Then that version of me met the hormonally challenged version of me – the one with the hot flashes, night sweats and monthly migraines like, well, they’re so bad, I can’t even come up with a snappy simile. Trust me on this, they suck. The “tough it out” me came face to face with a me harboring homocidal tendencies toward people who drive too slowly in the left lane (if you want to go the speed limit, get in the right lane, dammit), the me who feels that providing exceptional customer service would be a whole hell of a lot easier if it didn’t seem more like pandering to a bunch of spoiled rotten brats than customer service (whose idea was it to reward bad behaviour, anyway??? Don’t the powers that be have kids? If they do, I’m glad I never had to babysit them…)
Super me (smug, annoying creature that I must have been) came up short against a me that veers wildly (no, not behind the wheel…. usually) from one emotional extreme to the other, but most often seems to spend a lot of time in the (emotional) breakdown lane.
I don’t like hurting people’s feelings, especially when those people are my family. I don’t like being cranky with my daughter or uncommunicative with my husband. (One day, I will feel that I am worthy of love and care from myself, but in the meantime, at least I’m looking out for them). This is where the better living through chemistry part comes in…
I finally went to my doctor and asked for hormones. In this case, just low dose birth control pills, just to even out the rough spots. I’m not totally happy about this decision. Not because of the whole heart attack/stroke thing. Not because of the breast cancer thing. Because of the rebel without a clue thing. I want to be strong (in case you missed that earlier), and caving to a normal, natural life passage/process/stage kind of pisses me off (admittedly, not that all difficult to do lately). Why should I, (some combination of Xena and that girl from the Matrix) ask for a chemical intervention to go through this NORMAL transition? Maybe because I’m less Terminator and more terminal wuss. Maybe because I talk the talk better than I walk the walk. Or, maybe, and I’m not willing to place any money on this, just maybe, I’m maturing mentally as well as hormonally.
Maybe, by caring enough about how I treat others to medicate myself (under supervision, of course) I will eventually learn to care enough for myself. Neat concept.
In a few month’s time, I’ll begin to have an idea whether or not this particular medication is working, hopefully it will, if not, we’ll keep trying to find something that does. And then, the rebel without a clue will finally be able to completely embrace living better through chemistry.