It’s true, I’m not very skilled.  There’s nothing I can point to and proclaim, “goddammit, I am exceedingly excellent at that”.   I’m also not very talented.  I can’t sing.  I can’t do calculus.  I’m crap with a hammer.  My repertoire of ways to wow you can best be summed up as meh.

It’s quite the contrast from when I was a child  and I suspected that I’d be good at things.  Like if I just tried to do something, or maybe tried really hard (a few times) I’d  naturally be able to do it, whatever “it” was.  It’s an odd notion to carry around and I’m not entirely sure why I used to think that way.  Perhaps children who are loved and shown that the world is open to them, believe that they can do anything.  And for the most part, that’s a good thing. 

Being an only child, I often played alone.  Or with my cat, Pirate, who was a rebel and brilliant at everything.  She even fetched balls and brought them back to me.  Great cat.  Totally off topic…anyway, my success as a kid wasn’t dependent on the success of others. There was no team or coach or sibling that I played with or emulated.  A lot of my time was spent in the company of me.

That’s not to say I was neglected.  My parents divorced when I was three, and the relationship with my father during my formative years was often strained by his struggle with alcohol.  Let’s just say he wasn’t always present.  I lived with my mother, who dropped out of high school at 15 and graduated cum laude from University at 32.

They were both intelligent, capable people who led lives somewhat in the margins of society.  The traditional trappings and definitions of success eluded them.  They weren’t wealthy, and they weren’t trying to climb any corporate ladders.  They divorced when getting divorced wasn’t commonplace.  There was just a lot of shit to deal with and we all know the amount of time my generation spent with their parents is infinitesimal compared to what typically occurs today.  I was a latch key kid.  So many 70s children were.  I was in many ways the ruler, queen, shaper and dreamer of my own upbringing.  I was left to my own devices and in spending so much time in my head, I created a lot of my own belief system.  The concept of success was mostly shaped by my own understanding and definition.

As a child, my parents never said I could or couldn’t do something.  For the most part  I just assumed I’d be able to, even if I didn’t really want to.   Children typically don’t focus on one particular skill or hobby or interest long-term, without some significant guidance, pressure, purpose or yearning placed upon them.  Usually a coach, caretaker or someone in their life pushes them in a particular direction.  Of course there are extraordinary exceptions to this and some kids just know what they want and are driven with enthusiasm to do it.  But not me.

As I grew into a young adult,  my frame of reference changed as my world got bigger, and I still didn’t yearn to master anything.  There was no burning desire to be an athlete or an astronaut or a chef.  Nothing deep in my heart propelled me into choosing my college major or even my career.  Many things just kind of happened, they fell into place.  This in part was due to my being feckless.  It sounds so strange to say that now, and if I could go back I probably would relive most of my life again with more intention.

Growing up and older, I tended to steer away from trying new things that tested my ability (not new experiences necessarily, but developing new skills) and a lot of what held me back was fear.  Fear of failure, fear of embarrassing myself, fear of commitment.  So the notion that I had as a child, of being able to do anything, grew into this notion that I couldn’t do much or shouldn’t do much of anything because I might not excel at it.  My motto could easily have been just stay the course and play it safe.

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Last week I had my yearly well woman visit.  You bitches know what that is.  For those that don’t, it’s when you go to the gynecologist and get your tits massaged, your vagina penetrated, scoped, and maybe, for some, a nice finger up the ass.  My gyno doesn’t roll that way but if yours does, salud.  It’s not glamorous.  It doesn’t feel good (despite my husband’s continued insistence that I must love it.  Moron.) and it always leads to some anxiety for me, both pre and post visit.  Do I have the gnarliest vag this lady has ever seen?  I tell myself it couldn’t be, right?  What if my pap comes back positive for something?  Cancer, HPV, Vaginosis.  There’s all sorts of crazy stuff that could be happening in there that I have no fucking idea about….

Anyway, I’d been having these pesky middle-aged woman symptoms for a few years and I discussed them with me lady each of those years.  But 2016 produced a whole new litany of what the fucks and I really felt/feel like I may be losing my mind.  Fist of all I’m 45 years old.  I’m not 50 or 60.  I’m 45 and I fully expect at 45 for my periods to be steady as she goes, give or take a day or two. Maybe the train pulls in late here and there, but generally speaking I’d like to know when I need to run to Target.

Not only was my calendar off, my flow was misogynistic.  Never in my younger days did I need to bother with the elusive Tampax Ultra. But for the past few years this massive vag blocker has been the key to keeping my undies stain-free.  But lately my periods had gotten fewer and farther in between and my flow was either under or over-performing. It had become like oh ok, you aren’t arriving in 28 days?  I guess I’ll see you in a few months, “friend”.

And it wasn’t just my period.  My breasts had decided to slag off, too.  Slacker fucking mammary glands decided to deflate.  I never really understood all the hoopla about sagging, softer, looser, breasts in middle-age.  But I get it now, because it happened to me,  and it’s just gosh darn sad.  I never was big-chested but I always had those perky, bouncy, round, soft pillow-tops.  Trump would have given them a 7.  Believe me.  Now though, I suspect he’d give them a 4, which is horrible.  A disaster.  If I could afford it I’d go for the implants and a lift.  Fuck feminism.  This is only going to get worse as I get older. I want good tits!

Beyond the strange periods and the floppy boobs, on most days I was faced with this impending sense of doom.  My kids were going to be abducted.  My husband was going to get pushed off a subway platform on his way to work.  My boss was going to fire me for poor performance.  My house was going to go up in flames because I forgot to turn off the stove.

The fear and dread also manifested in other ways, typically in the form of anger and depression.  I hated my husband for chewing, for walking, for the stupid fucking way he brushed his teeth.  I hated his haircut, his calves, his presence in the kitchen.  My kids were ungrateful little fucks who were sucking the life force out of me.  Even the dog was out to get me.

I had crying jags at the most inopportune times.  I remember retreating to the office bathroom  on more than one occasion.  Oh, you have to reschedule our 2pm meeting because the CEO needs to meet with you?  Really?  I’m that unimportant?  Sniff, tear, sniff, bathroom.  Guttural groaning, deep breathing, runny mascara, last stall.  Oh Tim,  your son’s goldfish died this morning and you flushed it down the toilet?  Really?  I’m so sorry.  Excuse me I, um, I, sniff, tear, sniff…last stall.  Once while exiting the last stall, I caught a glimpse of myself in the full-length mirror. Under those harsh fluorescent lights, my blotchy, sallow skin, my gray roots, the awkward fit of my trousers eagerly hugging my waist.  The puff of my abdomen above my cheap belt.  My comfortable black flat nondescript fucking shoes.  My chipped nail polish on my fat, water-retaining fingers.  I had to run back inside that last stall and start the grieving process all over again. Sniff, tear…

So back in the gyno’s office, amid the questions and explanations of my ever-increasing, mystifying mind-body issues, my doctor interrupted me.  “I understand”, she said,  “and there is a solution. You don’t have to live this way.  I’m going to write you a prescription for Duavee”.  “O.K”, I said, “what is it”?  “It’s a hormone that will definitely help you with hot flashes and irritability and all the things you are complaining about.  There are some risks, like increased risk of breast and uterine cancer but you know, I take this drug myself and I feel the slight increased risk is worth the quality of life I have now. Because I’m telling you, I was ready to kill myself and my family.  Trust me this is a wonder drug.”  That was it, I was sold.  She wrote the script and I left on my merry  way, knowing I had a solution.

After the high of thinking a miracle was only a prescription away, I decided to do a little research first.  After reading up on Duavee and hormone replacement therapy in general, I decided it was not going to be the silver bullet I was looking for.  Besides the ethical problem I had digesting horse urine retrieved from pregnant mares whose lives were sheer misery, I had some really significant worries around the increased cancer risk.  The numbers were real to me, and I felt that my lifestyle already increased my risk of cancer (too much booze, poor food choices, not enough exercise) that I didn’t need to compound the issue.

I decided to take a more choice-driven approach to my evolution into menopause.  I dab some wild yam cream into my wrists during my period.  I pop a Shatavari pill every now and then.  Most mornings I ingest a calcium rich green smoothie.  I  walk a few times a week.  Every so often I do some dumbbell exercises.  Hot baths, a strong martini, foot massage, an occasional extra hour or two in bed…These things all help to some extent.  Thinking about how my mind and body feel, and trying to mitigate the symptoms through healthful, relaxing, calming methods, makes me feel somewhat more in control and happier.  None of this is easy.  Getting older is difficult and nobody likes to feel “sick”.  I’ll keep searching and trying and I’ll get better at listening to my body, my mind and making choices that work for, and not against me.  And I’m going to try to deal with this natural progression, this loss of estrogen, without a drug that carries more risk than I’m willing to take.

I’m sure my approach isn’t right for everyone.  There are plenty of women out there who need prescription drugs to help with the symptoms and effects of menopause.  And maybe someday I will find myself in their position.  But for now I am willing to deal with the unpleasantness and assuage what I can in a holistic, hormone-free way.

After having finished this piece, I found out that my gynecologist  had advanced breast cancer and needed a double mastectomy.  She is currently undergoing chemotherapy.  I can’t help but wonder if Duavee played a role.