I have a very hard time untangling my physical and mental health most of the time. Sometimes they don’t even warrant untangling. But it does mean I can be very slow to tend to my body. I have a deep-rooted belief that everything in my psyche is, or should be, self-regulating. When we’re hot, we sweat; when we’re hungry, we eat; the unconscious gives our consciousness the messages we need to hear (if we can listen). Yet some things completely throw our systems out, and it’s hard to know what started where and what needs tending to!
The body keeps the score, too. Tummy trouble can pull us towards deep-seated grief. Constant migraines, prolonged stress and skin flare-ups can be a wrangle with feelings or unspoken words; the body is often a great vehicle for what’s inside to get heard. And we can find physical symptoms a lot more palatable to work on than our MH. Not always, but often.
But menopause has totally thrown me. I’ve spent months trying to work out what the actual fuck was going on and why I couldn’t rebalance. Normally, I’m quite in tune with how to look after myself and how to find balance in my system, so menopause has rendered me a walking contradiction: unable to regulate my own health and with no idea why. And that very stoic council house child in me still thinks she can and should manage it all herself, no intervention needed. The chaos in my system also left me struggling to find the words to tell anyone what was happening, even if I’d wanted to, on top of a flat refusal to admit I did not, in fact, have this handled.
As is often the way, it was other people who held up the mirror. “Jode, what’s going on with you? You’re so out of breath.” “Why are you constantly eating ice?” “You seem so tired all the time. Have you had your bloods checked?” It took a week away with a friend, walking back to the villa barely able to put one foot in front of the other, for her to say, “This isn’t ok. You need to see a menopause specialist, and I’m booking it now; it’s non-negotiable.” I surrendered under the kind, firm gaze of someone who loves me.
It turns out the one-size-fits-all prescription from the GP was the wrong treatment for me, and it left me severely anaemic, with a blood transfusion looking likely. It’s been hard to separate what’s anaemia and what’s peri, but they all say the same thing: I’m not how I was before. I need some outside help, and my system can’t or shouldn’t have to do this on its own.
And that is more than ok.
Maybe this is you, or someone around you. You notice the shorter fuse, the confidence wobble. The thing that would never normally bother you suddenly tipping you over the edge. You’re holding it together brilliantly (sort of) on the outside while wondering what the hell is going on inside. You’re hot, cold, itchy, emotional, tired and angry. For me, my vocabulary shrank, and I’d sit in meetings completely unable to land a thought, sometimes not even having the thought, let alone being able to articulate what was going on for me.
Menopause mostly just brings a load of unwelcome changes, physical and mental, and a whole melody of overlap. I would be lying if I said I can (as of yet, anyway) find anything positive in it. It can totally shift how we see ourselves, how we relate to the people around us, how we feel about the lives we’ve built, our purpose, our parents, our kids. Literally anything and everything. And when you’re still expected to crack on with work, family and everything else (or expect it of yourself), it’s hard enough to survive it, let alone find space to make sense of it.
Maybe you feel unlike yourself. Maybe you’re angry about things you can’t quite explain, or grieving a version of you that’s gone. Or maybe you’re just bloody exhausted and haven’t had a minute to stop and think. There’s no right way to do this, and you don’t need it all figured out before you talk about it. Sometimes “I don’t feel quite like me at the moment” is enough to get a conversation going.
You’re allowed to take your time getting to know yourself again while mourning the old version of you.
Some things to help with the inevitable shit show
- Get your bloods checked. Ask specifically about iron and ferritin, and don’t accept “it’s just your age.”
- Ask to see a menopause specialist if the first treatment isn’t working. One size doesn’t fit all.
- Tell one person the truth. Not the polished version, the real one. (Let them book the appointment if you need them to.)
- Write down your symptoms before appointments, because brain fog will wipe them mid-sentence.
- Tell work what you need, even if it’s only “I’m not at my sharpest this week.”
- Talk to someone. Therapy can hold the grief, anger and identity wobble that no prescription will touch. Friends will get it, and it can be super lonely if you don’t share.
So that’s me: a bit of a mess, doing my best, and a lot less stoic than I used to be. If any of this sounds like you, or someone you love, come and talk to us. You don’t need the right words or a tidy story. Bring the fog, the rage, the ice habit, all of it. We’ve got you.
And if your workplace needs a bit of gentle educating on how to embrace menopause and the queens surviving it in the workplace, we’ve got a brilliant workshop for ya.
