Suzanne Harrington: Shout out to all the menopausers and a guide to those living with them
Shout out to all the menopausers out there currently standing in the middle of a room wondering what they are doing, while feeling hot. Not that kind of hot – this kind of hot, the kind that engulfs you like lava engulfing Pompeii, making you tear at your collar while rushing towards the nearest window, scalp prickling.
Shout out to their husbands, partners, brothers, bro-friends – keep reading this, menfolk, it may come in handy one day, the same way knowing what to do when confronted by an angry bear could come in handy. Shout out to their sons and daughters, who have no idea what’s going on – how could they? Nobody has told them. Dismissing the menopause as women’s stuff has long been our folly. It is EVERYONE’S stuff. It should be on the school curriculum; What’s Happening To Mother & How Not To Make It Worse 1.0
Shout out to all the menopausers who no longer care about the minutiae of anyone around them. Whose mummy brain has detached, leaving instead a person who does not give a single goddamn where your socks are, who ate your sandwich, or whose turn it is to walk the dog. That woman no longer exists. In her place is someone whose oestrogen has left the building, and wishes you would too. All of you. And take the dog. In fact take everything. The renouncing of worldly possessions has never seemed more attractive.
The overheated woman standing blankly in the middle of the room, insane from insomnia, aching to her bones, dry of vagina and eyeball, and able to gain weight merely by opening the fridge door, wants a new life. A quiet one, alone, preferably off grid in a shepherd’s hut. She would like to trade dependents, pets, housemates, cars, bills, responsibilities, and all other commitments for solitude, loungewear, books and tea.
For menopausers are entering their crone phase. Historically this is when they would be revered as wise women - or burned as witches - but what they would not be doing is still performing the role of mummy to a household of young adults who were once dependent children. We can thank neoliberalism and its soaring, crippling rents for that one, clipping the wings of the young so that, were the menopauser to mirror all other animals and boot them emphatically from the nest, they would fall splat on the pavement. With a cardboard homeless sign in front of them.
Instead, like Jesus, the adult children continue to live at home, and wonder what’s going on with their mother. Why she’s so eternally furious about everything from world events to emptying the dishwasher, why she keeps ripping off her sweater, and forgetting why she came into the room. Do not make the situation worse by telling her she’s being insane (she already feels insane), that it will be over soon (it won't), or that she needs to chill (seriously, fuck off). Just make her a cup of tea, and back away.
