I wasn't sure that I was going to post about this, and I still may not press 'post' at the end but I'm just going to write about it anyway.
Last Friday night was interesting. In a way I could have done without. I would have much preferred that it had involved lots of wine, good food, friends and laughing so much I nearly pee. What I ended up with was my brain trying to kill me.
It's the fucking menopause again.
I thought I'd managed to avoid the pathetic crying at stupid sentimental schlock this month but, once again, it crept up on me throughout Thursday and Friday, albeit not as bad as in previous months. It was fine, honestly. Didn't stop me doing what needed to get done in preparation for our visit back to TLH's native homeland on Saturday to visit his mum. She'd phoned us on the Thursday with a list of things she wanted us to do/bring with us and I decided I might as well get them during the day on Friday so we didn't have to stop anywhere on the journey to see her. Good thinking, huh? I was feeling quite proud of myself for deciding to do this off my own bat, and thought TLH would be pleased that I'd saved him a job or two. Plus I'd also started doing some of the Christmas food shopping (especially Christmas morning breakfast stuff) which I was feeling very pleased about.
Unfortunately, TLH wasn't exactly in a receptive frame of mind when he got home at 7.15pm. Then we had a stupid misunderstanding involving the mishearing of bellini/blini and eventually he decided he might as well go to bed. On his own. At 8.30pm. *sigh*.
I sat stewing on the sofa, laptop on, er, lap, cat snuggled up next to me and rubbish on the telly until about 11pm, when I decided I might as well call it a day. I went to the spare bedroom so that I could read a bit without disturbing TLH. A few pages were read, the light was put out and I went to sleep.
I woke with a start some time later and thought it might have been about 5am, which is, more or less, the time we stir in this house during the week. I was horrified then to see that it was 2am. I'd been asleep for all of three hours. I rolled over, closed my eyes, and tried to find my way back to the Land of Nod.
And that's when the little voice in my head started up. The nasty, insidious, hateful little voice that tells lies wrapped in a veneer of truth. Except that at that time in the morning, and in my menopausal-hormone filled mind, it's all truth. It was telling me what an idiot I was for thinking anyone would appreciate me. It was telling me how nobody cared and no-one truly loved me except for Sylvester the cat and he's 15 years old and will probably die soon so then there'll be no-one. It was reminding me that I don't have many friends and those that I do don't really give that much of a toss because they never call me, never suggest I go round and hang out. My brother has his own life and family so there's no reason why he should be even the slightest bit interested in my life.
Lies, all of it, but wrapped in the thinnest veneer of truth, and it wouldn't. shut. the. fuck. up. And I was getting more and more upset. Rolling over and trying to think of other things didn't help, as my brain just roiled around and returned to the same thought over and over. No-one would notice if you were gone, so why don't you just disappear.
I knew this was complete bollocks but turning the voice off was not happening. It was a proper long, dark night of the soul. I figured there was nothing for it but to just get up again, and beat the voice into submission with a cup of tea and a wander around the backwaters of the interweb, in the hope that I could distract myself enough to feel sleepy and away from the razor blades and/or paracetamol (don't worry, that was never going to happen). But I just managed to give myself a headache on top of it all because I'd been crying into my pillow so much and didn't manage to feel sleepy.
TLH came downstairs at about 6am and was astonished to see that I'd, pretty much, been up all night. And I felt like shit, understandably. But at least I hadn't killed myself, right?
I survived the following day in Wales pretty well, considering. I had a couple of weird turns that were rectified with coffee and cake, and I managed to grab a few Zs in the car on the way there and back (yes, we went for the day, so there was at least 5 hours of driving in total).
And today, Sunday, I've been fine, and I'm typing this while chortling along to 'Elf' on the telly. But I can't help thinking that the approaching menopause is to blame for self-loathing and suicidal thoughts of Friday night/Saturday morning and if that's the case, it's a most unwelcome development. I did plan to try and get through this oncoming change of life without medical intervention as best as I can, but if this is going to become a common occurrence then I might seriously have to consider talking to the doctor about investigating HRT.
You know what? To hell with it, I'm going to publish this post. It's part of my life and others reading it may understand what the fuck was going on and can understand.
But, don't worry, folks, I have no plans on going anywhere just yet so no need to panic!
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