The End of IT

(CW: the imagery of a hurt farm animal)

Bees are racing around these gorgeous mango-orange lilies, the grass is freshly slashed, and I spy those forced smiles on your faces. I see you out there fanning yourselves with the programs you cannot read clearly without your glasses. I know these precisely arranged white folding chairs aren't perfect for your newly aching joints and your ultra sweaty thighs, but behold...Welcome...to the end of a cycle.

Four years ago was different. We'd bleed like normal femme creatures, a feathery drop or two first, then a heavy day or two--candy apple red, and perhaps a lovely reminder of our youth with a wink.

Fast forward to now, as we stand here hemorrhaging like pigs stuck with pitchforks, with only the hope of a mattress the size of a pad on our panties to not stain the seats we sit on during staff meetings. You heard me correctly. I know you think I reversed the pad and the mattress, but I didn't. I speak not about the commencement of menopause, but the ferly, rusty stage before it known as perimenopause. She’s a high priestess of disturbance with teeth like old man Gray’s.

Noone really told us the truth about the itchy scalps, changing skin (toad-centric and rough-patchy), and what a surprise to learn of the smells that are actually us, and not the man with the beard behind us in line at the local Wawa. He knows nothing of this shift in planets, this tilt of an axis we could never have prepared ourselves to combat. The lonely. The short-of-breath sobbing at inconvenient times in a convenience store. Or a pumpkin patch with our grown kids.

I used to be able to keep up with my husband on those upstate New York bike trails, but now my heart feels as if it might burst through my cotton T and fling me face first amidst the daffodil encrusted hill called Lazy Meadow—where you can feel the calm. The only calm I want now is ice cream drowning in hard shell chocolate on my couch watching reruns of Project Runway.

I speak for you—your gracefully aged brows and your marvelous smile lines-- “Can we really be expected to keep our cortisol from skyrocketing when we still have a million things to do on a daily basis?” And now this. The IT that Stephen King wrote 1100 pages about. Am I being too dramatic? Do you like your breasts heading towards Savannah rather than Nova Scotia? Is that strawberry-sized fibroid an enjoyable amenity on the days you want to spend on a beach with loved ones—the way it bares down on your entire pelvis making you feel 9 months pregnant at age 48? My personal favorite is the way the gastro system tumbles into dominance and puts you out of commission for a few days. But then the curing bland diet constipates your spirit and your guts. Too dramatic still? We live on a maniacal roller-coaster in the Barrens.

"I don't remember it being that bad," utters our mom and aunt. Do you know why that may be? There are a few reasons. First, they were told to "be a woman, and ignore it. Keep cooking and cleaning." Secondly, they might have used cigarettes to bury all of the symptoms and not know any better. Dull the inflammation with more inflammation. Thirdly, there is a chance they have long term memory loss so to feel proud and accomplished, making it much easier to say, "you guys are weak these days." The dialogue and information was kept secretive. The bond over it considered sappy.

Women-- of all stripes and sounds and shapes: I ask that you take a moment and examine how you want the next few years to be. Do you want to push and grind through it? Squelch through the cake-y, cement like road towards the end of your period? (there will be different challenges there, but perhaps another keynote speaker will address this with you when the time comes). Do you want the next few years to feel like your life is still pretty okay? I venture to say you are nodding YES. YES, I want to live a life still. Yes, I want to be able to function, but also not in the same speed, pace, unsustainable rhythm that I formerly could handle. I want to call the shots about how it will look. Me too! Say it! I want to pulverize the clown!

A few days ago I watched a mother in the mall carry two large totebags, push a stroller, and talk her mother out of a panic attack over the phone, all while mouthing instructions to her school aged kids about how to meet her in ten minutes at the food court. She was a young grandmother between the ages of 49-55, if I had to guess. Which means she was also in our phase of life. She was us, and though some of us do not have grandkids yet, we have significant others, maybe a child or two, a job, a home, and sanity. Just because we can handle it all, does that mean we should?

My invitation to you—and your dried out curls and tired eyes-- remain with me. Remain a force like the seven kids in IT who are determined to destroy the clown. Beat it down to ashes, to pebbles, to wind, to particles of clean nothing. And for us, I think that means: expressing it out of ourselves? Through paint, through words. Through screams and tears that can change the course. Through…sleep.

I demand we march into our bedrooms, close the door, and allow ourselves time when we need it. I demand space and spouses and partners who support us when we need to detach. I demand who gives a damn that mommy needed to take a couple days off from life. I demand we eat the sleeve of cookies if we are beckoned by the three of swords card.

My friends—inhale the lavender sprigs on your way out of this field, drive home safely, take a long shower, and nap. Perimenopause has arrived. But you don’t have the fake your way through it.

Congratulations. Sleep all you can sleep when you are able to sleep. And sweet dreams. beep beep.