Peace, Love, & Cry Baby

I hate to cry.

Being told that crying is a sign of weakness is not just for the boys. As a tomboy I learned in order to earn the respect of the boys, who I played every sport with, I needed to take my hits, bumps, and injuries without tears. Swearing was also part of the tomboy performance. I remember swearing while at the playground and they were shocked. So I increased my swearing. Yes, it was all so very toxic, but even the tomboys I admired in pop culture were trying to maintain that balance between being tough enough to hang with the boys and yet still be seen as a girl. Shout out to Kristi McNichol. Living in that messy middle space was hard, especially since I hit puberty before most of the other girls and I kept playing all the sports.

When I play 16” softball the new guys will creep up thinking I can’t hit the ball very hard. The guys who have played with me for years will correct them, “Nah, she can play.” That will always bring out a smirk. In the 6th grade I really injured my knee during field day. As I laid there crying, I was mad at myself because I could not stop crying. In 2019 I tore my plantar fascia during a softball game while I was running from first to second base and all I could think was, “Don’t cry.”

Layered on top of this was the coaching I received as a budding leader. Leaders keep their emotions in check. A rule reinforced by the media (see almost every piece of coverage of Hillary Clinton), even as it showed us man leader after man leader losing their ever loving shit. It took epic displays of fascism before the media even came close to calling out the current president as emotional.

When things get chaotic while at work my former coworkers have said I remain calm. Inside I am screaming, but it is also a very Matrix moment when I see things in slow motion and start delegating firmly, confidently. I find calm in the storm. And at 51, I thought I was sailing through the storm of aging. Seeing friends go through (peri)menopause and their hot flashes, sleepless nights, and those who survived to the other side and me not feeling any different. I had a hysterectomy a few years ago and didn’t know what to expect as to when my hormones would change. My knees felt 51, but my ovaries? They seemed ok with my lack of symptoms. Little did I know that peri was sneaking up on me in the worst, most insidious way.

I thought I was just getting sappy in my old age. I was ugly crying at movies and TV shows. There was that episode of Ted Lasso when his wife comes to him saying she wants a divorce. I was sitting next to my then-husband as I was contemplating asking for a divorce. At the end of "My Old Ass” when the reveal happens. That night at a storytelling event when a woman I’ve known for years told her abortion story. When my best friend told her story at another show. I just thought those stories hit hard and in my old age I was being a sap. I laughed them off, especially when asked, “What is wrong with you?”

Last summer during many tough moments in a relationship, I can remember thinking, “What am I doing? Why am I acting like this?” And I read it as being deeply emotionally invested in the relationship, of being in love. Not that I wasn’t in love, but my actions were definitely not entirely the way I wanted that relationship to go down. And for months after we ended it if someone asked what happened I would fight back sobs as I explained it just didn’t work out, that I was just too much.

Then when I started to mess up at work more than I expected of myself I started to think maybe something was physically wrong with me. Brain fog? I’m not the best at remembering names and details in my head, thus why I write a lot of things down. But even my best organizing tricks were starting to fail me.

Recently I was at dinner with my daughter. At 22 and in a highly competitive graduate program, she was talking to me about how it felt living in that crossroads of young adulthood that is frankly hellish. I remember that age so well. I’m not only her mom, but also a former college advisor. I had a lifetime of training for this moment! And I sobbed while trying to reassure her that yes, life is hard, but things will work out. I had to text her multiple times after I got home and my brain and emotions settled down to offer the sage advice I wanted to lovingly deliver in that trying to be hip restaurant.

After checking in with one of my group chats it was becoming more and more likely that the out of control crying meant I was indeed on my menopause journey. My hormones are doing their own thing.

I told my bestie that I was broken. Because that it how it feels. When my mom died while I was pregnant I only cried a few times - once when the doctors told us there was no hope and once when my 7th grade history teacher showed up at her memorial. I’m sure I cried more than that, but those are the ones I remember. I found a reflection I wrote a year after she died where I talked about how much my anger at her death was what kept me upright.

Thankfully a friend wrote the book on (peri)menopause. I have told many people that complain about night sweats and/or hot flashes to get a copy of Heather Corinna’s “What Fresh Hell is This?” And while I read it when it was published, this was my first time pulling it out for my own reference. BTW - Heather, you should add crying to the index. As soon as I started reading the moods and feelings chapter, I was smacking myself on the forehead.

I know I can’t blame every crying spell on going through THE CHANGE, but my weakened ability to chill the fuck out is absolutely the fault of my raging hormones. Or my not raging hormones? I’m still not sure about what is actually happening. Yes, yes, I’m making a doctor’s appointment. This Capricorn needs to figure out if there is a way to get back the controls on her emotions. To clear up any brain fog. Sure, I know I need to let some of my emotions be expressed, but Goddess, I’d like to be able to talk about hard things without breaking down like someone died.

Until then, I guess I should pack a bandana in my bag cause my tears burn through a forest of tissues. Can doctors still prescribe months at the ocean shore? Cause I know the perfect spot.

☮ Veronica