The Black Rage of Menopause

The only thing that qualifies me to write anything on the subject of mental health is the fact that I suffer from my own mental health. Or lack of it. I am certainly not qualified to write anything about menopause, given I have done almost no research on the topic. So why am I writing about it? In my gardening and cooking blog no less?

To be clear, I am only 44 years old — way too young to be talking about menopause. Only I’m not. Too young, that is. Peri-menopause can go on for years. I’ve had maniacal hot flashes–which seem to come in phases–for over a year now. I was hoping the Black Rage would also be a phase, only it doesn’t seem to be going away.

I am writing about the Black Rage because I have been living under it’s cloud for about 3 months now. And instead of it getting better, it is getting worse. So I have decided to cave in, stop fighting it and embrace it. Today, for the first time, I googled these two words: Menopause + Anger. The search results were almost as funny as this weekend when I googled “Underduck vs Underdog.” The top hit in that search was freakishly perfect. (For the record, it is “underduck: when you push someone on a swing and run under them as you push.”) Friends and I were having an argument about it. It was 5 to 1 against me. I was so pissed. I digress… Google it yourself. Vote for what YOU called it in the comments below, cuz I’m curious.

Anyway, the search results for “Menopause Anger” were so astoundingly spot-on that it actually made me mad (are you sensing a theme here? A theme of rage?). I was irritated because I like to think of myself as unique and special. How can all the other people in this world be experiencing the same thing as me?

For example, on one of the sites, a woman named Lori wrote: “…I have found myself getting mad at my dog because she wants a pet.” Check. (The only difference is that I don’t “find myself getting mad,” I rise up in an unadulterated fury and scream “GET THE HELL OUT OF HERE, YOU STUPID DOGS, THIS IS MY COUCH!” And, I might try to kick them as they scatter.)

Another writer named Pat found the need to “detach myself from some longstanding ‘volunteer’ commitments that I’d taken on when I didn’t really want to, because I felt obligated or guilty or whatever.” Check. (The only difference with me is that I didn’t detach myself, as Pat did. What did I do? I simply made one of the people that I do volunteer work for cry this morning. Do I feel bad about it? Well, if being madder that she started to cry counts as remorse, then yes, I feel bad about it. If not, then no. I’m ticked that I didn’t think of crying first.)

Anyway, for all you who actually know me, go ahead and say it. Chant it aloud if it makes you feel better. You know you want to:

POOR DAVE.

Only, if you are really going to go to the trouble, you might as well throw in:

Poor Morgan. Poor Charlie. Poor Buzz. Poor Lola.
And as of this morning, Poor Susie at Freedomfarm.

Something tells me I might need to add a new category to my blog topics.