I am going to be getting a bit too personal in my BLOG today, but what the heck. I have decided to discuss my menstrual cycle. Lucky you. I realize that not only women are reading my posts, but I am sure the men that have contacted me about my BLOG have had one or two 'Close Encounter of the Menopausal Kind!" So, this is for them as well.
I have been blessed over the years with never having PMS. But now, days before my period I am suffering with all sorts of lovely symptoms. But the one I really want to talk about is the rage that now can boil up in me and explode violently out of me, at any second. I have never been prone to moments of rage, in fact I think that I was so afraid of confrontation that I suppressed so many feelings in the past that I would actually make myself sick. No more. Those days are gone. And you know what, I am delighted to see them go. I bitch about this stage in my life and all the sweaty symptoms I have to endure, but secretly I am thrilled. For the first time in my life I have permission to be a raving bitch. Perhaps I don't have permission, but I take the liberty. No, that's not quite right either. I just can't help myself. That said, I sure enjoy it.
I have become quite the actress in my 51st year of life. Finally. Something small pisses me off and all hell breaks loose. I cry, I rant, I rave and I leave shrapnel in my wake. I know what this is and I yell to my family. "Batten down the hatches. Mommy is in menopausal hell, again!" They don't even say GROSS anymore. They know not to mess with me.
I remember when my Mom was going through THE CHANGE. What a funny term that is. What are we changing into? Frankenstein? But, for whatever reason, it was always my older sister, Georgie who would do something that would send my mother into the stratosphere. My Mom rarely got mad at us. She was always patient and even handed. But for a short period, no pun intended, she would become diabolic. I remember once, Georgie did something stupid, who can remember what. But it wasn't that big of a deal. But, it hit Mom wrong and I remember Mom got so mad she dropped the plate of spaghetti on the floor, sending pasta in all directions and meatballs literally rolling on the kitchen floor. Then she blamed poor Georgie for making her drop the plate. Then there were tears, Mom's, not Georgie's. We would look at each other with shock and awe. We were too baffled to cry, too mystified to be scared. We just stared.
I have seen that same stare between my boys. I am sure that I will get one of those stares in the next few days. It will probably be poor Kyle, the oldest always seems to be the one at the wrong place at the wrong time. He will inevitably say something just a little bit the wrong way. I will take it completely wrong and go into one of my best performances to date, now that I have discovered my secret talent as an actress. I will rant, I will rave, I will cry and then I will send my poor husband on a special mission. You see I have ordained him my own personal Hillary Clinton.
"Go tell Kyle what I really meant," I instruct my shocked looking husband. He performs his duty, in the fear that he may loose his testicles and returns to report back Kyle's response. Of course, Tom will not have explained to Kyle what I had intended him to say so I send him back with another message. And this charade goes on until my anger subsides and I sit on my bed, tears running down my cheeks.
But the tears are not because I feel guilty, they are quiet release from the tension that has been building in my body for the last 51 years. I know my Mom felt guilty. But I don't. I am enjoying this. I feel liberated. Yes, I feel bad for making Tom fearful for his precious testicles but other than that I am delighted to finally be able to say what I want, even if it is in a fit of anger for no particularly good reason. I have the God given right to be a bitch. God has given me this right by giving me the gift of menopause. For the first time in my life, I can get angry, really angry for no significant reason and expel it from deep within my belly. It is brief and it is over and I don't think I am causing too much harm.
I have given myself permission to be myself for the first time in my life.
When the kids come home from school today I am sure they will notice my mood and they will look at each other with that look that might just piss me off. The brief glance will be tactical, almost like when they are trying to kill Nazi Zombies on the X Box 360. "Don't make eye contact, say as little as possible, and remember to keep repeating, 'I really love Mom, I really love Mom, I really love Mom."