Menopause, which I’m told can last for 10 years or longer!, is characterized by most women – and this is putting it as nicely as we can – as a time of powerful mood swings. Mine alternate between intense anger that seems to arise from something of little importance (which I often act on), followed the next day by feeling as powerful as the president of the United States (which carries its own set of dangers)… These “swings” — Who thought that word up? Like it’s a game or something? There’s nothing “swinging” about them… — make me believe in the legitimacy of temporary insanity. But why are these moods deemed to be “insane” when they’re likely a rational combination of changing body chemistry and a psychological reaction to life-long prohibition from the joining the club?
I’ve certainly felt intense anger a lot over the course of my life. What seems different now is the feeling of injustice and my unwillingness to take it anymore. Of course lashing out labels you a bitch. Any woman knows that.
But I’m at the point where politely holding back incurs a greater cost: anxiety, eating and drinking too much, weight gain, depression, antidepressants. Are the latter just to keep you in check?
You wonder, because so many women are on them. I had a conversation with a female colleague from another university two full years ago in which she confided she was taking a little something. (She felt good that she was “only taking half a tab.”) She was amazed when I failed to respond, “So am I.” She said that, as far as she could tell, I was one of her few friends who was not taking a little something.
But last fall, I, too, took up the sport as a response to depression from ongoing developments at work that I couldn’t manage. One of my sisters was taking antidepressants, and her encouragement made me feel as if there was nothing to fear.
A few months ago, I cavalierly failed to renew my antidepressant prescription in a timely fashion, which left me off the little something for a couple of days. Luckily, it happened over a weekend (read: I was worried about having minimal impact on the outside world, but why was that more important than my health?). I woke up on a Saturday morning feeling unbelievably woozy. I could hardly stand up; all I wanted to do was return to bed. The symptoms were like none I’d ever had before. I had to call my neighbor and cancel our standard morning walk. Only later in the day did it occur to me what the cause might be.
I went to the pharmacy that afternoon desperate to get my prescription filled – how could the pharmacy be closed before 6PM? The next morning I went as soon as they opened, barely able to concentrate, driving erratically, literally in a sweat, and crying. The pharmacy staff must have thought I was going through withdrawal. I WAS going through withdrawal. A few hours later I was fine. Back to business as usual. Just like a good girl. But now I understand what withdrawal can feel like: It’s very scary.
I talked to my doctor about it. At least antidepressants, because of their potential for leading to suicide, are something doctors tend to pay attention to at the first hint of a problem. She recommended I stay on the little something for a full nine months before weaning myself off them. The “theory” was that, when you got off them, you’d feel better than you did before you got on them. Huh?
So the nine months brings me to this holiday season. To get off the drug entirely, I was advised to spend three more months taking progressively smaller dosages hoping I’ll again be drug-free and feeling all right at the end. So who’s really benefiting from me taking this drug? I’m beginning to think it’s not I.
A friend who recently stayed with me had just started taking a different antidepressant. I told her my story. After only a few weeks on the substance, she decided, after consulting her doctor, to get off it. Made me feel like a bonafide abuser – at a $30/month co-pay. You wonder if my HMO gets a kickback from the drug company…
I started to see a pattern of my lows emerge over a period of several years. The low, when I felt incredibly tired, cranky, and hardly able to concentrate, would last up to three days, followed by the high when I felt omnipotent. Slowly the low became shorter in duration. I thought I could apply reason to “manage” the phenomenon, particularly at work. (After all, I had to keep it together, right? When I acted out or otherwise expressed my true, possibly undiplomatic, feelings, I’d get slammed. But men of course do this all the time, and it’s accepted.) When I couldn’t hold myself back and I was convinced I was going to do more damage than good (still at the behest of reason), I would absent myself. That seemed like a reasonable response to a monstrous condition. But why did I need to hide? Because my condition didn’t serve men well? Was disruptive? Got in the way of being productive? Can’t have any of those things.
But denying the condition of course just makes it more powerful…
Normally I would take myself out to see a movie. After all, how much damage can you do in a darkened theater other than forgetting to turn your cell phone off? (Why do I equate honesty with doing damage? Is it the tone I use or what I say that can be damaging?)
So, putting my emotions on ice, I picked – what else? – the most controversial movie I could find. Couldn’t have been a coincidence. Do we smother our own feelings through the outlet of watching others on the big screen perform one outrage after another for some kind of catharsis or just to let the moment pass?
The perfect choice was Borat, that movie about a supposed loopy, but nice-guy TV journalist from Kazakhstan, played by Sacha Baron Cohen, a British comedian. Borat, speaking mangled English and even shown singing the Kazakhstan national anthem to – what could be more outrageous? – the music of the “Star Spangled Banner” at a rodeo, wanders around the U.S. interviewing people who think he’s the real deal in pursuit of marriage with Baywatch actress Pamela Anderson.
I think it’s a miracle the guy is still alive. Or is the whole thing a massive contrivance? After all, the people around him had to have known they were on camera. The situations were outrageous but their responses so muted. But they’re not so muted now: Many of them, including the entire town of Glod, Romania, where the “Kazakhstan” scenes were filmed, are suing Cohen. Is it funny or unethical what he has done?
A friend, reading a past EAP column in which I referred to the breast cancer fund raiser she organized, likened me to Carrie Bradshaw in “Sex and the City.” The self absorption and uncontrollable blond hair fit, but certainly not the $600 Manolo Blahnik shoes. Besides the unbelievable expense, who would wear those things? Any self-respecting horsewoman like me for sure doesn’t wear high heels because they abuse your calves – they contract your muscles making it impossible to keep your heels lower than your feet, which is critical for stability on the back of a horse. Given their style, it’s probably a safe bet that Bradshaw and alter ego Sarah Jessica Parker are missing the fun of riding and horse companionship.
Why do women think things like high heels make them sexier when they end up crippling them? Trying to please men, I suppose. Men think these shoes are sexy (because they make your legs look slimmer?), so many women buy into that notion in spite of the pain and awkward way of walking they cause. When you think about it, these shoes also make women more helpless. Is that the goal? Sigh…
Luckily, I gave up that incarnation of the men-pleasing game long ago. Still, even at age 50+, I see women like that and yearn for that kind of body and sense of style. But I’ve never had either, so it’s a bit late to hope for them now. So why do I hold on, even tenuously, to this wish? Is it because middle aged women feel so invisible?
Carrie Bradshaw of course brings me to the subject of sex. We hear all the time that menopause can be a time for declining sex drive in women. I see TV ads, for example, for various topical and other “applications” that can be used to enhance one’s response, so to speak. Are they really needed? Do they really work? Or is it that men’s need for Viagra and related “uppers” (after all, how much spam do you get on this topic?) makes them think that women must be in decline sexually as well? It would gall them no end to know that’s probably not the case.
Contrary to what the media may tell us, my experience has been just the opposite. After all, how liberating can it be to not worry about pregnancy anymore, especially for someone who never intended to have children anyway? (I’m sure that would drive many men crazy as well.) From my perspective, sex has been pretty darn good (dare I say better than ever?) of late. All the more reason to tune out the media and tune into one’s own body.
I’m lucky to have fallen in love with a man well worth waiting for. He’s the one with all the toys in my garage. He calls me his “little bed warmer” – what I would call the “night sweater.” Thank goodness he’s so tolerant. But then he’s always cold…I guess that’s the tradeoff for sharing a drenched bed night after night.
And returning to the subject of horses, it turns out that mares, like my 22-year-old Miss Eva, don’t go through menopause. Eva, at approximately the age of a 72-year-old person, has gotten noticeably grey in recent years, but she’s still as feisty as ever and, in fact, prefers the company of much younger geldings. Lucky for her she’s going to be relocated soon with a couple of her favorites. Now here’s a gal that doesn’t take any guff – from two- or four-legged creatures. I’m sure she’ll be the one in charge. She too may be self-absorbed, but she’s an example worth paying attention to. Instead, I would call her self-realized. “But she’s a horse for god’s sakes,” you say. Yes, but she “gets it,” and her shoes cost only $125/pair. So at least she has a more realistic sense of what’s appropriate.