Why I Won’t Talk or Write About Menopause

The M-word. That’s how I refer to menopause. That’s the same way I used to refer to marriage before I was married. I was scared. How would it affect my life? Would I be a different person? Did it mean I would have to grow up?

The same fears apply to menopause. How will it affect my life? Will I be a different person? Does this mean I have to (finally) grow up?

Now, let me preface this by saying that I’m one of the lucky ones (I guess?). At 55 I still have periods, not as often, by I still bleed occasionally. I kid that it’s because my ovaries have adopted the same strategy for aging. I’m in denial and my ovaries are in denial too. They also identify as “younger” and therefore are unaware they have to close the factory.

In reality, my mom didn’t hit menopause until she was 56 and so I guess the women in my family are just late to the party.

But still.

On a recent trip to my gynecologist, my doctor asked me if my periods were still regular.

“Yes,”  I lied.

I couldn’t tell her that in the last eight months I’ve only had four periods. 

I couldn’t admit that I’m not ready to face this soon-to-be reality.

I was afraid that she would add to the little information I have about menopause: hot flashes, weight gain, loss of libido, loss of collagen — symptoms I don’t want to hear. Afraid that by knowing the symptoms, I’ll trigger them. 

Improbable, unscientific, ridiculous, but also (in my mind) true.

That information is enough to send me into a tailspin of fake symptoms.

I’ve been a hypochondriac my entire life. When I was thirteen years old, I thought I was having a heart attack, convinced I had developed the same symptoms as a character on a paramedic show I watched. For days, I walked around with a heaviness in my chest. I lay awake each night for fear of dying in my sleep. It wasn’t until my doctor assured me that my heart was healthy that I was able to ease my unduly worried mind; the symptoms suddenly disappeared.

At sixteen, I thought I had breast cancer. I felt a lump. A lump that turned out to be a mammary gland in one of my late-blossoming breasts.

At twenty-six, I fainted at work after hearing a co-worker describing his symptoms with stomach cancer. I had just come back from my honeymoon and everyone assumed I was pregnant.

I was not.

It was my hypochondria rearing its pitiful head.

I am convinced that I triggered pre-eclampsia in my first pregnancy because of how much I had read about it.

I knew too much.

And so I have to be careful, tread lightly on the subject of menopause. I can’t know too much. Upon hearing all the dispiriting symptoms, I am sure I will develop an inaccurate perception of the condition of my body. My mind will convince me that I am feeling all of the symptoms, even the less common ones. 

Every woman has to deal with this unfortunate part of life.  And it’s a very personal decision whether she wants to know every detail, few details, or none. Some women may elect to whitewash the details, smooth out the rough edges, and edit out the unwanted bits.

It’s a coping mechanism. It’s my coping mechanism.

Sure, if my symptoms ever become severe and my life feels altered in a way that is both unbearable and hard to ignore, then and only then will I get better informed and seek ways to manage my symptoms. But for now, I avoid digging too deep. Like my mother, I am hoping to be asymptomatic. 

So why take the chance that I will bring forth these symptoms, like a reverse placebo effect?

In my attempt to continue my denial of aging, I’ve chosen to go at this thing deaf, dumb, and blind. 

I like not knowing. I enjoy living under the illusion that it will never happen to me. That my air conditioner is shitty and that I need to stop eating chocolates and that if I just take supplements I will want to have sex every night.

Denial is a soothing and necessary thing. 

I understand aging only by my attempts to reshape my experience of it. Without these attempts, I am in danger of falling in line with the many women who see themselves as declining or past their peak. 

I prefer to look at myself through youth-tinted goggles. I will continue to kick the menopause can down the yellow brick road until I’m ready to come face to face with it (or it punches me in the ovaries).

For now, if I experience the occasional night sweats, I will believe it’s the result of a shitty air conditioner. I will blame my slow weight gain on the chocolate I’ve been consuming every night. And if I’m not in the mood for hanky-panky, I will pop a B-complex supplement and fantasize with Bradley Cooper. (Come one, you know you do it too).  

So I apologize for not sharing any menopause information on this platform. For now. I may change my mind although I don’t think I will. I prefer to stay on the sunny side of life. Focus on the positive, on how sexy we can look, all we can still do…can still achieve.

I want to give my attention to joy and possibility. Not on decline. As Tony Robbins says: “Energy flows where attention goes.”

I choose to focus my energy on the positive; on the goal of looking, feeling, and living young. And I want you to do the same.

Don’t give your attention to the things you have no control over. Don’t get caught up in the menopause narrative. And don’t use it as an excuse for not doing the things you want to do or the going for the goals you have yet to accomplish. Don’t set it before you as an obstacle for good health and a fit body. And don’t let it deter you from looking and feeling your best.

Be so busy with living this beautiful life that you don’t have time for menopause.

I’m not diminishing that some women experience debilitating symptoms. I know a lot of women do. If that’s you, do something about it. Get medical help. Heck, get psychological help if you need to.

But don’t let it stop you from being the youngest version of yourself. Never, ever give up on your youth, Chickie.

Now you: Leave a comment below and let me know if you feel the same way. How are you choosing to go through the journey? What are your feelings on the M-word?

xoxo