Aging Gracefully

I met with a new mental health provider this past week. I’ve been on an SNRI for about two years and wanted to ensure it was still the right medication for my shifting symptoms (and while I profane of big pharma, I also know where my unchecked mind can go).

She listened respectfully while I recounted my life history, landing on the points most pertinent to her like my alcohol abuse, teenage self harm and suicide attempt. The work I’ve done in recovery and the tools I use today, like neurofeedback, made this uncomfortable exercise virtually painless. Trying to convince her I had ADHD, she assured me that my symptoms aligned perfectly to every female patient she has in their late forties; like “reading from a script”, she said.

Rather than BPD or GAD, she honed in on three letters I’d minimized in my sleuthing: IUD. She feels strongly that I’m suffering from what the internet coins the “Mirena crash.” Having ceased birth control use in early April, I thought I was in the clear on hormone fluctuation. Little did I know they were quietly waging war on my mental function.

The topic of hormone health and birth control may make my male readers a little squeamish. It’s worth remembering that each partner in a sexual relationship has skin in the game (literally) when it comes to family planning. Most often it’s the woman who chooses synthetic hormones to control her cycle. In many cases, birth control provides women additional benefits like lighter periods and acne control. In my case, I didn’t have a period for ten years.

As the nurse practitioner explained to me, I’ve been feeding my body synthetic hormones my entire adulthood. It’s only normal that my body is ill-equipped to function on its own. Given more time, it will create a new baseline. She increased my SNRI dose temporarily, hoping to reduce my irritability, impulsivity, and strong desire to chuck this beautiful life and live in a van down by the river.

Having turned fifty on Friday, I’m entering a new phase of hormonal function. The ability to conceive will cease to be, my choice not to be a biological mother cemented for this life. Symptoms like brain fog and forgetfulness dominate my executive function. Ryan is entering his “get off my lawn, kids!” era, his patience slowly dwindling as he gets set in his ways.

Thinking back to puberty and the dark and moody thoughts I journaled, I’ll take my current symptoms. I’m grateful to be entering this decade with seven years of sobriety under my belt and the inner work that accompanied it. That toxic inner critic is silenced by a gag order and cannot spew her poison as she did in my teens. Regardless of how annoyed or shamed I may feel over the way my brain is working right now, I know it’s superficial, not a fault of who I am as a human being.

Friday the 13th

I enjoyed my birthday immensely. It began with kids’ yoga at the studio, eleven children and four moms joining me to move on the mat and indulge in mini birthday cakes. Being fifty meant I almost forgot about the snacks until I was reminded by a five-year-old!

As I was cleaning up the studio, there was a knock on the door. Katy Davis and her daughter, Nora, were dropping off a birthday present. The handmade earrings Nora made for me brought back a sweet memory. When I was her age, I gifted a family friend some painted paper earrings. I remember just how cool I thought Gigi was and am honored to hold that level of admiration in Nora’s mind. We free spirits find each other.

After that, Ryan and I headed to Hamilton to peruse the Friday the 13th tattoos at Texas Rose. Two tattoos in two weeks may seem a little extreme, but turning fifty on Friday the 13th is pretty wild in itself. The day ended with dinner at Oma Leen’s, my original Hico friends gathered around the table. Our impromptu photo shoot in the studio afterwards captured memories that will last a lifetime, or at least the “back half” of it.

I thought my swirling thoughts and heightened anxiety were linked to turning fifty. I suppose it is to some extent, physically, but the day itself was nothing short of magic. Besides, there isn’t a person in this world, aside from my parents who were there on that day, who believes I’m fifty. Thank those Polly Campbell genes.