We Don't Know How to Live (pt. 1)

the only change I like is my tiny mustache.

I don’t know how many times I have stated the phrase, “my brain broke” over the years. It was easy to name it as broken when it seemed like it could be at least partially “fixed” with a diagnosis and medications. Now if I were to be kind to it, I could reframe my brain as being transformed instead of broken, and still transforming now from this process of unwelcome changes to body and mind. Most people view perimenopause as only affecting the body and not the brain, but the shifting hormones bring on increased depressive episodes, mood swings, suicidality and anxiety. It straight up steals feelings of joy from life. The limbic system in the brain no longer functions as it once did when the levels of estrogen, progesterone and testosterone all dramatically decrease. Hormones drop and serotonin plummets with them, causing disconnection and chaos. I feel again as though my brain is not fully formed like a teenager’s, and I am having to discover myself again. And then again the next year or next month or the next week.

The intense bouts of depression and ideation every two weeks were the first signs of my brain transforming. This all surprisingly started popping up 10 years ago. Riddled with insecurity and low-self-worth, I would be overwhelmed by a sadness I felt was never-ending and inescapable. I got on meds and saw a psychiatrist, but every two weeks that devastation would resume with increasing intensity over time. The hopelessness consumed me every two weeks like clockwork, and it took years to tie these regular mood swings to hormonal shifts happening during ovulation and menstruation. When I was in it, I never felt like I would find my way out of it. It became really hard to see it as temporary. Part of the way that I was able to find my way through those early episodes was by starting a note on my phone aggressively titled, “WHAT TO DO WHEN I FEEL BAD.” It was like a set of instructions from my future self who was able to miraculously survive these depressive episodes every two weeks in order to send back some pithy advice. It was a flashlight to move forward, the persistent reminder that these feelings are temporary and that there are methods to comfort myself during this hopelessness.

The list started out simply but has grown over the years beyond activities and food. When needed, I added brief phrases of encouragement and grace for myself and the lack of control I have over brain and body. The list felt like a helpful guide until the years went on, my brain continued to transform, and both my brain and the list became unreliable sources. The beginning suggestions now resemble parts of my past self before the progression of symptoms and the whack-a-mole style response to a cacophony of unpredictable changes. What used to work stopped working. Cocktails no longer can be relied upon as a coping method after giving up alcohol because it makes hot flashes and mood swings worse. I haven’t watched The Office since 2019. Though for a while it was the only thing that I would watch for months at a time, bringing me so much comfort that I ended up getting a tattoo inspired by it. Real Housewives and other reality tv have replaced the sitcom comedies. When it comes to recent media consumption, I abide by the credence of trash not trauma. (I mean, have you even seen Couple to Throuple!?) No more trauma. (fun fact: Real housewives and their flippant attitudes towards surgery actually helped me to finally get top surgery. I was terrified of surgery and going under which was one of the reasons I had denied it to myself for so long. Thanks housewives!)

The list is so old that pets have passed away and can no longer be held, alcohol is no longer consumed as a coping method, and old shows or songs have been obsessively repeated too many times that I burned out on them (like I burn out on everything). New pets bring comfort and other quick physical strategies begin to crowd the list. Isolation was once unhelpful but now it is a necessity. Now every so often I have to excuse myself from the world to eliminate the exhausting effort to be around others and try to be ok. When my irritation is through the roof and I need everyone and everything to be quiet and to just politely leave me the fuck alone, I enter into hermit mode for weeks or an entire summer until whatever hormonal fuckery is happening subsides. I just take it one day at a time until I can emerge from hiding with the energy to be with others again.

Some activities are repeated twice on the list as to emphasize their importance in case I overlook them at first glance. Being in water is repeated throughout the list. I wish I could swim every day. I would live in a pool if I could and will dedicate my life to open swim spaces. Swimming has been a consistent joy throughout these years, the only reliable activity to lean on over and over again to make my mind and body feel at peace. Another reminder that I list twice is to look at my free period tracker on my phone. Checking the period tracker app and making note of my moods was a lifesaving method since the beginning in order to establish a pattern. When my sadness and anxiety would hit me out of nowhere, I would feel bad about myself for feeling like shit and not being able to fix it, believing this struggle was all my fault (Thanks trauma!). I would get scared that I was falling back into a depressive episode that was hard to get myself out of years ago. This sadness would build into thoughts that my life would be forever clouded by hopelessness and insecurity. But then I would look at my period tracker app and almost all those doubts dissipated. Sure enough it would indicate that I was ovulating or soon to get my period, and the thoughts that I was the worst person in the world could be easily brushed aside to know that this isn’t actually me, this is just my hormones being too much. That for a while was the easiest way to give myself compassion and rely on my list of things to bring comfort when I was feeling off. I would give myself grace to feel bad and know it would be over soon, and I would feel like myself again.

The app now is less reliable. With hormones dramatically shifting rapidly, increased symptomatology, and cycles nearing 100 days, the app is just fucking tired of my bullshit. I am fucking tired of my bullshit. We can no longer keep up.

As the years drag on, my motivation has gotten decimated. Past hobbies are hard and no longer bring creative or emotional comfort. These hobbies that were once a part of my identity became erased from my consciousness. Drawing and painting feel forced. They no longer provide the relaxation and release that they did in years past. For decades writing had brought me connection and solace, but then it turned into resentment and bitterness mirroring my existence that I could not fully identify. Writer was the first identity to go; teacher was next. “Write” was never even placed on this list as something to rely on when I feel bad. (I am hoping this can bring it back.)

On this unwelcome journey, I started new hobbies to replace the old ones and they too have been phased out from a lack of motivation. Encouraging myself to sing anything is on the list repeatedly. I started making dance music to be able to spend more time singing as a way to make me feel good. Then all the dance songs morphed into a list of symptoms and frustrations towards my body. It helped to release and then I got stuck again in the process of trying to create again when all I could sing or think about was how shitty I felt, as perimenopause took over yet another aspect of my life (Who am I kidding? I also wrote punk songs about my symptoms. This is all consuming. Take me away). It soon became another casualty that will hopefully return one day. Probably just need to write more songs with guttural screaming.

But my goal in sharing this list was to be grateful about the things that still can bring joy or the ones that had helped me get through those hard times in the past. Thankful for these sometimes simple solutions I have to access when feeling consumed by emotions and fatigue completely out of my control. I still feel joy screaming and playing drums to release the frustrations held in my body. I have turned to vegan protein shakes and the gym as my favorite mood booster. I am that weird older person exercising after work in decorative dress socks, sweating aggressively through all articles of clothing, and making sure to obsessively wipe down every machine from my drip drops. I am that one sitting in the steam room for long periods that others comment on my regularity. I am lifting weights and doing cardio to pop music that will have “nasty” (I’m a prude; I don’t care about what sex you do) lyrics about sexuality that I pretend are performative. And then I listen to that artist obsessively over and over again until I burn out to their songs. Then it is time for my brain to fixate on another artist whose song just hit me at the right time and made me feel good. That’s all it takes, one second of feeling good and I am yours forever.  

So I am searching for those things that are able to still bring me joy or that can maintain my motivation in some capacity (for days? for weeks? for years?). I am learning and adjusting and trying to understand this frustrating process that feels as though I am losing myself. I am accepting that I will be angry and sad and tired and anxious and resentful and dysphoric and overwhelmed, piece by piece or all at once. The brain will feel it all or feel nothing at all, and it will last a few days or few months. I am repeatedly having to figure out how to feel alive again, and accepting that it might just be for right now. That’s all I can really do.