The Excavation of the Menopause

Yep, sorry. Here’s another old bird bleating on about the menopause. We’re like Gen X buses. Well, the well-funded bus service of the olden days; around here, if you saw three in a row you’d probably fall over in shock.

But yes, I’m here to talk about this later-life horror story and if you don’t like it, jog on (if your knees are up to it). Although, none of this would be necessary if we were all fully educated about what was about to hit us earlier than at the moment it does, and have easier access to the correct medication. But I’ll get back to that later.

I use the word excavation after long consideration. It’s the only way I know how to describe the devastation to my body and mind. I have been in every way hollowed out by the menopause. I’m walking around the world today a ghost woman. Yes, I’m on HRT. Yes, I exercise. Yes, I eat as well as I can. But my hormones have fucked off and they’ve taken Lisa with them.

I don’t know where I’ve gone. I wake up every morning in the hope that me will have somehow returned. Where the hell am I? The menopause archaeologists have been hard at work for about three years now. In fact, in this very moment had to look up the word for archaeology. Couldn’t remember it. I searched Google for ‘What do you call people who excavate sites’? I’m a writer. Or am I? Words are falling out of reach. Have those hormone-digging bastards stolen that too?

Every morning, I hoist myself into a half-seated position in bed and there I sit, still and silent, willing the nothingness be replaced with anything other than the nothingness. Sometimes I literally roll out of bed onto the floor. It’s the only way I can get myself moving and start my day. The carpet and I have become good friends.

Where’s the zest for life? The excitement. The optimism. The ideas. The sense of taste. The sense of smell. The vision. It’s got up and gone. I power down before I’ve even had a chance to power up.

Actually there is something but it’s not vitality. It’s an all-over itchiness. A sense, in an empty room, that someone is smoking nearby. A white flash jumping out of the corner of my eye. A strange noise in my bones. Hair that I want to rip out. A voice I can’t project. Ears that have been submerged under water. Eyes that have rejected their glint. A squint. A space behind my eyeballs. A brain that has placed itself on pause. An empty page. A cup of cold tea. Shivers. Quivers. Scared to the look in mirrors.

I’ve become a cheap, last-minute, buy-at-the-petrol-station cavernous Easter egg; a mirage of colourful normality on the outside but a crushing, empty space of air on the inside.

I hate it. But I’m doing all I can to find myself again. It took me 18 months to see a gynae consultant on the NHS. Lockdown didn’t help. I can’t afford to go private and last year the accelerated excavation made me feel so sick I could barely function. I changed in all ways. I used to be sharp. Annoyingly so. Witty. Funny. Clever. Clear.

After all these months, I still don’t feel as if I’m on the correct medication but where do I go? Over-worked GP’s appear to be massively undereducated about the menopause, and from what I’ve read on online forums many are still disgustingly dismissive of women who crawl to them, sobbing in desperation, clutching lists of questions and a scrap of hope, begging for help. Mine wasn’t rude or unwilling to listen but equally, he wasn’t up-to-date on the latest information, and I sincerely feel that I’ve been fobbed off with a half-effective, easy-option pill.

I’m not the only one. You should know that millions of ghost women are walking this planet. We are in front of you right now. Heavier in the belly but emptier inside. A fatigued army of carcasses who should be living our best lives, sharing our wisdom, adding to the value of our communities, stronger for our families or partners, loving, laughing. But we’re not. We’re fucked. We’re empty, and we’re fucked.

Earlier this year — and before I lost myself completely — I time travelled back almost two decades. I used to perform stand-up comedy and while I’m not quite confident enough to get back in front of a mic, I’ve started doing improvised comedy as part of a team. Hollow Me has reconnected with Old Me and in some ways has reshaped myself into something vaguely familiar. At least for a fleeting moment. Performing has been a pencil sharpener for my brain. When I’m in that space, I can feel a certain memory of Lisa reappearing. On stage, the ghost feels seen. My body fills with nervous energy, anticipation and — dare I say it — joy. Yes, joy! Momentarily, the excavation grinds to a halt and is replaced by a sense of fulfilment. It’s a glimpse of the old gal. It’s frustrating that it’s so momentary but it’s a something.

I’m now 55 and I’ll be honest, anyone who says 50 is the new 40, and that this is the best time of life for a woman, is talking absolute bollocks. Money almost certainly helps but ultimately, you’re a bleeding/not bleeding, unbalanced, confused, hormonal mess of a human. It’s a fucking battle. And this is the backdrop to our third act? Give me a break.

For me now, it’s a panicked 24/7 quest to hold on to the Lisa who seems determined to leave the building. Yes, the menopause is Vegas Elvis. But that’s another essay.

Just know that writing this has made me feel better but tomorrow morning when the alarm goes off, I’ll almost certainly sigh heavily, attempt (poorly) to move my leaden body, pop a pill and struggle to lock into what makes me, me. When you think about it, in 2023, that’s not nearly good enough but I don’t know what else I can do. Not even Davina can help. This is a completely uneven battle.

So dig on, fuckers. For now, you win.