Let's talk about our changing bodies.

As a society, I think we’re getting better at openly discussing these things unapologetically, but I think it’s still important, maybe even more important, to shine a light on these personal experiences as we move through them. I’m in my mid-forties, which is almost like a second puberty. Just when I had my body figured out, it’s changing on me again.

So, today I’m going to talk about mensuration and how it affects my freakin’ sanity sometimes.

This is the first year I remember feeling good in my skin since we moved from Nashville. And I was running SO MUCH because I was thrilled to be back to it after an injury… and injured myself again. Everything has become a bit more delicate.

I full on started my period at age twelve, just like, BAM. No stutter starts, nothing else, it just went full on and pretty regular right away. I still hated all of it, of course. I had really awful cramps and PMS for years until my 20s, when I confessed to my OBGYN that I had cramps so bad that I would dream about the cramps when I was sleeping. She started me on Depo-Provera, which is whole ‘nother horror story for a different time. Once I got off that, I said no to birth control and gradually got healthier and healthier which helped everything.

In Chicago, and in general, my periods were always worse in the winter. Adding Vitamin D to my vitamin regime helped with this a ton. I have an app so I know when it’s coming, I know what to eat and what to do to ease PMS symptoms. I had this shit on lock down.

And now I’m forty-five. And things are changing again. And I am irritated.

As one ages, one’s cycle will often gradually get shorter. This means that suddenly your little app that tells you what phase you’re in can be completely inaccurate through no fault of it’s own. It’s like I’m in high school again. “Oh, shit, it’s here now? Maybe that’s why I felt like the world was crumbling around me two days ago and succumbed to a crying jag in the full on throes of despair.”

I’m on submission with two novels right now. One I’m sending to agents, one I’m shopping to publishers. Rejection is the only part of this process that is absolutely guaranteed. Having been through it already, it’s easier this time. For the most part. However…

Was adjusting to a new city and a new job. Felt totally fat and unattractive here. I know. Shhh.

On Tuesday this week, I got into my head and face planted into a pit of despair about a current submission. Is this a submission I care about, yes. But … I mean. I was weeping. I had decided rejection was imminent and had further decided that there was just no place in the world for this book. I texted two writer friends about it and finally called one of them to talk myself through the worst case scenario and I did feel better afterward, but there was a huge part of me going, “What the hell is your problem?”

Honestly, I checked my calendar and figured my period was at least a week away, so tore myself up for being a crazy person.

Reader, my period started two days later.

I will ALSO let you know that I was heavily considering breast reduction surgery and bemoaning the amount of calories I had eaten at my friend’s book release the weekend before because why else would nothing be fitting correctly?

I mean sure, it could be bloating. Or you could just be blaming yourself for one night of fun because now you’re middle aged and everything is going to stick to you. And YES I know I should be happy in the body I have and blah blah, but don’t you remember how confusing it was when you thought you understood the vehicle you were driving and then all of the sudden it changed on you? More gas is needed. And not the regular unleaded, suddenly it needs premium. You can’t just wash it now, you have to wax it with special wax otherwise the paint falls off. Oh and heaven forbid you try and adjust some parts with something new because you want to be comfortable driving it. You need all those original parts to match or the car’s not worth as much.

(Sorry, my dad was really in to classic cars.)

Oh, and if you have less mileage on it and treat the car really gently, then maybe you can have all those original parts and the car will run plesantly and look great.

But what kind of life would the damn car have had?

I don’t want to go further down this analogy. I tried a few sentences, it doesn’t go well. :-)

My point is, I have taken the best care of my body I can while still enjoying the hell out of life to a reasonable degree. I am still blindsided almost every month with the strength of these despairing emotions and still as shocked as a fifteen year old when my period “suddenly arrives” and all of my earlier depression makes perfect sense.

My body fluctuates like it never has before and without fail I blame myself for something I’ve done. Water I didn’t drink, a glass of wine too many, a cookie I shouldn’t have touched, etc. And this is probably because I’m being besieged on social media (which I cannot quit, by the way, because I have a debut novel coming out and this is very important to me and this is how things are marketed now) where I am targeted probably because I announced my forty-fifth birthday on social. I now get ads for ‘how to stay fit after forty’ and ‘how to stop your skin from sagging’ and ‘find your secret metabolic profile and that extra fat will just melt away!’ I can dismiss the ads all I want. There are always more waiting.

I can be ‘smarter than that’ and ‘know that I’m beautiful’ and all of that and still be affected subconsciously.

I had a history teacher in tenth grade named Mr. Street that I never appreciated enough. This was in Slidell, Louisiana and I hope he’s still out there somewhere living a good life. One phrase he continually did a call and repeat of:

Mr. Street: Do you know what you have going against you, ladies?

All the women in the class, in that bored student way: 10, 000 years of recorded history.

I had a great time on my birthday. And I wish I could say that I didn’t beat myself up later for one piece of chocolate or one glass of wine. At least I can say I didn’t use the sword.

And he would stop the class any time an example of women’s objectification or subjugation came up and he would ask that question.

And even still, it’s ingrained. And I know I have a billion privileges that many other women (and some men) don’t, and I can’t imagine how difficult those additional ingrained attitudes must be. Because this slaps me every month. Even harder now. I call myself crazy. I tell myself I don’t deserve it. I tell myself I’m not working hard enough. I beat myself up for all of my vices. I tell myself I must have been delusional for ever thinking I was a good writer.

My period starts two days later.

It still sucked when I could predict it was going to happen. I remember running in Chicago on a beautiful summer day. I was running on the riverwalk and then across the bridge back to work. I was SO depressed. And I remember telling myself, “You have an amazing job where you get to work out all day and you get to run on the riverwalk in the middle of the day, go to work and shower, and then go back to the job you love. You have a great life, why are you sad?” And I knew my period was coming up. I knew why it was happening and I remember thinking, “wow, this is what people with depression deal with ALL THE TIME.”

That’s a whole ‘nother post, but.

I wish there were other posts like this about this kind of thing from women my age. If you know any, please feel free to link them in the comments. I think more of us should talk about this. Just because we’re adults does not mean that we are super equipped to deal with this alone.

And if I texted you this week and seemed a little melodramatic…

Thanks for being my friend.