If Only I Owned a Taser…

My Husband Might Be Better Behaved 😜

Mitch and I got into it big time last night. In fact, this morning? I’m still angry at his “fixer” attitude, and banal advice.

A Bit of History…

The truth of the matter of is, I am really unlucky when it comes to the particulars of being a woman. When I desperately needed a whole hysterectomy, my insurance company fought me for ten years before approving a partial one. I no longer bleed in knee-crumbling pain 24/7; but because my ovaries were left behind, I still get to experience the misery of a cycle — ovarian cysts and the accompanying pain, embarrassing acne flare-ups (Who has such obvious acne at forty-four? Wasn’t I supposed to outgrow this shit?!) and mood swings from hell.

I thought that when my OB/GYN announced that I was perimenopausal, my battle with these things was finally coming to a close… but unfortunately, she informed me that things will get worse before they get better. So now, in-between my 18 – 21 day cycle, I get to experience unpredictable hot-flashes and flop sweats. Shania Twain never sang about that when exclaiming, “Man! I feel like a Woman.”

Fixers and Feelers Will Always Fight

I went into the powder room last night to get ready for bed, and found white-heads — some tiny, some not so tiny — all over my bloated face. (I apologize for this rather gross description, but there’s just no other way to say it.) It was agonizing to behold, because I’m supposed to visit with family this weekend; and I just feel ugly, horrendous, and ashamed.

I’ve never been good at hiding my emotions; so when I emerged from said powder room, Mitch immediately noticed the change in my mood, “You okay, Baby?”

“No, no I’m not okay,” I grunted as I shook out my blanket and resettled in the recliner.

“What happened?”

“Nothing.”

“Cass, I can’t help you if you won’t talk to me.”

I hurled a disgruntled sigh his way, and said, “It’s just… all I can see in the mirror is fat and acne. It’s disheartening and embarrassing, and I feel awful.”

“You know that this happens every month, so why bother agonizing over it? Just move on.”

Now, I have explained to Mitchell on more than one occasion that empathetic statements in situations such as these (i.e. “It sucks that you feel that way. I’m so sorry for what you’re going through.”) go much farther than trying to “fix” me (and said as much again, yesterday evening); but my husband is a man after all, and that’s how he thinks. If there’s a problem, he wants to offer a solution, because… well, men are fixers and women are feelers; and therein, lies the fatal flaw in our communication network.

He followed up the previous comment with, “I don’t know why you do this to yourself. There’s no reason to get upset over it.”

At that point, I just wanted to slap the shit out Mitch; but instead, yelled, “You know what?! When your body revolts against you once a month, and you have to deal with these issues, then we can have this conversation. I’m going to bed.” And I left the living room in an angry huff, with Mitch still offering rather stupid advice behind me.

Knowing vs. Feeling

I do know that everything I’m feeling this morning is a result of hormones flooding through my body, and that “this too, shall pass”. But I feel like it’s a permanent state of unattractiveness that I shall never emerge from… hell, right now? I can’t even find the strength to construct the damn cocoon.

I also fear that I may have overreacted to my husband’s words. I know he meant them to be kind and constructive, but they felt callous and poorly chosen. And no matter how many times I advise him to approach these situations differently, he just can’t seem to manage it. (Then again, I haven’t found the strength to change my own reactions… so it’s rather unfair to expect him to.)

Ugh… the whole thing just sucks; and I’m tired of having the mind and experience of a middle-aged woman in the body of a hormonal (now dying, due to menopause) teenager.

What to Do?

All I want to do this morning is climb back into bed, pull the covers over my head, and sleep through the three-to-five-day cycle that will ravage not only my body… but my heart, my soul, my mood, and my marriage.

Unfortunately, if I want to be a grown-up (and I really do, most of the time), first I need to apologize to Mitch. Then I need to tear up the invitations to my pity-party, and get off my duff.

The only way to combat hormones is to either accept them or fight with other hormones; and going to the gym will send a siren-call to my endorphins… as much as I loathe the idea of emerging into public right now, I really need those happy lil’ buggers to counter the less-happy estrogen/progesterone monsters flooding through my system.

Choices and decisions… pity-parties are so much easier than taking action (and I have beautiful handwriting for the invitations, I must say). If I stay in my pajamas, refuse to shower, and turn on chick flicks all damn day (“Beaches” and a good cry, anyone?), I’ll be able to justify staying in my dismal mood. If I get up, braid my hair and hit the gym, I’ll be forced to shower and my mood will improve (even if only slightly) on it’s own.

God damn it. Seems it’s time to take the latter (and obviously, higher) road, and be a grown-up. Shit.