Hi, I’m Shannon and I’m a menopausal freak without chest hair (thankfully), but with an attitude that is continuously waning. 
(Chant from the crowd: Hi Shannon!)
For those who don’t know me well, I do not cry. There was a 7 or 8 year stretch there that I didn’t shed a single tear. Not because my life was perfect, but because I was physically unable to produce any. I just don’t cry. I don’t like people to see me cry, and I would much rather fight, or work on solving the problem than sit there and bawl about it.
Yesterday, I was a hot mess. I noticed a sock that had made its way to a dining room chair, instead of the dirty clothes. It belonged to a child. I looked at that sock, and I started sobbing. Yes, sobbing. As in, “Oh my GOD. That sock. How COULD they blaspheme the dining room with a sock. Oh the tragedy of it all.”
Unreasonable? Oh no. At the moment, it seemed as if I had been taken over by emotion of the sock, and that the perpetrator of the sock would pay dearly with their PS3 privileges for months to come. This seemed completely appropriate. (**Authors note: No children were harmed in the creation of this post, and the sock incident happened around oh, 10am, so thankfully she had several hours to contemplate the meaning, or lack thereof for the sock’s presence in her bubble prior to handing out the sentence for the pseudo-crime.)
Then, the noise started getting to me. Let me preface by explaining the “me” before the surgery:
Every day, I work. Work, work, work. It’s who I am and what I do. I work from home, but not much distracts me from my tasks. I am typically buried in my laptop, almost in this steel, tiny invisible bubble that no one can penetrate. Phone rings – don’t hear it. Kids fighting – don’t hear it. “Mommy can I have a snack?” – auto responder says “Ask your dad.” There could be a nuclear fallout, and I’d be oblivious until it affected my internet.
Now though… Oh holy hell. Let’s take stock first of the inhabitants of my household:
Me and My husband
Alex, age 10, Sam, age 7 and Logan, age 4
Dogs: English Bulldog – Molly, Heinz 57 variety little dog – Katie.
Cats: Bengal Cats, brothers. Resident homosexuals. They love each other and are blatant flamers. Olly and Marshall. We support their homosexual tendencies, and have discussed marriage options for them.
Birds: Military Macaw – Rio, Double Yellow Headed Amazon – Elvis, Cockatiel – Disco
Basement Inhabitants: Husband’s best friend and girlfriend Mandi (you’ve met Mandi – she went to Mayo with me) are temporarily staying in our Rec Room downstairs.
Now, I have a fairly large house. Space shouldn’t be an issue. BUT. The NOISE of it all. I didn’t hear it before the surgery. Now, I can hear the dogs squeaking on squeaker toys, the birds squawking, the cats pouncing on each other, the kids: Mom. Mom. Mom. Mom. Mom. Mom. MOM., the TV in the livingroom, the tv in my bedroom. The tv downstairs in the rec room, the tv in the downstairs play room, the cars going by outside. Laundry in the dryer. The basement inhabitants talking, the birds outside talking to the birds inside.
It’s ridiculous. It makes me feel like I’m climbing the walls. My concentration has been shattered.
I feel rage at things that there is just no reason to feel rage about. I cry at things that not only do not deserve a tear, but rarely even deserve a conversation about the object.
The doc’s have me on a Vivelle-Dot Estrogen patch (lovingly referred to as my butt sticker) that is supposed to replace my hormones. I’ve been on them for exactly 4 weeks. My body is used to them, I’d think. And for the most part, they’re doing a good job, but yesterday was nuts.
I called my step-mother last night (as she’s the only one I know who went through menopause that I can actually ask about it without offending them), and asked her what her experience was like. She said she had hot flashes, but nothing like noise irritability and crying all the time. She said of course that everyone’s body is different and you deal with it in different ways. She went through menopause gradually. I went into menopause literally in an instant.
Then it hit me. Yesterday was September 30. Typically, I have my monthly coughFLOcough on or about the 3rd or 4th of the month. My body thinks it’s PMSing. Except, it has no hormones to do that with, so my subconscious mind is basically taking the very worst of my former PMS and recreating it in my mood. I’m having the worst PMS ever (without cramps or pain) because my body thinks it is supposed to every month. I’m pretty sure that’s what’s going on. I’ve got a call in to talk to the nurses at my OB/GYN just to make sure I haven’t fallen off my rocker, but if I had to bet, that’s what I’d put my money on. We can give this a new clinical term: FMSing. (Faux-Menstrual-Syndrome). In a sentence: “I swear to all that’s holy if you piss me off when I’m FMSing, your mother will cry when she sees what I’ve done to you.”
Can’t wait to see the first court case for this one. “Jurors, I think you can agree with me that Faux-Menstrual Syndrome took over my client’s body and mind and it is for THAT reason, and that reason alone that she would commit this heinous act. Otherwise, she is completely sane and healthy. Not guilty, Not Guilty, NOT GUILTY BY REASON OF FAUX MENSTRUAL SYNDROME! The defense rests, your honor.”
Then I call Christina. The conversation went as follows:
Shannon: “Christina, is something wrong? Are you mad at me?”
Christina: “Sweetie, what makes you think that?”
Shannon: “Well, you answered the phone ‘Hello.’”
Christina: “Shan, love, that’s kinda standard. I mean, in some countries they say “Hallo” or “Yo” or maybe they just don’t pick up with caller id (wait, that’s America” – did I mention I love you!”
Then, while I’m crying my eyes out, she sat with me on the phone, not laughing while I couldn’t find the Zoloft that Dr. Kelly prescribed me during my PMDD days, well, because somebody apparently thought it would be hilarious to hide it in a big smiley face mug that is in the cupboard. Bastards.
I suppose it’s good news that I know I’m nuts, right? I mean, it could be worse. If I thought that the sock blasphemy was truly a blasphemy and didn’t eventually realize that it’s a stupid sock…that would be bad. Since I know that the sound is bugging me, the sock is bugging me and that emotionally I’m two fries short of a happy-meal, I can at least have a starting point for getting back to the normal me.
We could always start a wager on how many drugs it will take to make me only as insane as I was prior to the surgery. That could be fun.
{ 5 comments… read them below or add one }
i only hope that’s the smiley face mug i got you. and not the one john got you.
HAHAHA In fact, it was. The one John and Christie got me is a matching candy dish!
yay! i feel special to be tangentially included in the blogpost!!!
sending you hugs
xoox
I can totally relate sounds like me with some PMS going on, every little noise or obstacle (toy, sock, person) in my way grates on some nerve that runs all around my skull and down my back, it ends up in my chest as a ball of rage and clenched fists waiting for someone to give me a reason….. anyway. I recall a conversation with a guy who told me that the hormone excuse is a cop out for women, I spent my whole lunch hour looking up info on hormones and cycles to come in and educate him. HAHA! Men go through a type of male menopause when they produce lower levels of their precious testosterone thats when they become grumpy old men!
I’m afraid I wouldn’t have had the patience to allow the boy to remain in an upright position had he called horomones a copout. LOL Jerk!
Anywho, thank you so much for coming to the site! I’ve heard so much about you through Jason that I feel like I already know you!
Very nice meeting you, and I hope you’ll come back again!