Life and Everything

Flying off the handle

Jeez I get ratty these days. It really is time I went to see the doctor. Twice today I’ve been on the verge of losing it with a total stranger.

To be honest, the first time the total stranger really did deserve it but he was considerably larger than me and had the power to chuck me off his bus. (I will however be writing to his employer to formally complain about the way he bullied another passenger and shouted at a very little boy. Once I’ve stopped being paralysingly upset by it.)

The second time, the woman in Huddersfield branch of M&S who told me they had no loos, but in a way that suggested I’d just asked if I could pee on the floor of the food hall. That woman nearly got a lecture on manners.  (The women of Huddersfield must have stronger bladders than us Leeds women. Not one of their city centre shops has a loo.)

This evening, as well as being exhausted from my earlier non-spats, I’m feeling desperately sad because I didn’t know about an exhibition launch that’s on right now, too late to go. The paintings of our old family friend, the late Stass Paraskos. I can go see the exhibition next week. No need for tears.  But here I am, nevertheless, in tears. And angry with myself for somehow not telepathically knowing it was on.

It’s like being a teenager again. Only with the full knowledge that I’m being quite ridiculous.

If you look up “depression and menopause” you find a whole lot of stuff about talking to your doctor about counselling and patronising suggestions on how to deal with stress (get a good night’s sleep – who writes these things? A good night’s sleep? I’m a menopausal woman!)

Thing is, I have a long history of depression and I really do know the signs.  And this is very very different. Why is the only available information about hot flushes and wearing thin layers? I do not get hot flushes, I get angry and devastatingly upset.

It’s not that uncommon, and yet there’s hardly any information about it.  I’d think I was imagining it if it weren’t for the women around me. One friend had such bad mood swings there are shops she’s still barred from 5 years on.  Another took antidepressants till her doctor said she couldn’t anymore. Now she’s miserable again. Another said she felt bad about taking HRT and that she’d only stay on it for a few months. Why? Why are you feeling bad about taking something that’s making you feel good – or at least, able to function?  So I do know this thing is real. Even if the internet doesn’t. 

Of course I need to go and see my doctor. I know I do, and I will. Yet another way to be medicalised. It’s a drag. But it’s either that or you’re going to read about a bus driver being savaged by a crazy woman.




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