We’re now halfway through the year (almost) and I’m six months worse.

(For the previous whine-fest, go here):Ablation, Asherman Syndrome, and Me – Libera te Tutemet

I’d been coping alright at work, what with having a very understanding boss who not only makes sure I have reasonable adjustments in place but makes sure I take advantage of them— extra bathroom breaks, a rise-and-fall desk, yada yada—when This Weekend happened.

We were in town with a couple of the crotchgoblins when I had to bend down to de-stone my shoe. This was the precise moment I realised One Can Not Bend That Way Anymore. What. The. Bazoolah? I had to lean on my lovely hubby and ended up doing this weird, awkward thing where I tried to bring my foot up instead of taking my body down… you had to be there, I guess, but trust me, it was a comical sight. Except I wasn’t laughing. Quite the opposite: floods.

I spent the next half-hour hobbling back to the car and whining about being knackered and wondering When Did I Get So Old?

Allegedly, it gets better after DA OP. The hip pain, all the pelvic nonsense and the inability to fold oneself in half, they’re (supposedly) due to the hormonal shitshow I’m experiencing right now.

Symptoms of menopause and perimenopause – NHS

But that’s cool, right? I’m perfectly normal. RIGHT?

I had no sleep last night. Zero. One of the symptoms, par for the course. But with me, it’s a whole different story. I have to have ALL the symptoms at once, because of course I do.

My brain was no friend to me: It made sure I ran the whole gamut of gamuts. Worrying, restless legs, anxiety, overthinking, even guilt—I knew, as I was lying there awake at 4am, that I’d be calling in sick at 8, but there’s always that moment, that sliver of self-doubt: Am I poorly enough to be off work? Will they believe me? What if they think I’m swingin’ the lead?

And then there’s that other moment. The one where you whack yourself over the noggin with a good ol’ reality check. It goes like this:

Who exactly are you trying to kid? Look at you. You’ve just rubbed freeze gel on your thighs and Ibuprofen on your knees. You have had no sleep to speak of, you’ve been to the loo seventeen times in the last six hours, (that’s seventeen journeys up the stairs, each of which took an inordinate amount of time because LOOK AT THE FRICKIN’ STATE OF YOU), and you’ve had to cave in and reach for the drugs even though you KNOW they’ll set your stomach off, because otherwise you won’t be able to move. And you’re worrying about work? Get outa here.

So, I listened to myself, for once. I called in sick, and will have to face the consequences—being off is barely even a choice when I’m like this. Why? Well, for one, I can’t word. I can type just fine, but when I am in this much pain, speech goes out the mucky window. I find it hard to string sentences together, and can even sound leathered. Imagine me on the blower to a customer: “Yesh, Mr. Schmith, I shall short it out for you thish week…” That’s if I had the chance to be on the phone at all, what with having to all but camp out in the bathroom.

So why the blog? You know me. I love a good whine. That’s ‘whine’ with an aitch. None of that drinking bollox for me these days. Can’t tolerate it. Not for want of trying, like. Over the last few months, I have tried to drink. I’ve poured myself a glass every now and then, and it’s either given me acidmadness or intolerable stomach cramps. So, yeah: no.

If I am writing, no matter the subject, I am alive. I am here to tell my story. And who knows? Maybe it’ll resonate. Perhaps someone will read this and come to realise they’re not alone. You need to talk? Hit me up.

There’s a lovely lass in the office who’s been helping me with this stuff (thanks, JJ!) – so if I can be that person to someone else, I am all ears (and shoulders. Honestly, they are covered in middle-age flab so they’re infinitely comfortable). Speak and I shall listen. Come: rest your head, let me put my bingo wings around you.