I was going to post this privately a few weeks ago but my physical life is impacted directly. Here goes.
I have been dealing with a side issue since last year that interferes with this part of my life and its potential lifespan.
My cycle used to be a reliable 27 days and has changed in duration from 21 to 50 days, depending how much it wants to fuck with my diary. This surprise factor was tolerable with the Country Boy as he understood if I postponed meetings at short notice because my period arrived unexpectedly or, if I wasn’t too crampy and cranky, I’d meet him anyway to keep up momentum and find ways of using other parts of my body. He always repaid the favour another time and we built some good feelings of reciprocation.
New men I’ve been meeting won’t have a history of knowing my usual honesty and reliability with catching up and I’ll probably lose one or two along the way if they don’t trust me and my situation – people who don’t know each other well usually postpone at short notice to pursue better offers and I don’t know how much detail new partners want about the vagaries of my female happenings.
Months ago I toddled along to the doctor’s with a list of dates scrawled on a yellow sticky note and I underwent a range of tests (I did not know the pelvic ultrasound included a special bonus bulbous plastic wand up the vagina – the things you learn).
I don’t like the feeling of being torn when I know I should be grateful for good health but frustrated there is nothing wrong when my cycle and mood swings tell me otherwise. My doctor now believes I’m in the early stages of menopause and I had to fight tears when she broke that news. It’s the first time my past-middle age, implacable Iron Curtain medical practitioner walked around her desk and gave me a hug. I think she’s escorted a few of her lambs to the path of muttonhood and knows that denial involves being harangued for more tests before the stage of acceptance arrives.
Apart from not understanding all the reasons why a natural function of life is headfucking me so intensely, I made the decision on her recommendation to go back on the pill (after years off it) to see if my cycle regulates.
And, after two months of artificial hormone management, ladies and gentleman, I understand why the pill is one of the main reasons modern-day women cannot be bothered having sex; the chemical leader of the sexual revolution is also its two-faced, stealthy enemy. The peaks in my cyclical libido have been pummelled into submission and going to bed early with a book holds more appeal than surfing the web looking for sexual partners. There’s still a little flicker of sexual thoughts in the day prior to my period arriving but the hormonal surges of ovulation are dead; I miss the feeling of still being me but edgier and aware and in want of lustful behaviour rather than waiting and needing others to generate those sensations in me.
The pill I’m on isn’t suitable (bad skin, worse moods including new melancholy) but I am going to take a break before trying another. I want to see if I can tolerate the erratic cycle and bad temper again now that I know the trade-off.