Fibromyalgia and Guilt

It’s a few weeks since I got my fibromyalgia diagnosis and I’m struggling to adjust to being fibromyalgic. Is that’s even a thing? WordPress thinks not. It wants to correct it to ‘fibrillation’.

I’m struggling to adjust with the limitations. Of fibromyalgia, that is, not fibrillation.

I’m also struggling with guilt.

One problem is that people can’t see pain. They see the effects of my pain, which may come across as me being miserable. Or they might notice that I’m having a lot of sofa time. I don’t ‘look’ ill (not with make-up on, anyway) so I must be lazy?

Anyone who knows me in RL will no that this is not the case.

I know that having this condition isn’t my fault. I’ve always struggled with anxiety, therefore it was inevitable that one day there would be one trauma too many and the proverbial shit would hit the fan. I’m now wondering if the ‘nervous breakdown’ I had last year was in fact a severe fibromyagia flare up and the fear of what was wrong with me contributed to the severity of the symptoms? At the time, I told my GP that I felt something physical was driving the anxiety and not the other way around. It also explains why I couldn’t tolerate any medication because fibromyalgia can make you sensitive (or intolerant) to drugs, even simple painkillers.

The way I look at it is that I have three things to cope with: Pain, fatigue and guilt.

I get that it’s not my fault and yet, I feel guilty.

I feel guilty for having to rely on others.

I feel guilty about cancelling on people, not that I get out much.

I feel guilty about the stuff that gets postponed until I have a good day.

I feel guilty about being a miserable git because I’m in pain.

I feel guilty that I constantly complain about the pain from a condition that won’t kill me.

I worry that people won’t take my pain seriously.

This was one day last week.

Situation: Shopping.

I woke up after a good night’s insomnia. I scanned my body for pain levels. It was a 2. So I decided to go and grace the supermarket with my presence, instead of doing it online.

I sat in a well known coffee establishment and drank my decaf cappuccino (with coconut milk) feeling quite positive with life. Maybe, just maybe, today was going to be a good day?

At that point, the universe farted in my face.

My body protested the second I walked out into the humid car-park. It protested even further when I walked into the refrigerated section of the supermarket. This is because I can no longer handle sudden changes in temperature. My neck/ shoulder pain kicked in. However, the token was already in the trolley, so I pushed on – literally!

Pushing trollies these days feels like I am pushing a car, especially if I get one with a wonky wheel – which I inevitably do. Turning those corners with my dodgy neck and a set of four wheels that want to go the other way is an absolute joy. NOT.

Then, there’s the checkout experience..

On this occasion, I was in a supermarket where the checkout operators are trained to rapid-fire your goods at you at finger-breaking speed. You know the one where your fingers are in danger of being trapped between a can of sardines and a two-man tent? You see people limbering up as they queue, or power-lunging by the cat food. It’s more of a cardiovascular workout, than shopping. Also, there’s no help with packing here. If you’re slow (like me) you risk angering the fifty or so people behind you. However, it’s cheap, so you learn to ignore the glares and fists being slammed repeatedly into bags of frozen peas.

Heading back out of the chilly supermarket into the stifling heat of the car-park, I felt what little energy I had drain away from me. My battery went from 30% straight to PLUG ME THE HELL IN I’M ABOUT TO DIE!!!

I needed some energy, but I can’t ingest sugary things because my body is a bastard, so I had to make do with Linkin Park on full-volume.

What track did my my car ‘randomly’ chose to play?

I’ve Given Up.

The screamed lyrics, ‘Put me out of my fucking misery’ certainly raised a few eyebrows as I cruised past a well known bargain store (flogs 100 tea-lights for 99p) but I didn’t care because I needed the adrenaline blast to get myself home safely.

Anyhoo, by the time I got home and had taken my shopping bags inside the house – my muscles were basically on fire and it was all I could do NOT to slump onto the sofa there and then, but the ice-cream point-blank refused to put itself into the freezer – so I pushed on through the fatigue and pain.

Some days I wake up feeling crap. My pain levels are up or I have brain-fog and actual shopping is a no-no. Virtual shopping is a big enough ask on days like these. On other days I wake up feeling OK, but the pain kicks in when I’m out. Fibromyalgia’s be tricky that way. Hence, this particular situation.

Once I’d put my shopping away, I saw that my basket of washing needed pegging out and as soon as the ‘sod it’ thought entered my head, the ghost of my mother-in-law appeared (not really) saying, ‘It’s too good a day not to get that washing out, girl’ so I pushed on some more, promising myself faithfully that I would rest afterwards.

As soon as I stepped outside into my ‘sun-trap’ backyard, my head started to throb and my body ached as if I had the flu, but, still I refused to give in. Why? Because I’m an idiot!

I was only pegging some washing out. It wasn’t as if I was doing hardcore housework, but with each action of raising my arms, I felt as weak as a kitten – only less cute. I snapped a few pegs (that’ll teach me to buy cheap crap) and fought the urge to launch the peg-bag over the fence. Not that it would have gone very far. No strength, see?

My body was saying, ‘Oi. Oi. Oi. Moron. Step away from the classy rotary airier. YOU NEED TO REST!’, but my brain ignored it because it’s a stubborn tw@t and there was no way it was going to let a basket of washing defeat me! So, with a peg between my teeth, I soldiered on.

Having completed the task, I collapsed onto the sofa. I remained horizontal until I regained enough energy to prepare tea, which was three hours later. Alas, the migraine which had been threatening since the supermarket finally got the better of me and by 6pm I was in bed with ‘Coco’ and ‘Coolio’. That’s Co-codamol and Cool Strips, to you!

This was one day and by no means the worst. I just wanted to demonstrate how something menial, like shopping, can be such a pain in the arse – or whatever part of my anatomy my fibro happens to be manifesting itself in at the time.

The symptoms change, but pain and fatigue are constant.

The thing that bothers me the most is those hours when I am lying on the sofa. It bothers me that I can’t do what I want to do, when I want to do it. Or, sometimes, not at all. It drives the control freak in me up the wall! Then, because I feel guilty (and frustrated) I overdo things as soon as I regain some energy and find myself in this cycle of exhaustion, pain and guilt.

A little research shows me that the guilt trip isn’t uncommon with fibromyalgia sufferers, so I know that people will understand this post. I want them to tell me that the guilt doesn’t last forever. Or maybe that the guilt will push me when I need to be pushed because depression is getting the better of me? FWIW. I really don’t like crying. It makes me look like a psychotic panda. For this reason alone, I should have my tear-ducts removed.

I feel guilty for writing this post because there are people a lot worse off than myself. There is no termination point. I can walk. I can function, of sorts. This won’t kill me, but knowing I won’t die from this doesn’t lessen my pain. Or the exhaustion. Or even stop me whinging. It just makes me feel even more guilty than I already do.

To end this post, I will leave you with one of the oldest cliches in the book, but also one of the truest. Print it off. Stick it on your fridge, cupboard or forehead and absorb it’s message.

Appreciate your health: It’s a gift that’s not appreciated until it’s gone.

All images via Creative Commons

 

 

Autism: Fantasy Versus Reality

For the majority of my 9 year old autistic son’s life, he’s lived in a fantasy world made up of fictional characters. He becomes those characters. He believes in them. To him, they’re real.

It’s escapism. A way of coping with a confusing world and I understand it because I’ve lived in a fantasy world of my own, particularly as a child. One thing my mother picked up on was how I was never ‘here’. The reason for that was that ‘here’ was (and still is) overwhelming and causes me a great deal of anxiety.

As I grew older, I escaped into music and books. Music conjures up vivid imagery to me and my mood changes with tempo. It would seem that I am wired to physically and emotionally react to music.

Music provides me with the protection that my imaginary world once did with fictional characters. With music, I’m physically here, but mentally (spiritually) I’m elsewhere. Walking down the street becomes a tolerable experience with my ear buds in. I know that people can see me, but I am anesthetized to them and the environmental noises that make me anxious.

I need escapism. While it’s not the same world I inhabited as a child – my need for an alternate universe remains the same. The difference is that I understand what is acceptable (and what is not) of me as an adult. But make no mistake – when I listen to music or lose myself in a book, I am as far away as I ever was.

Being autistic, I don’t have interests, I have obsessions and one of mine is death and true to my autistic self, if I can find a way to weave my obsession with mortality into a conversation, I will, but don’t worry, I haven’t gone off on a tangent. It’s relative, so bear with me.

I don’t see my interest in death as being morbid. It’s something that is going to happen to me, so I need to familiarse myself with it because – the fear of the unknown, right? I’ve already planned my funeral and one of the songs I have chosen is David Bowie’s Life on Mars.

You see, Bowie knew a thing or two about misfits. He knew that they would identify with his style – visually and musically – thus making him a very rich man. Arguably, one of his best tracks is Life on Mars – a song which Bowie labelled, “a sensitive young girl’s reaction to the media” and added, “I think she finds herself disappointed with reality… that although she’s living in the doldrums of reality, she’s being told that there’s a far greater life somewhere, and she’s bitterly disappointed that she doesn’t have access to it.” For me, it’s reminiscent of own crushing disappointment with reality. I was the ‘girl with the mousey hair’ watching movies over and over (and over) again – wondering why reality could never live up to them. I know that my family will struggle to understand the song’s meaning, but if ever a song existed that was my song – it’s this one.

In fact, in my fantasy world – Bowie wrote it for me, innit?

A lot of autistics live (or have lived) in a fantasy world and if you understood how hard it is to live on a planet that’s not compatible with your needs, you would understand why this happens. The bottom line is this: Our imaginary worlds are where we have complete control over ever single thing that happens.

Control is something that we have little of in the ‘real’ world. It’s the reason we flounder through life – succumbing to mental illness. Some of us will take our own lives. Many of us will die prematurely from stress related conditions and diseases such as cancer and heart disease. The rest of us will struggle with chronic health conditions that won’t kill us, but which will impact our already limited lives. But inside our mind is a place where we can be ourselves. A place where we don’t have to fight to be heard or accepted. A place where we can be ourselves, without fear.

How sad that this is the stuff of fantasy, instead of reality?

This is our reality.

I know how crap this world can be. I know how unkind human beings can be, so I indulge my son’s need for fantasy because I understand his need for escapism. The real world disappoints. It hurts. It makes us anxious. I wish that I could spare him all of this, but I know that one day his imaginary world will no longer protect him. I dread that day, but I know that it will because this isn’t our world. It isn’t autism friendly. Not yet. Not by a long way. This is why so many of us describe feeling as if we are from a different planet. We’re aliens having to work exceptionally hard to try and fit in here.

In our fantasy worlds, we live, rather than exist.

In reality, we exist, rather than live.

Whether escapism is being a fictional character, or losing ourselves in the lyrics of a song or the pages of a book – it’s important that we do it and it’s important that people, especially parents, understand why.

“For a child with Asperger’s, especially a fantasy subtype, fantasy can become an obsession. If fantasy becomes an obsession, it may take therapy or perhaps medication to correct the situation. Do not hesitate to contact a psychologist for help if your efforts are unsuccessful. A child locked in fantasy is a child lost to reality.”

I came across this on a website specifically for parents of children who have Aspergers.  The last sentence in particular suggests ignorance of the importance of escapism and it’s function. Is intervention really in the child’s best interests? Or is it another example of autistic children being forced to adapt so that non-autistic people can feel more comfortable in their presence?

Our autistic lives revolve around escapism and obsessions. If a child’s obsession involves wearing a Jason mask AND nicking your kitchen knives, it’s probably best that professional help is sought – pronto. Otherwise, leave them be. Escapism is serving a purpose. It’s keeping them sane. The important stuff is going in. Nobody was more ‘locked in a fantasy world’ than I was as a child, but I do understand the difference between fantasy and reality. It’s just that reality overwhelms me, so I need to intersperse it with frequent visits to my fantasy world – medication not needed.

“Fantasy is escapist, and that is its glory. If a soldier is imprisoned by the enemy, don’t we consider it his duty to escape?. If we value the freedom of mind and soul, if we’re partisans of liberty, then it’s our plain duty to escape, and to take as many people with us as we can!” ~ J.R.R Tolkien

 

 

Supermarket Weep

I went shopping the other day – nothing unusual with that.

It’s half-term, so I took my son with me – nothing unusual with that either.

However, something happened at the supermarket check-out that ROCKED MY WORLD!

But first, some history..

The first time I realised I could be ‘getting on a bit’ was during my third pregnancy when I stole a look at my hospital maternity notes and saw the term “elderly primigravida”.

Elderly? I was only thirty-eight! Then again, the average age of mothers where we lived at the time was about 16 and I defy any thirty-something mother-to-be to sit in a waiting room full of girls fresh out of their school uniforms and not feel ancient.

Having The Boy took it’s toll on my health, so much so that my brain communicated the message to my ovaries that my breeding days were over and I entered, was catapulted into the menopause at 39 years of age.  Bummer, huh?

The problem is that my mind still thinks it’s 17 (the age I was when I had my first son) which would explain my HORROR when the young (male) cashier at the local supermarket rocked my world with this question.

‘Is your grandson helping you to pack?’

Grandson?

It would have been more tolerable if my son was a baby or a toddler, but he’s almost as tall as me with size 4 feet, not that the operator could see his feet from where he was sitting. But you get my drift?

I stared at the young man.

Stared? Are you sure you’re autistic?

Look, my eye-contact is questionable at best, but when sufficiently antagonised, I can out-stare a statue, mate.

After what seemed like hours, I blurted out: ‘HE’S MY SON!

‘Oh my God. Sorry! Er, anyways, you don’t look old old enough to be a grandma etc.’

Put the shovel down, mate. Stop digging. The damage is done. You mistook my 9 (looks more like 11) year old son for my GRANDSON! You PRESUMED it must be the case. Do not address me again. Scan my goods. Take my payment and allow me to exit the supermarket with what remains of my self-esteem.

He never uttered another word.

There was this awkward atmosphere with me aggressively shoving my fruit and veg into bags for life and him fast-tracking my goods through the scanner as fast as was humanely possible. That done, I practically chucked my clubcard at him. I may have been in a hurry to get the hell out of there, but I still wanted my points!

Five minutes later, I was sat in the car – sulking.

“Are you OK Mum?” The Boy asked me.

I don’t know what gave it away that I wasn’t OK. Maybe it was the way my knuckles gripped the steering wheel despite the fact we were stationary?

I said I was fine.

I wasn’t fine.

I really wasn’t.

I (who usually can see the funny side in most things) wasn’t fucking fine.

What I couldn’t work out was WHY it was bothering me so much? I didn’t even have the ‘time of the month’ as an excuse because I’ve not had a period since 2011!

This was the sort of thing my mother would have reacted badly to. She’d have given the young man (see, even that makes me sound like an old codger!) an earful then flounced home to slam some doors. Then again, this was the woman who in her late 60s decided to drop the ‘nan’ bit and sign her grandchildren’s cards with her name. A few years earlier, short-arse rock God, Prince, had ditched the ‘Prince’ bit for a squiggle and became ‘the artist formerly known as Prince’. So, this was how my mother came to be known as ‘the artist formerly known as Nan’.

Was I becoming Gerascophobic like my mother? *

After a day of sulking, I concluded that, yes, the comment had touched a nerve because I physically feel much older than my years due to illness and early menopause. It’s yet another reminder that my youthfulness has fucked off (taking my oestrogen and collagen with it) and will NEVER return.

I guess the problem is that I’ve been used to being the youngest in everything: The youngest child. The baby sister. The youngest in the class. The youngest wife. The youngest mum.

I wonder if it’s any coincidence that this ‘incident’ happened during my silver-hair transition? I have about six inches of silver hair now, but ffs, was it really the artificially coloured hair which made the difference? Not that I am going to slap the dye back on anytime soon  as the lure of cheaper hair-dos takes priority over being mistaken for my son’s grandmother.

Even so. *twitch*

At the end of the day, it’s not a big deal at all. Or it shouldn’t be. There are certainly bigger things in the world to worry about, right? I also understand how lucky I am to have a child full stop etc etc so no need to go there.

Bottom line? The first time somebody mistakes you for your child’s grandparent instead of mother? That’s a psychological kick in the flaps, whether you admit to it or not.

So, my flaps having been metaphorically and psychologically kicked, I uphold my right to sulk profusely.

I may be some time.

*(Gerascophobia is an abnormal or incessant fear of growing older or ageing)

 

 

The Fibromyalgia Years

Health brings a freedom very few realise, until they no longer have it.

It’s true. Most of don’t appreciate our health until it’s gone. It’s only when we become ill, that we understand what a humongous loss it really is.

Aside mental health problems, I’ve always been relatively fit and healthy. I would think nothing of decorating an entire room (from top to bottom) in one day. This would include a couple of hours kip in-between AND working part-time. However, six years ago my mum died (suddenly) and I’ve felt ill ever since.

I’ve had tests done on my body from brain to bum and the results have failed to show anything wrong aside low vitamin D levels. Blood tests? Put it this way. The NHS has more of my blood than I do! Only I never got tea and biscuits.

I’ve been told, time and time again, that it’s ALL down to anxiety. Or age. (I’M 47!!)

I’ve told doctors (time and time again) that something physical is driving the anxiety – not the other way around.

Turns out, I was right all along.

The Discovery

A few weeks ago I was at the doctors. Quelle surprise? Originally, this appointment was to whinge about my painful legs, but I’d had an horrendous night sleep (less) wise, so I decided to moan about that instead. I suggested that my insomnia could be connected to my congested sinuses – a condition I’ve been complaining of for the last two years. So I came away with a prescription for a steroid nasal spray and a referral to an allergist with the warning that the waiting list is massive and I probably won’t get an appointment until about 2046.* Half an hour later later, I snorted some steroid up my nostrils and waited for the ‘pipes’ to clear.

At the same time, I noticed a tight feeling in my chest. I’ve had it before, so I didn’t fall down the rabbit-hole of health anxiety. My therapist would be proud of me, no?

I’m no stranger to chest pain. I’ve had tingling, tightness, pain and muscle spasms galore, but my heart is allegedly healthy. The symptoms usually disappear after a few days to be replaced with pain elsewhere in my body. This time, I thought it could be the steroid, so I stopped taking it and made another appointment to see the GP. She didn’t think this was the case because the nature of steroids are to open the airways, not the reverse. However, she did agree that it seemed too much of a coincidence for it not to be related and so advised not use it again. A week later, I still had the tightness and was struggling to breathe, especially at night.

Meanwhile, I happened to notice that a lot of autistic people had fibromyalgia or ME in their bios. I’d heard of ME, but didn’t know anything about fibromyalgia. So I researched it and there was EVERY SYMPTOM that I have been going to the doctors with for the past six years – including tightness in the chest! (Technical jargon? Costochondritisnoncardiac chest pain or musculoskeletal chest pain)

It was a ‘light-bulb moment’, because I knew that I had finally found out what’s wrong with me.

Armed with a sheet of A4 paper with Fibromyalgia symptoms, I limped off to see my GP. It wasn’t the one who’d prescribed me the steroids (she was on leave) but I’d seen this one just as many times with other symptoms. He studied the paper and said, ‘Yes, fibromyalgia has crossed my mind, but we need to do some elimination tests to rule out other stuff’.

The ‘other stuff’ (such as rheumatoid arthritis) was ruled out and last week I was formally diagnosed with fibromyalgia.

*hallelujah*

Maybe, if I’d have seen the same doctor over the past six years, he/she would have reached this conclusion earlier? As it is, I’ve seen three doctors in all, so nobody had the whole story unless they took the time to trawl through my numerous notes and, trust me, nobody has that kind of time. If patients notes were still in paper form, they’d need a wheelbarrow to cart mine around. However, had they have read through them, they would have probably realised that the following symptoms (in the absence of other conditions/diseases) suggest fibromyagia.

  • Chest pain
  • IBS
  • Food sensitivities
  • Allergies
  • Medication sensitivities
  • Fatigue
  • Muscle spasms
  • Burning mouth
  • Insomnia
  • Palpitations
  • Migraines
  • Neck and back pain
  • Abdominal pain
  • Congested sinuses (for two years)
  • Inability to control body temperature
  • Low Vitamin D levels
  • Pins and needles in arms, hands and feet.
  • Dizziness
  • Headaches
  • Brain fog

So, I now know what’s wrong with me. I have fibromyalgia. So what does this mean?

Fibromyalgia is a chronic condition of widespread pain and profound fatigue. The pain tends to be felt as diffuse aching or burning, often described as head to toe. It may be worse at some times than at others. It may also change location, usually becoming more severe in parts of the body that are used most.

The fatigue ranges from feeling tired, to the exhaustion of a flu-like illness. It may come and go and people can suddenly feel drained of all energy – as if someone just “pulled the plug”. Fibromyalgia Syndrome (fibromyalgia for short) is a common illness. In fact, it is as common as rheumatoid arthritis and can even be more painful. People with mild to moderate cases of fibromyalgia are usually able to live a normal life, given the appropriate treatment.

If symptoms are severe, however, people may not be able to hold down a paying job or enjoy much of a social life. The name fibromyalgia is made up from “fibro” for fibrous tissues such as tendons and ligaments; “my” indicating muscles; and “algia” meaning pain. – FMA UK

In simplest terms, it’s a life of shite in varying degrees.

Fibromyalgia isn’t a disease and it’s not life-threatening (thank fuck) but it is limiting.

Imagine having toothache. Painful, right? You can’t enjoy life, but you know that the dentist will numb you up, yank the offending tooth out of your mouth and the pain will go away. With fibromyalgia, the pain just moves to another area of the body. Sucks, huh?

I’m frustrated with my lack of mobility. Some days, I struggle to walk. This is especially the case in cold and damp weather. I live in England, so that’s pretty much ALL of the time.

After lying or sitting, I’m stiff as a board and I kind of have to shuffle my way off chairs and roll out of bed sideways, which is about as alluring as athletes foot.

I can’t do tasks which involve looking up without them causing me severe pain in my neck.

Sitting in the car can be painful because of my lower back and my neck hurts with every jolt of the vehicle.

Or I get migraines which wipe me out for days.

I could go on, but I’m starting to bore myself. You get the picture, right?

After the initial euphoria of getting an answer to why I’ve felt so shit for the last six years, the reality is setting in: This feeling shit? It’s basically me for the rest of my life.

*sound of balloon noisily deflating*

I had this fantasy that my anxiety would decrease, my menopausal symptoms would level out and I would get some quality of life. I would get the old me back. Little did I know that the anxiety and being menopausal were masking what was really wrong as some of the symptoms overlap and once you’re labelled as a hypochondriac, it kind of sticks.

I feel guilty for feeling sad because my friend would have given anything for her diagnosis to be fibromyalgia instead of cancer, but this is how I feel. This is my reality. Fibromyalgia won’t kill me, but everything is relative and living with long-term (and constant) pain affects you mentally as well as physically.

Also, I’ve had two life-changing diagnoses in two years. Autism and now this, so it’s natural to feel a little overwhelmed, right?

I accept that, being highly anxious, I was probably always going to develop some kind of stress-related illness or condition. I know this could be a lot worse and no doubt it will be if I don’t learn to chill the fark out. I’ve demanded a lot from my body over the years by constantly flooding it with stress-hormones, but I do believe the sudden death of my mother was the trigger for this condition.

Stress caused this.

Stress makes my symptoms flare up – as does the shitty British weather.

My body has deployed the SOS flare. That red glow in the sky? It’s not the sun setting, folks – it’s my body begging for help.

I mentioned earlier that I used to be able to decorate a room in one day? Now I do half a wall and I’m in pain for a week. It’s frustrating not to be able to do what I want to do, when I want to do it. I will adapt, but I need time to accept this version of me. The knackered one. It is what it is. I can only try my best to limit the damage and view this as a warning. My body’s way of saying, ‘Do something about your stress levels or die early of a heart attack, cancer or stroke, dear’.

I’ll find the humour in the situation, as I do with most other challenges in my life. At least I can still laugh, only not too hard cus it hurts. Until then, I need to have a little sulk for the loss of the person I once was.

RIP, old me.

The moral of this story is to listen to your body. The NHS is wonderful and doctors are hard-working and magnificent, but they are not infallible. They don’t get things right every time. Doctors are great with disease and emergencies, but not so great when it comes to ‘invisible’ conditions which require a bit of detective work and, ultimately, nobody understands our own bodies better than us, right?

*Slight exaggeration.

Smile! It Might Never Happen!

A man came up to me in the street one day and said, ‘SMILE! It might never happen!’

What might never happen?

How did he know that ‘it’ hadn’t already happened?

Did he walk up to men and say the same thing to them?

This kind of thing happens a lot to me and there is a reason.

Resting Bitch Face

Yes, I have a serious resting face, otherwise known as ‘resting bitch face’ because if you’re not grinning like a lunatic 24/7, apparently you’re a bitch and a miserable one at that. If a man has a serious resting face, does that make him a ‘resting bastard face’?

*Googles resting bastard face*

Apparently it does!

What I want to know, is where did this expectation for women to smile come from?

When a man tells a woman to smile, is it because, at a conscious or unconscious level he believes that they are subservient and exist to please him? Some might see it as a casual remark that means nothing, but what if it’s really about control? The man wanted me to smile, regardless of how I was feeling. For all he knew, I could have been grieving the loss of a loved one. I wasn’t, but the point is that he seemingly had no regard for my feelings, only how my face affected him.

We only have to go back a mere 63 years to see how this was a way of life because women were seen to be subservient to men. Their purpose? To look after them. To keep them happy, no matter what.

Here are a few of the tips on how to be a good housewife taken from Good Housekeeping 1955.

Be a little gay and more interesting for him. His boring day might need a lift and it is one of your duties to provide it for him.

Greet him with a warm smile and show sincerity in your desire to please him.

Be happy to see him.

*pauses to violently retch*

Obviously, ‘gay’ has a different meaning these days. In those days, however, it meant carefree”, “happy”, or “bright and showy”.

What I want to know is this: How the hell did these women (whose days consisted of hard graft) manage to smile as they waited on their husbands hand and foot? How more men didn’t end up with arsenic in their tea, I’ll never know. Can you imagine spending the morning on your hands and knees scrubbing hard floors only to have hubs walk all over them in his dirty shoes whilst expecting you be a ‘little more gay for him’?

Can you imagine this happening whilst going through the menopause?

In contrast, I just texted my other-half to inform him that the dog’s vomited all over the kitchen floor. How’s that for gay?

1950s wife was probably knackered by tea-time. The poor cow most likely wanted to drink gin and fall into a coma, but instead she was expected to put her lippy on, smile and be entertaining. She probably had five kids to see to as well. Not to mention, ailing parents and grandparents.

Thankfully, we are no longer shackled by such chauvinist bilge – which is why I don’t appreciate random blokes walking up to me in the street and saying stuff like SMILE. It might never happen!

This also goes for the annoying wedding photographer I encountered in the 80s.

‘Are you going to give me a smile ‘shuggie’?’

Fuck off. I’m 12 years old, hormonally imbalanced to the point of murdering somebody (you, if you don’t piss off) and I’m being forced to wear a pink dress when I should be wearing my jeans and AC/DC tee shirt. Kindly take your smile and shove it in your camera-bag.

P.S Don’t call me shuggie.

Fair dos. He was a photographer. It was in his job description to make people smile, but it’s still annoying when you are a raging tomboy in the throes of adolescence and some bloke is trying to make you smile when all you really want to do is listen to heavy metal and get on with hating the world.

Goes for school photographers too. Annoying gits. I hated school with a PASSION. Why on earth would I want to smile? Do people smile in hell? DO THEY?!!

Incidentally, I didn’t say ‘cheese’ in my school photographs. I silently screamed ‘HELP!’

My high school photograph was a stunner: Greasy hair, angry looking acne and an expression that would curdle milk. Needless to say, I set fire to it at the earliest opportunity!

I don’t have to smile if I don’t want to. If I was to smile 24/7, I would expect to be carted off to the nearest secure-unit or A & E because people might assume I’ve had some kind of seizure. We are not meant to bloody well smile all the time. Smiling makes your face ache, so they have to be worth it, right?

Ironically, ‘face ache’ is a term for people who don’t smile.

Eh up! Here comes face-ache.’

Am I the only one who sees the ridiculousness in this? Isn’t the world confusing enough?!

Of course, we could always flash people our very best Jack Nicholson (The Shining) smile..

You’ve got to show em teeth, see. Top AND bottom. It’s a predatory thing. Technically, it’s a smile, but it’s a menacing one. Makes people uneasy. They can never quite work out if you’re harmless or a serial killer. Do try it the next time some arsepuffin tells you to ‘Smile. It might never happen’ and watch how fast they leave the scene.

*manic laughter*

I wish people wouldn’t assume that just because I’m not smiling, I’m not happy, because very often, I am. I’m comfortable with my serious resting face. It’s my face. When I smile, it’s because I have reason to, not because some random walks up to me in the street and demands one. I reserve my (non-psycho) smiles for the people I love because they are worth the effort. Whether it’s a happy smile or sad. It’s real. It’s me.

Not smiling makes me smile ~ Kanye West

Autistic and Crap at Maths?

 

‘You can’t POSSIBLY be autistic unless you’re a maths genius!’

Another autism myth is that autistic people are mindbogglingly good at maths.

PLOT TWIST. I am autistic and I am mindbogglingly BAD at maths!

My dislike of maths started in September 1975. From the word go, it confused the hell out of me. Later on, the teachers started talking long division and fractions and my brain would go walkabout and fixate on shiny stuff stuck to the classroom windows. Or shoes.

Algebra. Sounds like a fungal infection doesn’t it? Or the green slime that furs up fish tanks.

I went to college in my twenties and scored high in English, but my maths score was THAT shit, they advised me to enrol in a maths workshop. I declined because the course I was taking was for working with pre-school children, so I had maths covered with my fingers and toes, but it got me thinking (and not for the first time) that maybe I was number dyslexic?

Dyscalculia

The condition is thought to be related to dyspraxia and dyslexia and occurs in people across the IQ range.

Typically, the signs of Dyscalulia are as follows.

• Confusing the signs: +, -, ÷ and x
• Inability to say which of two numbers is the larger
• Unusual reliance on counting fingers
• Difficulty with everyday tasks ie. checking change and reading clocks
• Inability to comprehend financial planning or budgeting
• Difficulty with times-tables
• Difficulty with conceptualizing time and judging the passing of time
• Problems differentiating between left and right
• Having a poor sense of direction
• Having difficulty estimating the distance of an object
• Inability to grasp mathematical concepts and rules
• Difficulty keeping score during games.

This pretty much describes me. I’d go so far to say that, in absence of a calculator (once I run out of fingers and toes) I’m pretty much fucked. Oh, and I do NOT know (and never have known) my times table.

Teachers have tried (and failed) to make me understand maths. My homework book had so much red ink in it, it looked like something from a crime scene.

notebook-2478554_640

I lived in fear of maths in general (double maths started my palpitations off) but especially maths homework. So much so, that I copied my friend’s once. Problem was, ‘Sir’ was so used to me handing in a pile of unintelligible crap that he instantly smelled Rattus norvegicus and instead of ‘See Me’, he wrote: Please bring your book to me in the next lesson to show me how you worked out the answers.

B.U.S.T.E.D.

Most maths teachers gave up on me. My ‘inability’ to learn combined with refusal to speak pissed them off – so they invariably left me to it.

One teacher tried more than most. I liked him because he was kind. He tried several ways to try and help me to understand mathematics, but each time I would stare at my paper or manically chew my pen-top. I can see his face now, turning around from the blackboard with a beaming smile, absolutely certain he’d nailed it this time..

Now, do you understand?

*vacant face*

He offered to give me lessons after school. As if THAT was going to happen? I think not!

So, he eventually gave up on me too.

This condition affects me in many ways, like driving. I can’t judge distance very well so I end up taking wrong turns. My Sat-Navs most commonly used commands are, ‘When possible do a u-turn‘ and ‘Route recalculation’. I also feel as I am going faster than I actually am. Or slower. Elsewhere, I have poor coordination – which explains why that step-class I took back in the 90s was a monumental embarrassment fest. Oh. The. Shame. *wafts hot cheeks*

Since my autism diagnosis, it’s become clear that I have many co-morbid conditions and I believe Dyscalculia is one of them, but at 48 (almost) is it too late to do anything about it?

I get by. Just. I use a calculator for the basics and for the bigger things, I ask someone else to do it. I’m not stupid, though I have been made to feel as if I am over the years. Someone told me I wasn’t very bright because I left school with no qualifications. That spurred me to go to college as a mature student and I passed my course (Child Care and Education) with merit, but I am undoubtedly impaired when it comes to maths.

Research shows that I am not alone. It is a difficulty that many autistic people have. It’s less common for dyscalculics NOT to have problems with reading and writing, but then I’m special innit?

I scored 86% in an online test, so it’s highly likely that I would get a diagnosis. I was offered support for this when I was diagnosed, so maybe I will take them up on it? I really don’t mind labels if there is some benefit to be had and in this case it would seem there is. If not for learning maths – the explanation for why I can’t do certain things. The latest being my son’s maths homework because it might as well be written in hieroglyphics for all I understand it, but I don’t feel quite so useless now I know there is a reason behind my struggles. It’s called dyscalculia.*

Hopefully this post has put paid to the myth that autism = maths genuis?

Dear maths, I am sick and tired of finding your “X”.

Just accept the fact she’s gone.

Move on, Dude.

* Dyscalculia on WordPress has red squiggly lines underneath it because it thinks it’s a spelling mistake and when you right click on it for options, you get ‘miscalculate’ which is pretty apt, no?

Dear Anxiety..

Dear Anxiety,

Thanks for keeping me alive for 47 and 3/4 years. You’ve prevented me from doing idiotic things that could bring about my premature demise: such as overtaking on blind bends or not looking before I cross the road.

Haven’t always been so helpful though, have you?

Remember when I was a child and I worried about monsters coming to kill me in my sleep? My little heart would race and I’d feel sick. Sometimes I would be sick. Obviously, this thrilled my parents no end as cleaning vomit-spattered carpet is just what you want after a bottle (or two) of Blue Nun and a homemade curry on a Saturday night. But, fair dos, you’ve saved me from harm on numerous occasions..

Like when my dad failed to pick up from primary school and I decided to walk home myself. Only, I wasn’t allowed to walk home alone because there were two major roads to cross. One by the school and one outside my house. The latter being exceptionally busy. Lorries ploughed into garden walls (ours for one) and animals frequently got run over. That kind of busy. Unfortunately, one of the teachers saw fit to usher me out of the safety of the playground so I had no choice but to start walking towards home. I managed to cross the first road because there was a zebra crossing which I’d crossed a thousand times and I knew that cars would stop for me. Then I got to the busy road and I stood on the pavement for what seemed like hours, worrying over what to do. I could see into our living room window and hoped that my mum would happen to see me, but no such luck.

‘Go on! Just run across!

What if I get hit?

‘You’ve never crossed this road on your own before. There is no safe crossing here, you must ask for help’.

I went into the local shop and blurted out that I needed help crossing the road to the woman behind the counter, who was slicing some ham at the time. It stunk, but panic overrode my sensory issues. Without you, I would have chanced it and the consequences of that would have been deadly on two counts. One, I could have been flattened under a bus. Or lorry. Two, my mother would have killed my my dad, then buried him under the front lawn for not picking me up. Harsh, but she was well into her peri-menopausal stage by then and was prone to occasional flashes of insanity. I guess you could say you saved two lives that day?

The teacher got one hell of a rollocking from my irate mother who demanded to know what the ‘sodding hell’ he was doing letting an 8 year old child walk home alone when I told him I wasn’t allowed to. At least, I think I did? I definitely thought the words, but whether they translated from brain to mouth, is up for debate.

You did your job. You kept me safe. For that, you have my gratitude and respect. However, somewhere along the line you’ve overstepped the mark. You’ve completely taken over and I’m asking, no, I’m TELLING you to stop. You are with me 24/7, whether I’m in danger or not. It’s been this way for over six years now and with the greatest of respect, you really need to fark off now.

There is no danger in watching Mary Berry bake a cake, so why act as if there is? What’s she going to do? Come at me from inside the TV screen with a rolling pin and beat me to death? Or when a car door is shut three streets down, is it really necessary to respond with a full-on panic attack?

Why are your turning minor health issues, like headaches, into life-threatening diseases?

Your job is to keep me safe, but now I am scared of you. I am scared of how you make me feel, because you make me feel like I am going to die – especially in my dreams – which make The Texas Chainsaw Massacre look like The Muppets Take Manhattan.

I’m sick of feeling my heart race, for no apparent reason.

I’m sick of feeling sick!

Palpitations. Skipped heart beats. Clammy. Shivering. Shaking. Nausea. Tummy ache. Cold head. Tingles (and not nice ones). Tight chest. And a hundred and one other unpleasant symptoms that rage through my body at any given time.

Last, but definitely not least, that horrible feeling of foreboding just before all the shit kicks off. LIKE THE WORLD IS GOING TO END. Or my heart is going to stop and I cease to exist.

I’m a bit pissed off with it all now. Actually, I’m MEGA pissed off. So, I am taking back control of you because I want my life back. I still want you around, not that I really have any choice seeing as you are a primeval part of me (I’d quite like to stay alive), but you will work for me, not against me. Capiche?

I am getting all Godfathery on ‘yo big ol’ ass’ because you need to be put back in your place. Pegs, taking down and all that. My theory is that you took advantage of a hormone imbalance. You saw my oestrogen walking off into the sunset and thought to yourself. ‘I’m in here. This emotional idiot has no ‘balmy’ army to keep me in my place anymore. Lets cause some shit!’

Am I right?

Those rare moments when I feel relatively ‘normal’* are enough to trigger panic attacks because feeling ‘well’ is such an alien feeling to me now. Bizarre plot twist: It’s actually better for me to feel shit because it’s constant and familiar. *throws hands up in the air*

You’re like the boggart in Harry Potter – a shapeshifter feeding on my fears. So how about I use the Riddikulus spell on you? Because if I imagine you wearing a fluorescent green mankini and Compo wellies, you will look pretty damn ridiculous. I will laugh and you will shrink faster than a cheap burger on a barbie and ,eventually, you will return to your rightful place. Which, for your info, is in my BRAIN, not my entire being.

So, you are no longer anxiety. You are boggart or ‘bog’ for short because that word makes me laugh. Like when Mrs Trunchbull calls Bruce Bogtrotter ‘Bog’ in Matilda. Always makes me laugh. Just typing it makes me smile. See?

When you can behave yourself, you can have your title back again.

Regards, your human.

*Normal for me is when I don’t have something crappy going on in my body. Last noted phase of normality was 2008.

It all begins and ends in your mind. What you give power to has power over you, if you allow it.

Creative Commons Image Via Pixabay

 

 

 

It’s OK To Be Weird

Some autistic people have a problem with the word ‘weird’ when used in connection with autism, but I don’t see it as a bad thing. I see it as being ‘a side effect of being awesome’.

It wasn’t always this way. Years ago, I fought my weirdness. I tried to be like everybody else at great cost to my mental health. Yes, some autistic people make great chameleons, but even the best chameleons among us need recovery time – such is the effort required to pull this thing called ‘life’ off.

Where’s your will to be weird? Jim Morrison

Fighting against my weirdness was like trying to keep afloat on a punctured lifeboat. Despite my efforts to stay alive, drowning was inevitable. That was me for forty plus years – floundering against the current of conformity. Then, someone told me my ‘weirdness’ had a name. Autism. I’ve been swimming back to shore ever since.

“There’s a whole category of people who miss out by not allowing themselves to be weird enough.” Alain De Botton

Some autistic people reject the word ‘weird’ and that’s fine. Maybe it’s because it’s used as a slur? If so, maybe we should we reject the word ‘autistic’ too? Because that’s also used as a slur.

‘Jonno just had an autistic moment ha ha ha.’

Lucky Jonno, I say!

I guess it’s about perception and personal preference, but I prefer to see ‘weird’ as a positive.

I like the weirdos – the misfits. They are vibrant and memorable. Also, where people see weirdness, I see creativity. The arts are full of weirdos!

“Weirdism is definitely the cornerstone of many an artist’s career.” E A Bucchianeri

Take Andy Warhol. Doesn’t get much weirder than him, but he made a fortune out of thinking outside of the box. At the time of his death, his net worth was equal to $220 million dollars!

P.S He was autistic!

When you suppress your weirdness, your light dims. It’s like shoving a 10 watt bulb into a 100 watt lamp. Those who embrace their weirdness, shine. It’s simple, really.

If people ridicule you off for being ‘weird’, it’s probably because they are about as interesting as watching cement go off. Take it as a compliment and reply with: ‘Oh that’s lovely! Thank you so much!’ and smile at them. Give them full teeth. Even if your smile is like Jack Nicholson’s in One Flew Over The Cuckoos Nest. Smile. In fact, all the better if it is, because it will freak them out even more! They’ll need to go home and have a lie down. Think about it: Why would they even bother with you if your awesomeness didn’t make them jealous? *taps nose*

Most of all, it’s OK to be weird because there is NO SUCH THING AS NORMAL despite what some people say. Norm is a boy’s name. End of.

If you are fortunate enough to be weird, embrace it. Work it. OWN IT. You beautiful weirdo, you.

~Weird people are the best people.~

 

 

The Menopause and Bad Dreams

Before the menopause, I’d go to sleep at night and wake up 8 or 9 hours later feeling refreshed and ready for another day’s crap. I’ve slept through storms and earthquakes and that’s despite being over-sensitive to noise in the daytime. It was one of my better points that I could lose myself in my sleep. Nowadays, a cat farting in the next street wakes me, and that’s despite being deaf in one ear.

I’ve always had vivid dreams, but they’ve often been pleasant ones. The kind of dreams where you don’t want to wake up, like the one with Nick Cage, myself and a jacuzzi. However, once I entered into the peri-menopause, my dreams started to get weird, bordering on nightmares. So now I’m convinced that Quentin Tarantino writes my dream scripts because they are so f**ked up. Dreams of headless horses and eight-legged frogs hanging out of my bottom? And those are not the worst ones. Even Freud would shit himself. Trust me.

I naively thought my sleep would go back to how it was once I was post-meno, but that’s not how this thing works because Mother Nature is a COW. So, like any self-respecting autie, I got researching and after a few hours trawling the internet, I found out that bad dreams are a problem for many menopausal women and if I had to take a wild guess at why it happens, I’d say that it’s partly to do with the lack of oestrogen.

To explain it, we need to go back to the scurge of womanhood.

PERIODS!

Oestrogen levels plunge at week four of the monthly cycle and the lower it goes, the more you want to stab people and eat your own weight in chocolate. You get your period and you’re a grumpy bastard for a few days, (especially if you have painful periods). In that case, you live on painkillers and walk around with a hot water bottle permanently strapped to your pelvis area. Once the levels start to rise your sanity is restored and your family can breathe easy again because the beast is back in it’s cage, albeit temporarily.

So, you get the picture that oestrogen is the calming hormone, right?

Well, there is a natural decline in oestrogen during the menopause and once it’s gone, it’s gone, unless it’s replaced with HRT, and even then it’s only a temporary measure.

I remember that my dreams used to turn nasty when I was on my period, so maybe it’s not so surprising that nearly all my dreams are bad now I’m menopausal?

So, what to do about it?

I’ve been back and forth to the doctors desperately trying to find answers for my sleep problems. Gotta be honest here, they don’t have a clue and if I hear the word, ‘anxiety dear’ one more time, I will strangle the offender with their stethoscope.

HRT is no longer an option for me, and even if it was, once I stopped taking it I would go back to having shit dreams. So, I might as well get my head around the fact that bad dreams are my new ‘normal’ and work on what I expose my brain to throughout the day, because, believe me, it’s relative.

So, what can we do to improve our sleep?

Positivity

Negative thoughts find their way into our dreams, especially when ‘good cop’ oestrogen is no longer there to beat the shit out of them them with her truncheon. REM is the part of sleep where we process our emotions, so it stands to reason that negative thoughts throughout the day will manifest as nightmares, yes?

The answer is simple: Be mindful of your thoughts.

The World

The world can be a scary place. The news highlights high mega-shit humans can be and exposing ourselves to these horrors can be detrimental – as can watching disturbing movies and TV. For instance, I like my psychological thrillers, but I can guarantee a crap night’s sleep if I watch them before bed. I try to remind myself to do some light reading or watch a life-affirming movie or comedy. That said, I had the ‘frog up the arse’ dream after watching Victoria Wood – a comedian. I managed to decipher the dream (ish) and remembered her talking about some bloke in the same hospital as her who had ‘accidentally’ sat on top of his Dyson hoover attachment (as you do) So, that explains the arse bit. However, I still can’t explain the frog. Or why it had eight legs. Where is Freud when you need him, eh?

Calcium and Magnesium

Some women swear by taking calcium and magnesium supplements before bed. I’m doing this, but as I have only been taking them for a few days, there’s no improvement as yet. I would recommend taking citrate versions of these supplements as carbonate can be constipating. However, if you have diarrhea based IBS, carbonate might help to dry you up a bit AND help you to sleep. Win and win!

A Sodding Great Big Glass of Gin?

Alas, no.

Alcohol might propel you off into sleepyland quickly enough, but you will have weird dreams and wake up in the early hours with a dry mouth or needing a big wee. Sorry, but no alcohol before bed if you want to improve your dreams and sleep in general.

Eating Late

Eating big meals late at night can cause sleep disturbance and vivid dreams. This is because your digestive system requires a lot of energy to digest food. Your heart-rate will rise for a start. Light snacks (non-sugary) won’t affect you as much. In some cases, it will help to balance blood sugar levels because being hungry also interferes with sleep.

Sleeping Pills

As they are designed for short term use, I don’t recommend them because this isn’t a short-term problem. Sleeping pills are addictive and you might find you can’t sleep without them. If so, you are most likely addicted and that’s not great.

Our bodies play a part in bad dreams, especially with anxiety cases like me. I think our brains respond to stress hormone surges as we sleep. I have noticed that I typically wake up between 4.30 and 5.30. The dreams I have just before I wake (with my heart hammering) start off being fairly boring, but they always take a sinister turn. Just before my eyes fly open, in strolls Tarantino, and my dream turns into Reservoir Dogs. For example, this morning I was screaming in my dream. I was in imminent danger of being harmed by something unseen, but sinister, when I woke up with my heart pounding. Our heart rates naturally speed up during REM (when we dream) and my sensitised brain associates the increase in heart rate as danger and wakes me up. Clever, but annoying as fuck.

If this is you, my advice would be to get up once you wake up. No matter how early that is. It’s tempting to try and go straight back to sleep, but here’s the thing: Adrenalin is surging through your body and even if you manage to fall back to sleep, you will continue to have vivid dreams. It becomes a cycle. Get up, move about a bit and burn some of that adrenalin off!

We worry because it’s our hearts. Surely, all this waking up with rapid heart beats will cause us harm? The reality is that our hearts are designed to withstand adrenaline surges because this natural response keeps us alive. It’s unpleasant, but not dangerous. A few deep breaths and my heart rate is back to normal because I don’t add fear to the mix anymore, so I rarely have full-blown panic attacks. However, if these kind of symptoms are new for you, and are accompanied by chest pain and breathlessness, you should seek medical help.

There are many reasons why we have bad dreams. In being mindful of what we ingest, via our bodies AND minds, we can improve the situation. But I also think we just have to accept that some nights we are going to have crap dreams. So, lets not worry about it too much because that in itself will earn us a bad night’s sleep.

“Nightmares exist outside of logic, and there’s little fun to be had in explanations; they’re antithetical to the poetry of fear.” Stephen King

 

 

 

Fade To Grey..

Our hair turns grey as part of the ageing process, though I prefer silver or ‘salt and pepper’ as grey is one of those depressing words, like beige.

When Do We Go Grey?

Most women will start to see the odd grey hair from around their thirties. I was in my twenties, but then I don’t like to be average. By the time most women hit their fifties, around 50% of their hair will be grey.

Getting that first grey hair is bad enough..

First grey pube? Horrifying!

Why Do We Go Grey?

Hair color is the pigmentation of hair follicles due to two types of melanin: eumelanin and pheomelanin. Generally, if more eumelanin is present, the color of the hair is darker; if less eumelanin is present, the hair is lighter. – Wikipedia

So, we ‘devenir gris’..

‘Eh?’

The Visage song, innit.

“Aaah, we fade to grey (fade to grey)”

Yeah? So, ‘devenir gris’ means ‘go grey’ in French. You can’t say that I don’t educate you in this blog!

*whispers* I used to think it was ‘Div in your Gary’, but lets get back to the hair.

So, some of us go to great lengths (intentional hair pun) to try and hold back time, but unless we understand the affect hair colour has on our ageing skin, we can end up making ourselves look older than we actually are, which, quite frankly, sucks.

For starters – dark shades can be ageing. Worse still is the band of white roots. There is about a three week period before roots start to show, then it’s another three weeks of zig-zagging the parting to break up those telltale lines of grey. Six weeks later, it’s back to the hairdressers for a touch up and it’s not cheap having your hair professionally coloured, but it’s a case of cough up or buy a dye-it-yourself kit and the result can look epically crap depending on how competent one is at application. PLUS, let’s not forget the state of our bathrooms when we’ve finished slapping the stuff on our scalps. Put it this way. My last application of ‘Cherry Red’ made my bathroom look like a crime scene. I didn’t know whether to clean the bath or dust it for finger-prints!

We naturally fade as we age. Our skin gets paler. We lose that flush of youth. Granted, we are menopausal, therefore no stranger to flushes, but they are more Beetroot Red than Rosy Pink, wouldn’t you say?

To carry off dark hair, we need to know what we are doing make-up wise. Take Joan Collins for instance. Dark hair, but shit loads of make-up and a make-up artist who knows their stuff. We can get away with a lot when we are young, but when we are older we need to make adjustments or risk frightening small kids.

Or looking like we’re stuck in a time warp..

Doctor, take me back to 1981. The decade of Duran Duran, Jackie magazine and collagen.

Speaking of time-warps, I remember a rather ‘eccentric’ lady who wore mini-skirts, stilettos and garish make-up in the 80s. She was fifty if she was a day, but she was definitely stuck in the 60s – which was probably when reached her prime? Later, in the 90s, there was another lady in her fifties who dyed her hair white blonde, and wore blue- glitter eye-shadow, flares and platform shoes that high, she must have required a step-ladder to climb into them..

The first time I saw her lurching up the street was a Life on Mars moment where I thought I’d somehow fallen into a coma and woken up in 1973. The giveaway were two lads, (complete with classic 90s ‘curtain’ hairdos), who were taking the piss behind her back. That is, until she turned around and threatened to give them a thrashing with her platforms.

If dressing like that made her happy, then fair enough because I know ALL about being different. That said, I’m a big fan of the 80s, but if I was to strut down the shops wearing a ra-ra skirt, legwarmers and slingbacks, I’m fairly certain my family would put me in a home.

The point is that we can’t reclaim our ‘glory years’, no matter how much we might want to, because the menopause affects EVERY aspect of our being. We are not that person anymore.

So, hair.

I’ve had my share of hairdos. Good, bad and downright criminal.

Mullet? I had one.

One of those daft pigtails on short hair? Had one of those too and boy did I look a tit!

Highlights. Lowlights. Perms. Straight. Backcombed. Bobbed. Shaved up the back ‘n’ sides. Long. Short. Mid-length. Blonde. Brunette. Red. Mahogany. Oh, and black.

Black was a BIG mistake.

I’m done now. I want to embrace my natural hair which has been greying since I was in my twenties. I’m about four months into growing my hair dye out. It’s doing my head in, but I’ll persevere.

So, I am probably getting my hair cut short this week, unless my hairdresser advises me otherwise, in which case, I’ll be wearing a hat.

Or a wig.

Viva La Menopause