Who am I?
A hot crumpled, panicky, joint aching, bone crushing fatigue ridden, chocolate craving Tamoxifen menopausal mess
I wipe lines of sweat from my upper lip and hairline. I drown out the low daytime hum of anxiety with James Taylor on Spotify and conversations with my teens - from back to school stationery must-haves with the 13 year-old to the latest goings on in F1 with the middle child. At night-time the anxiety finds a new frequency I can’t turn off. Lying on my back I feel my body lurch – my head thinks – hallelujah, yes, sleep but only for a nanosecond before my anxiety refuses permission, bringing me back to a semi-consciousness state. Primed to drop the needle on my Greatest Hits missteps, blunders and failings.
It's not a pretty picture. My body’s temporarily out of action furnace flares into action while my ankle joints grind, my brain short circuits and oh, the fatigue.
But it’s the predictability of the chocolate craving that I really resent and I make my teenagers accessories to my sugar crime, bringing me bars of Dairy Milk caramel before demanding payment in chocolate squares. I counter this unwelcome craving by cooking up a storm of veggie lunches and dinners. I buy and promptly forget to take joint care tablets but remember the Bach sleep remedy on my bedside table, sitting politely alongside the ever-present nightly dose of Tamoxifen and The Lincoln Highway, my latest read.
My body’s engine lurches through the hours and days before finding the right gear. I head up onto the purple carpeted moor late afternoon. The overbearing clouds of the morning have moved on and it’s blue sky all the way. A silver shimmer hovers just centimetres above the purple heather, shoulder high ferns bounce off my swinging arms as I carefully place each foot in turn along the rocky path.
I’m lighter, thanking my lucky stars that I can leave my plugged-in teens lying on their beds with a shout of ‘I’m going out for a walk, there’s food in the kitchen’ as I close the front door behind me. For so many years 5.30pm meant the chaos of dinner, bath time and are we really going to read the Gruffalo again?
Two-hours later and I’m home, restored. Smiling. New videos and photos on my iPhone a reminder that heading up to the moor is never a bad idea. The teens barely notice my return.