Re: Miss the old me...
I miss the old me too, Erin.
I don't recognise the old bird who looks back at me in the mirror these days. Fibro, the meno, my parents dying, a breakdown - all these things have chipped away at me, and I no longer have the energy to physically work my way through my anxiety issues, life issues, and back catalogue of crap.
I don't know how I am supposed to feel anymore, or who I am supposed to be. I just limp from one day to the next, feeling shite, and fantasising over Pavers shoes and heated blankets. Meanwhile, Vorders (Carol Vorderman) is in the news wearing figure-hugging red dresses and worshipping the Gods of HRT. I can't take HRT, so my collagen has gone to wherever Elton John's hair buggered off to, and my lady bits (vag and vulva) have also tendered their resignations. I got out of the bath last night and could only see the one flap, the other having shrivelled into itself. (It eventually puffed out sufficiently to resemble a flap again)
My ovaries officially retired in 2010 when my soon-to-be retired-gynae consultant smilingly broke this news to me: You're in ovarian failure, Mrs Batty, you have zero chance of becoming pregnant again. Ever. Have a nice day!
To be honest, after having the periods from hell since I was 11 years old (and having birthed two kids and another evicted from my womb via emergency c section) I wasn't too gutted about an early menopause. (However, the git could have warned me about what could happen to my skin, my vagina - my sanity)
Why did it have to be a cheerful soon-to-be-retired man to give me this news?
Why couldn't it have been a sympathetic female consultant (having gone through her own satanic menopause) guiding me through the possibilities and probable's?
Why didn't my mother prepare me for this? I mean, granted, I now fully understand what all those plate-hurling, chain-smoking, 'You've all ruined my sodding life' meltdowns were about in the early 80s. Poor sod was in a state of tricky hormone imbalance, innit? And I count myself lucky that us kids (and my dad) came through that time without one of us being buried under the patio!
Mr Batty is 51. Everything is still in working order and the bugger only has one or two grey hairs, and they're pubes. Sometimes he catches me staring at him. 'What's up with you? he asks. (Dare I admit to murdering him in my mind?)
Off I go to prise myself into my size 14 leggings (I was a size 8 before the meno) and my good friend Maybelline will put some colour into my face to make me look less mort. I might cheer myself up later by drawing a moustache on Carol Vorderman's face.
__________________
A thought is harmless unless we believe it.