Spokane has some interesting drivers. It always has. Over the last few months, though, I've been noticing some... changes. Interesting differences. New weirdness. People parked curbside with their door wide open into the driving lane while apparently pleasantly conversing with a friend on the sidewalk. A truck idling while sitting in the middle of an intersection with cars stopped and waiting on two sides. An SUV lazily turning right. From the center turn lane across two lanes of traffic. Weirdness.
I have a theory. I think it's inexperienced nouveau-stoners trying to figure out how to drive while high. This new weirdness I've been noticing never moves fast. It's not road rage or stress or rush hour. I think they are thinking at half speed. They are certainly moving at half speed. If they are moving at all. I wonder if states legalizing recreational marijuana should conduct an education campaign focused not on cautionary tales of a newly legalized intoxicant, but instead offering judgement-free information on what it feels like to be stoned. At first, it's all millennials and hippies and long hair at the bud bar, but now, about a year into recreational dispensaries, it's fewer stereotypical stoners and more soccer moms, grandparents, and bankers. They are the ones that maybe took a hit or two in college, maybe even three or four, but fell in line with societal expectations by refusing to succumb to the evil Reefer Madness. A year in, and the world hasn't imploded because we legalized pot, so they're coming out of the hot box.
It's not these languid, awkward, probably-stoned drivers that get my jeers, though.
It's me.
Driving on Indiana today, I had the pleasure of observing as the aforementioned SUV turned right from the center lane across two lanes of traffic. Traffic moving in the same direction as them before they decided to turn. Five or six cars, actually, right behind said SUV and moving in the same direction. I was one of those five or six cars.
"Niiiiiice, you dumb b!t@h."
It actually took me a breath or two before I realized *my* voice had said that.
I don't say things like that.
I don't even think things like that. Jeers to me.
Now, I could spend hours puzzling over the source of that unexpected rage. I could write about cancer and finances and anxiety and brain damage and menopause. I could lock myself away in my head and chase my own tail to infinity.
But honestly, I don't care why I said it. I don't care because *immediately* upon realizing that it was ME saying those hateful words, my little inner Buddha began to cry. As soon as I had said it, I knew that it hurt me to say it. I could beat myself up for days for being spiteful and petty and juvenile, but instead, I am so very happy that despite the *hell* of the last two years, there is still compassion in me. My very humanity is bruised and weary, but it's alive. Cheers to that :-)
Well, I obviously wasn't stoned.
Saturday, April 9, 2016
Thursday, April 7, 2016
The best bridge between despair and hope...
...is a good night's sleep, they say.
They also say, "don't burn bridges."
Two nights ago, I couldn't sleep. I can't really point to the reason, but I just couldn't sleep. "They say" insomnia is a common complication of cancer treatment. "They say" it can last for years. I made it through the night and the next day, though. I used to sleep 4 or 5 hours a night for weeks on end - and that's a maximum. It wasn't as easy as it used to be, but I made it through.
Then last night, sometime around one am, when I could barely hold my eyes open, I got the hiccups. For the last few weeks, I've been getting these bouts of hiccups that seem to have no cause (although that's fairly common), but new for me, they also seem to have no cure.
Fast forward to 3:45 am - less than 12 hours ago. I'm laying on my back on the couch, still hiccuping, with tears streaming down my face and filling my ears. For many years - the last couple of decades or so, anyway - I've lived with night terrors born of my past. As a result, for most of my adult life, I never really enjoyed a "good" night's sleep, not on a regular basis. Except for a four or five month period before my cancer diagnosis. My life and my state of mental health aligned in such a way that I began sleeping through the night. Every night. For nights on end. Then I had to get a breast cut off, and that screwed everything up.
Now, two years later, my surgery wounds are healed, but chemical menopause, acid washes (I refuse to call them hot flashes any more), and an apparently malfunctioning diaphragm rob me again and again and again. "They say" the best bridge between despair and hope is a good night's sleep.
I wish my bridge was more than a precarious, Indiana Jones-esque, frayed rope mockery of a contraption.
They also say, "don't burn bridges."
Two nights ago, I couldn't sleep. I can't really point to the reason, but I just couldn't sleep. "They say" insomnia is a common complication of cancer treatment. "They say" it can last for years. I made it through the night and the next day, though. I used to sleep 4 or 5 hours a night for weeks on end - and that's a maximum. It wasn't as easy as it used to be, but I made it through.
Then last night, sometime around one am, when I could barely hold my eyes open, I got the hiccups. For the last few weeks, I've been getting these bouts of hiccups that seem to have no cause (although that's fairly common), but new for me, they also seem to have no cure.
Fast forward to 3:45 am - less than 12 hours ago. I'm laying on my back on the couch, still hiccuping, with tears streaming down my face and filling my ears. For many years - the last couple of decades or so, anyway - I've lived with night terrors born of my past. As a result, for most of my adult life, I never really enjoyed a "good" night's sleep, not on a regular basis. Except for a four or five month period before my cancer diagnosis. My life and my state of mental health aligned in such a way that I began sleeping through the night. Every night. For nights on end. Then I had to get a breast cut off, and that screwed everything up.
Now, two years later, my surgery wounds are healed, but chemical menopause, acid washes (I refuse to call them hot flashes any more), and an apparently malfunctioning diaphragm rob me again and again and again. "They say" the best bridge between despair and hope is a good night's sleep.
I wish my bridge was more than a precarious, Indiana Jones-esque, frayed rope mockery of a contraption.
Tuesday, April 5, 2016
*Sigh*
Today, I shared the following with a new person in my life. It was so much easier with visible physical wounds. Now, with no visual signs of illness or injury, I am left to wonder if it's my body or my spirit that needs more time.
"...Yea, this cancer thing pretty much sucks. I was triple positive - stage 1 - grade - 1, 3 months of weekly chemo, then 9 months of Herceptin (artificially induced flu on a menstrual like schedule :-) - and that ended in November of last year. I am not to the "alive" point, yet, but I have had some crazy amazing opportunities to teach - to speak with people - to walk with people - because I am such a TMI person - well, it's been phenomenal. I had been dating my fiance for 6 months when the diagnosis came... but I'm not going to make myself cry, so I'll stop there :-). If you are on Facebook and add me, that's where I chronicled my journey - which, honestly, I've really let up on, but continually go back and try to pick up again. The time I had healing, being sick, having surgeries - it gave me time to write. I had to write and share to get through it, but now... this time in my life is *so* much more stressful than any of that ever felt like... I don't have the energy. The stability, really, to look that closely at myself at the moment. I have to keep life and family together, which it sounds like you know all too well. My then-boyfriend/now-fiance quit work and school to help me keep my job, life, family, and sanity together, and now, as a one income family with canceled extra classes and a variety of other cute financial surprises... it's pretty darn exhausting. But I'm coming back. I can feel it. It's just so darn slooooow.
...I've been... in the role of the most experienced through most of my cancer trip - there were a small few who had walked this path before, but even at 45, I am much younger (for now, I'm sure you are well aware of) than most diagnosed women, so very few in my life, in my circle knew anything of what might come for me. Some very amazing people came into my life that *had* walked this before, and without them... I would be lost. But this, now, post-treatment and pre-recovery, this is hard. This is so much harder than cancer and surgery and chemo and all of it. And there's no damn "final appointment" date. Really, a "this ends" goalpost would make such a difference. Thank you. It was kind of nice, really, to write this with no worry of freak out or embarrassment or pity."
And the saddest piece to me, in this moment, is I kind of feel just like I did when I started this. If that's the case, then what's the point?
Probably the point is to convince me to quit asking what's the point.
Thursday, February 25, 2016
TMI Alert: One Day in Life After C
I suppose it might depend on your definition of TMI, but whatever...
I am starting to understand more of what people mean when they say, "there will come a point where you *know* you are recovering. There will eventually be more days when you feel more like the 'old you' instead of the trainwreck of the 'new you' that seemed like it would never end."
Ok, so no one painted THAT bad of a picture. And I'm starting to understand why that it, too, but that's not my point today.
What is my point today?
My point is I started off today on a high note - a really high note. I interviewed with The Fig Tree - an interfaith newsletter - to become a volunteer staff member that would help edit, keep the office open, organized community education events, stuff like that. And the interview, it was inspiring. It gave me ideas. It made me feel like I could make a difference.
And I spoke with the Washington Community College Humanities Association today about taking a seat on their board to help further education on the Humanities across the state.
I've gotten a ton of work done, finished some form-filling-out, posted some grades, bonded with my son, and updated my GoFundMe.
And that's the stickler today, I think. A few weeks ago, I started a GoFundMe for myself and my family. This journey through breast cancer has left us on the ledge of financial ruin. After exhausting all other resources I was capable of exhausting, GoFundMe was kind of what was left. It hasn't been very successful yet, but in defense of my circles, most people I know are just as "bad off," if not worse off than my family and I. It's been commented on and shared like crazy and that is just wonderful. It makes me feel so loved.
So what is my point today?
No matter what I do, no matter what I accomplish, no matter how many volunteer positions I agree to fill, it doesn't maintenance the cars, get medical attention for my kitties, get phones and computers that actually work, or pay my bankruptcy lawyer. It keeps me busy. It keeps me from thinking about it all. But it doesn't *fix* anything for us. I can't take another job. I can't guarantee I would have the energy to commit to an entry position. Besides, it's not like I don't make enough money to live on, I just don't make enough money to catch up, pay for immediate needs, AND keep up with monthly bills.
On the downswing of days like today, that's the reality that's waiting for me, and it's hard. It's exhausting.
Most of all, it's humiliating.
I must say, GoFundMe, among many positives, at least offers the opportunity to beg without having to do it face to face or stand on a corner with a sign ~ the 1st, I have done many times ~ the 2nd, I've considered, but haven't resort to, I mean, I don't even know the rules for claiming a corner. I also don't seem to have Kanye's knack for getting people to donate just to shut me up and make me go away, unfortunately.
So boiled down to the most simple point today?
Gratitude.
Thank you, GoFundMe, for helping me and so many others save a little face.
I am starting to understand more of what people mean when they say, "there will come a point where you *know* you are recovering. There will eventually be more days when you feel more like the 'old you' instead of the trainwreck of the 'new you' that seemed like it would never end."
Ok, so no one painted THAT bad of a picture. And I'm starting to understand why that it, too, but that's not my point today.
What is my point today?
My point is I started off today on a high note - a really high note. I interviewed with The Fig Tree - an interfaith newsletter - to become a volunteer staff member that would help edit, keep the office open, organized community education events, stuff like that. And the interview, it was inspiring. It gave me ideas. It made me feel like I could make a difference.
And I spoke with the Washington Community College Humanities Association today about taking a seat on their board to help further education on the Humanities across the state.
I've gotten a ton of work done, finished some form-filling-out, posted some grades, bonded with my son, and updated my GoFundMe.
And that's the stickler today, I think. A few weeks ago, I started a GoFundMe for myself and my family. This journey through breast cancer has left us on the ledge of financial ruin. After exhausting all other resources I was capable of exhausting, GoFundMe was kind of what was left. It hasn't been very successful yet, but in defense of my circles, most people I know are just as "bad off," if not worse off than my family and I. It's been commented on and shared like crazy and that is just wonderful. It makes me feel so loved.
So what is my point today?
No matter what I do, no matter what I accomplish, no matter how many volunteer positions I agree to fill, it doesn't maintenance the cars, get medical attention for my kitties, get phones and computers that actually work, or pay my bankruptcy lawyer. It keeps me busy. It keeps me from thinking about it all. But it doesn't *fix* anything for us. I can't take another job. I can't guarantee I would have the energy to commit to an entry position. Besides, it's not like I don't make enough money to live on, I just don't make enough money to catch up, pay for immediate needs, AND keep up with monthly bills.
On the downswing of days like today, that's the reality that's waiting for me, and it's hard. It's exhausting.
Most of all, it's humiliating.
I must say, GoFundMe, among many positives, at least offers the opportunity to beg without having to do it face to face or stand on a corner with a sign ~ the 1st, I have done many times ~ the 2nd, I've considered, but haven't resort to, I mean, I don't even know the rules for claiming a corner. I also don't seem to have Kanye's knack for getting people to donate just to shut me up and make me go away, unfortunately.
So boiled down to the most simple point today?
Gratitude.
Thank you, GoFundMe, for helping me and so many others save a little face.
Wednesday, February 24, 2016
Last Published...
...on Oct 17, 2015. So much for the ability, drive, motivation for consistency, and my Inner Breast Cancer B@d@ss...
I wonder if I had blogged regularly through this... whole thing, if I would have felt stronger...
...or if it would have drained me more.
I wonder if I had blogged regularly through this... whole thing, if I would have felt more sane...
...or if it would have made me crazier.
I wonder if I had blogged regularly through this... whole thing, I would have been able to avoid the current financial crises I find myself facing...
...or if I'm just *that bad* at the daily life stuff.
I wonder if I had blogged regularly through this... whole thing, reality would look more like the grand ideas in my head...
...or if I want to blame cancer because I am a dreamer, not a doer.
I wonder a lot of things. I would say I wonder how important my wondering even is, but I know from experience that making a difference, even to one person, it's important. It's not just important to that person, it's important to our community, our society. Not only do we "get back" what we "put out there," what we send out creates ripple, whether we witness them or not.
I want my ripples to look like smiles. I want my ripples to sound like sighs of relief. I want my ripples to feel like company.
And that can't happen sitting on my couch guzzling Candy Crush Saga. I'm not sure how it DOES happen, but it won't happen in the cocoon of a cell phone screen.
I wonder if I had blogged regularly through this... whole thing, if I would have felt stronger...
...or if it would have drained me more.
I wonder if I had blogged regularly through this... whole thing, if I would have felt more sane...
...or if it would have made me crazier.
I wonder if I had blogged regularly through this... whole thing, I would have been able to avoid the current financial crises I find myself facing...
...or if I'm just *that bad* at the daily life stuff.
I wonder if I had blogged regularly through this... whole thing, reality would look more like the grand ideas in my head...
...or if I want to blame cancer because I am a dreamer, not a doer.
I wonder a lot of things. I would say I wonder how important my wondering even is, but I know from experience that making a difference, even to one person, it's important. It's not just important to that person, it's important to our community, our society. Not only do we "get back" what we "put out there," what we send out creates ripple, whether we witness them or not.
I want my ripples to look like smiles. I want my ripples to sound like sighs of relief. I want my ripples to feel like company.
And that can't happen sitting on my couch guzzling Candy Crush Saga. I'm not sure how it DOES happen, but it won't happen in the cocoon of a cell phone screen.
Saturday, October 17, 2015
The Most Fearsome Thing
...is the enemy unseen.
I sit here at the computer wanting to write about the crazy. I feel like, if I could just describe a bit of the anxiety, put a name to the unknown, maybe that could weaken its hold on me; not a lot, just a little. Just enough to let me breathe. But, nooooo. I am frozen at the keyboard. All I want is to bleed the voices out of me - just a little - so that maybe tomorrow will be a little easier than today. But I don't know where to start.
And now, I come back to this screen after almost 20 minutes of staring at NBA 2K14 and no new words have magically appeared. Imagine that.
So I focus on my irritation. I focus on (what I perceive to be) the obstacle that so deftly, so expertly, so intimately keeps me from writing. Calling that obstacle "voices" was just... uninspired. Complacent, if we're being honest, because I don't really have voices in my head. "Voices" is a cop-out. "Voices" is me being lazy. The only actual voice in my head is mine. I know how many there are - one - and I know whose it is - mine.
That's not the problem.
Here's the problem.
Voices in your head, no matter how many there are or who they sound like, are not constrained by the restrictions of the physical body. Space and linear timelines are anachronisms in the realm of head-voices. Just because there is only one voice doesn't mean there aren't a million tracks of that one voice all playing at different speeds and volumes, reflecting a million different moods and voicing a million different opinions. Just because there is only one voice and it happens to be yours doesn't mean you can trust it.
Hell. Just because there is only one voice and it happens to be yours doesn't even guarantee that you can understand what it's saying. With a million different tracks playing simultaneously at different speeds and volumes while concurrently sampling a million different moods and proclaiming a million different opinions, the end result is a cacophonous clamor. A discordant drumming. A raucous racket.
My own personal Tower of Babel.
There is some kind of pseudo-intellectual, faux-philosophy connection between the biblical story of Babel and my current state of insanity, but I can't quite verbalize it, at the moment.
Oh, but if I could.
The most fearsome thing is the enemy unseen.
True dat.
Hells to tha' yeah.
Fo'sheezy.
Daaaaarn tootin'.
I sit here at the computer wanting to write about the crazy. I feel like, if I could just describe a bit of the anxiety, put a name to the unknown, maybe that could weaken its hold on me; not a lot, just a little. Just enough to let me breathe. But, nooooo. I am frozen at the keyboard. All I want is to bleed the voices out of me - just a little - so that maybe tomorrow will be a little easier than today. But I don't know where to start.
And now, I come back to this screen after almost 20 minutes of staring at NBA 2K14 and no new words have magically appeared. Imagine that.
So I focus on my irritation. I focus on (what I perceive to be) the obstacle that so deftly, so expertly, so intimately keeps me from writing. Calling that obstacle "voices" was just... uninspired. Complacent, if we're being honest, because I don't really have voices in my head. "Voices" is a cop-out. "Voices" is me being lazy. The only actual voice in my head is mine. I know how many there are - one - and I know whose it is - mine.
That's not the problem.
Here's the problem.
Voices in your head, no matter how many there are or who they sound like, are not constrained by the restrictions of the physical body. Space and linear timelines are anachronisms in the realm of head-voices. Just because there is only one voice doesn't mean there aren't a million tracks of that one voice all playing at different speeds and volumes, reflecting a million different moods and voicing a million different opinions. Just because there is only one voice and it happens to be yours doesn't mean you can trust it.
Hell. Just because there is only one voice and it happens to be yours doesn't even guarantee that you can understand what it's saying. With a million different tracks playing simultaneously at different speeds and volumes while concurrently sampling a million different moods and proclaiming a million different opinions, the end result is a cacophonous clamor. A discordant drumming. A raucous racket.
My own personal Tower of Babel.
There is some kind of pseudo-intellectual, faux-philosophy connection between the biblical story of Babel and my current state of insanity, but I can't quite verbalize it, at the moment.
Oh, but if I could.
The most fearsome thing is the enemy unseen.
True dat.
Hells to tha' yeah.
Fo'sheezy.
Daaaaarn tootin'.
Sunday, October 4, 2015
?TMI? Again, You Can't Say You Weren't Warned...
THIS is a crazy side-rant in the middle of what, I am quickly becoming convinced, is a minor nervous breakdown. But it is a really positive crazy side-rant, and I *really* need the positive right now, so don't say you weren't warned about the upcoming crazy-laced TMI rant.
Women under the age of menopause (and any many in or hoping to be in a long-term relation with a woman) might secretly fear "the Change" more than any other biophysical event outside of dying. Let me demonstrate my point. Set a timer for 45 seconds, then close your eyes and think about the ways menopause has or is impacting your life. What might the future hold for you when you finally stare the Change in the eyes for the first time.
How could it not send icy cold shivers down the spine? Considering Hollywood's portrayal of older women, (women of any age, really) pharmaceutical advertising's constant reminders about the heat, moods, and moisture (or lack thereof) associated with the Change, and the ever-present stoic, matronly mother/aunt/grandmother/friend's mother/church pew neighbor/sweet little lady next door archetype, what else are we supposed to think? I've always imagined a grim Transformation (I'll stop speaking for the majority of women now) resulting in a shell of a woman, a ghostly shadow of her former self. Every joke, ad, and movie reinforces the idea that menopause is PMS-on-steroids.
I see things a bit differently now.
I would like to point out a few things 1) in no conceivable way did my 3-month, chemically-induced, stress-drenched menopause experience resemble what I understand to be the "average," "natural" menopause reality, information admittedly gleaned mainly through furtive, short conversations and late night Google obsessions. 2) In no universe do I think it's possible that my "Change" is complete. 3) In no realm of the imagination would I EVER be so vain ~ or disrespectful ~ as to superimpose my experience onto others. What I write next is my experience, thus far, and I must assume that it is mine, alone.
But I dearly, truly hope not. :-)
I look back now at the barely-contained angst that consumed me during the months after my diagnosis, but before... well, today, and my first instinct is to stoically smile, just like I've seen a million other white-haired matron smile. For months that seemed like *centuries,* I could not, in my relative innocence, imagine me without my "Drive." And that's the big deal about menopause, right? You lose your "Drive," and then you go crazy. "Drive" has played a heavy hand in my Universe for almost 40 years. The thought of it simply disappearing (because that's what happens, right?) was so inconceivable, so... unspeakable that I spent many nights/early mornings alone on the couch, trying desperately to not-disturb my 16 year old son or my boyfriend ~ of *7 very short months* ~ as I immersed myself in imagining who that woman would be. There is *nothing* to prescribe, no exercise to overdo, no proven remedy for the loss of... desire. How... boring that must be, I thought. So empty. Dead. And anyone who knows me intimately understands that boredom is my kryptonite. I was scared to death. How in the HELL was my already-stressed-to-the-max-7-month-old relationship going to handle THAT?!?!?!? It was already juggling work, children, grandchildren, family, bills, daily life, blah, blah, blah. Oh, yeah. And breast cancer. Put menopause in the mix? You could say I was scared. To death.
Fast-forward several months later to now... I am emerging into the next phase of this. I am coming to understand that Drive and Desire are two often-very separate things. The absence of "Drive" is not a vacuum. To be left empty, the core quality of the human spirit would have to be "Drive." Somehow, in my pre-menopausal way of assuming the worst (something I have NEVER done before), I had decided that "desire" equated the "Drive," that they were one and the same. It is a Need, a Necessity, ultimately, a biological imperative. It is Sex Drive that has allowed the human race to procreate and survive. Drive is produced largely by estrogen and in the hormone's absence, Drive all but disappears. This would be a terrible tragedy if Drive and Desire were the same thing. I am coming to see they definitely are not.
Desire involves interest. It involves enticement. Desire equates *want,* instead of need. Yes. The stripping of estrogen from my body would leave me bereft of Need. But Desire, I can now see, has nothing to do with estrogen. In fact, it's had an almost inverse affect on me. The death of Drive has left all kinds of room to filled in with Desire. (That is about the cheesiest-ass thing I have *ever* written.) Being able to let go of "have to" and embrace "want to" has been amazing. Enlightening, really. I look back at my menopausophobia, and I can't help but laugh at my irrational fears. Interestingly, I think I'm glad I was given a healthy fear the Change. In some ways, the looming threat of <<<menopause>>> kept me on my toes. It never let me forget for too long that nothing is permanent. The zombie-esque future I face as an aging woman often inspired(s) me to acts of great fun and foolishness. Desire, unfettered by "Drive," is trans-formative. When sex sheds the weight of "must have," "want to have" all but takes over.
Remember that 45 seconds of imagining menopause? Close your eyes, again, but this time imagine what wanting feels like without the pressure of "must." Wanting the one you love, not because a gland in your brain is flipping internal switches your body can't ignore, but simply because... you want them. You don't have to have them. <close your eyes!>
You *WANT* them.
;~*
And that, my friends, is *hot.*
So when half-joking, side-stepping inquiries about the HELL of menopause come my way, I think a calm, reserved smile is probably the way to go, don't you?
Women under the age of menopause (and any many in or hoping to be in a long-term relation with a woman) might secretly fear "the Change" more than any other biophysical event outside of dying. Let me demonstrate my point. Set a timer for 45 seconds, then close your eyes and think about the ways menopause has or is impacting your life. What might the future hold for you when you finally stare the Change in the eyes for the first time.
How could it not send icy cold shivers down the spine? Considering Hollywood's portrayal of older women, (women of any age, really) pharmaceutical advertising's constant reminders about the heat, moods, and moisture (or lack thereof) associated with the Change, and the ever-present stoic, matronly mother/aunt/grandmother/friend's mother/church pew neighbor/sweet little lady next door archetype, what else are we supposed to think? I've always imagined a grim Transformation (I'll stop speaking for the majority of women now) resulting in a shell of a woman, a ghostly shadow of her former self. Every joke, ad, and movie reinforces the idea that menopause is PMS-on-steroids.
I see things a bit differently now.
I would like to point out a few things 1) in no conceivable way did my 3-month, chemically-induced, stress-drenched menopause experience resemble what I understand to be the "average," "natural" menopause reality, information admittedly gleaned mainly through furtive, short conversations and late night Google obsessions. 2) In no universe do I think it's possible that my "Change" is complete. 3) In no realm of the imagination would I EVER be so vain ~ or disrespectful ~ as to superimpose my experience onto others. What I write next is my experience, thus far, and I must assume that it is mine, alone.
But I dearly, truly hope not. :-)
I look back now at the barely-contained angst that consumed me during the months after my diagnosis, but before... well, today, and my first instinct is to stoically smile, just like I've seen a million other white-haired matron smile. For months that seemed like *centuries,* I could not, in my relative innocence, imagine me without my "Drive." And that's the big deal about menopause, right? You lose your "Drive," and then you go crazy. "Drive" has played a heavy hand in my Universe for almost 40 years. The thought of it simply disappearing (because that's what happens, right?) was so inconceivable, so... unspeakable that I spent many nights/early mornings alone on the couch, trying desperately to not-disturb my 16 year old son or my boyfriend ~ of *7 very short months* ~ as I immersed myself in imagining who that woman would be. There is *nothing* to prescribe, no exercise to overdo, no proven remedy for the loss of... desire. How... boring that must be, I thought. So empty. Dead. And anyone who knows me intimately understands that boredom is my kryptonite. I was scared to death. How in the HELL was my already-stressed-to-the-max-7-month-old relationship going to handle THAT?!?!?!? It was already juggling work, children, grandchildren, family, bills, daily life, blah, blah, blah. Oh, yeah. And breast cancer. Put menopause in the mix? You could say I was scared. To death.
Fast-forward several months later to now... I am emerging into the next phase of this. I am coming to understand that Drive and Desire are two often-very separate things. The absence of "Drive" is not a vacuum. To be left empty, the core quality of the human spirit would have to be "Drive." Somehow, in my pre-menopausal way of assuming the worst (something I have NEVER done before), I had decided that "desire" equated the "Drive," that they were one and the same. It is a Need, a Necessity, ultimately, a biological imperative. It is Sex Drive that has allowed the human race to procreate and survive. Drive is produced largely by estrogen and in the hormone's absence, Drive all but disappears. This would be a terrible tragedy if Drive and Desire were the same thing. I am coming to see they definitely are not.
Desire involves interest. It involves enticement. Desire equates *want,* instead of need. Yes. The stripping of estrogen from my body would leave me bereft of Need. But Desire, I can now see, has nothing to do with estrogen. In fact, it's had an almost inverse affect on me. The death of Drive has left all kinds of room to filled in with Desire. (That is about the cheesiest-ass thing I have *ever* written.) Being able to let go of "have to" and embrace "want to" has been amazing. Enlightening, really. I look back at my menopausophobia, and I can't help but laugh at my irrational fears. Interestingly, I think I'm glad I was given a healthy fear the Change. In some ways, the looming threat of <<<menopause>>> kept me on my toes. It never let me forget for too long that nothing is permanent. The zombie-esque future I face as an aging woman often inspired(s) me to acts of great fun and foolishness. Desire, unfettered by "Drive," is trans-formative. When sex sheds the weight of "must have," "want to have" all but takes over.
Remember that 45 seconds of imagining menopause? Close your eyes, again, but this time imagine what wanting feels like without the pressure of "must." Wanting the one you love, not because a gland in your brain is flipping internal switches your body can't ignore, but simply because... you want them. You don't have to have them. <close your eyes!>
You *WANT* them.
;~*
And that, my friends, is *hot.*
So when half-joking, side-stepping inquiries about the HELL of menopause come my way, I think a calm, reserved smile is probably the way to go, don't you?
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