Korea. 

This morning I warned my eighth grade son. Warned him that any — and I mean ANY — misstep would not be tolerated. Showing empathetic concern, he probed as to what was wrong. I shared with him the litany of ways my body was betraying me and why. 

“You’ve lived longer than was intended,” he helpfully retorted.

Just like that — six words. No one word carried any import on its own but strung together and slung at me in my estrogen-deficient blind haze devastated me. I no longer serve a biological purpose. I no longer can bring forth new life. And the machine in which I reside unabashedly is failing. It’s happened without fanfare.

Looking Back On Those Words……

“ I realized that the only one NOT getting nurtured by me — was, well, ME!”

Ouch, I don’t remember that particular morning. It’s a good thing, sounds like I was having a pretty cruddy time of things. But, reading those few paragraphs does bring me a sigh of relief. Relief that I am past that transition phase. Relief to now know there is life, beauty, good feels, and sleep on the other side of losing one’s biological imperative. 

I wish I could say my transition phase was quick, if painful. But it really wasn’t. I spent almost three years figuring my “new” self out. That’s what menopause turned out to be for me personally. A metamorphosis, a shedding of my hard-wired maternal instincts. And I am not talking about instincts that only served my offspring — I was nurturing to everyone: friends, family, boyfriends. My need to nurture, during my breeding years, bled out to nearly all in my life. It wasn’t until I reached the other side that I realized that the only one NOT getting nurtured by me — was, well, ME!

Need Help? Reach Out:

And so I am here to say, if you’re deep in the chaos of menopause, there is another side. One that you will get to, eventually. And from recent conversations with many women, I learned thankfully not everyone has such a hard time. But if you are in the maelstrom of menopause symptoms and struggling, reach out. I am more than happy to share my journey

Interestingly enough, stumbling across this memory of my menopausal struggle provided the nudge I needed to reach the “other side” of my post-holiday rut. Knowing that I not only survived the transition but I am currently thriving gives me courage and patience to hangout in my low gear. Heck, I am headache free, rested, and Korea is safe — at least from me.