Menopause, The Last Taboo

After a recent unfortunate social experience and reading Lisa Renee’s hilarious description of menopause, I’ve decided to start talking about menopause in mixed company and I’m not shutting up.

This weekend my husband and I were at a brunch with a small group of well-educated and funny friends, many of whom are writers and some of whom are former editors of the Harvard Lampoon and National Lampoon, where nothing was considered sacred or taboo if it was funny.

One of the women began talking about the latest trend of women getting their vaginas tightened by laser therapy. No one batted an eye.

So I piped up, “As a woman of a certain age, I can’t imagine me or any other woman my age wanting that part of our body any tighter than it already is.” Menopausal sisters, I don’t need to explain.

There was an awkward silence. Then one of the men covered his ears and chanted “lalalalala,” and another jokingly said, “Men, shall we repair to the library for cigars and cognac?” I finally put my napkin over my head and covered my face in a show of mock embarrassment.

Why is it perfectly acceptable to mention a detailed vaginal-tightening procedure in mixed company (all the guests were over 50), but bring up menopause and allude to issues of post-menopausal sex, and suddenly you have crossed the line? My comment caused Emmy-award winning comedy writers to actually turn red with embarrassment.

I mention the writers’ accomplishments only to underscore the point that if erudite men whose livelihoods are contingent on irreverence and irony find the subject of menopause taboo, what does that say for the rest of the male population?

Just to fuck with them, the next time we get together I may wear my bra over my shirt and talk about how to insert Vagifem pills and Estrace cream. It will be very informative and amusing.

Upon entering perimenopause, my life-long OCD went into high gear and I had to go on medication to keep from blowing my brains out (which to my way of thinking would have been a rather poetic solution, though my therapist disagreed).

Once the medication kicked in, I discovered to my horror that the OCD had been the glue holding my life together. My perfectionism vanished and I stopped giving a shit about anything. The good news was I no longer wanted to kill myself. The bad news was I became completely nonfunctional.

Rumor has it that once you enter menopause, you get to go through every unresolved issue you’ve ever experienced in your life all over again, like a bad hormonal version of the movie “Groundhog Day.”

After two decades of sobriety, I became dependent on opiates for the unrelenting pain caused by the collapsed disks in my cervical spine. After years of recovery, my eating disorders returned with a vengeance, worse than ever.

I found a reputable eating disorder treatment center and drove the 3 hours to check myself in. When I arrived and the double set of doors slammed shut behind me, locking automatically, I realized this was not the cushy, warm and fuzzy environment I had been expecting.

I was in a locked-down, certified loony bin. And I belonged there.

The head of psychiatry, who had been observing me and my inability to function, told me I was eligible for SSDI insurance. She filled out the paperwork, and when I read her diagnosis, it hit me that I really had lost my mind. Officially.

I later learned that it is very common for menopausal women to revisit their eating disorders. Most of them refuse to discuss it, and there is very little research or information available about this specific population. There is much more work to be done.

Eventually, I made real progress, but I am not cured. It is very rare for a woman who has been battling eating disorders almost her entire life to achieve complete recovery. I do my best, one day at a time, and forgive myself when I stumble. Four years ago I regained my sobriety.

Along with the nightmarish return of my eating disorders and drug dependency, my PTSD, ADD, Crohn’s Disease and chronic pain all intensified during menopause, and it has been a long, excruciating road.

To this litany of mental and physical ailments, I got to add brain fog, which in spite of its obvious downfalls occasionally makes for a funny story, usually about my inability to dress like a normal person.

Not long ago I went to the grocery store with my pants on backward. The ass-shaped part of my jeans was clearly sticking out in front, and I felt very strange but couldn’t quite identify the problem. In my defense, I hadn’t had my morning coffee.

Last week I went for a walk, and when I got home and undressed I discovered I was wearing 2 pairs of jeans! Instead of being horrified, I was actually thrilled that I was able to fit my usually tight jeans over my other pair of pants.

I haven’t had my period in 11 years (since I was 48), and I still get hot flashes. I live in the mountains, and sometimes even when it is 25 degrees and snowing I have to turn on the ceiling fan, much to my husband’s horror.

He pulls the covers up to his chattering teeth and looks at me like I’m some exotic animal he’s never seen before. Meanwhile, I’m lying stark naked on the top of the covers, pushing the cat away from me and reveling in the sensation of the howling wind cooling my body as it blows in through the open window. The heater is set to off.

Thank God, my husband and I met later in life and he’s still blinded by love, or most likely he’d be secretly planning my homicide.

I consider myself exceptionally lucky to have survived menopause with my mind somewhat intact. Great friends, amazing family, my angelic husband and the privilege of good health care have all been integral. It has taken every resource I am blessed with to save my life.

I care less about my appearance than ever before, and yet I feel the prettiest I have felt in my life.

I finally realize my value as a human being. All the experiences I’ve been through, the great and the horrific, have brought me to the place I am in this moment. And this moment is a wonderful place to be.