The Symptoms: HOT FLASHES

 

They come on fast.

At first, it’s subtle. 
There’s an odd feeling inside my head, like a bunch of Christmas lights that start to blink erratically. 
And then it begins - something sickly starts to slither down the base of my head and down my spine.

That’s when the heat begins to billow out from my chest, cascading outwards until it feels as if my whole being is on fire. 

This heat isn’t the type of heat where if I turn off the thermostat I’ll feel better. 

Sure, taking off clothing can help release some of the heat. 

(not always possible to do)

This heat, it’s internal. 

It’s a fire, raging.

Out of control.

It feels as if  I’m being cooked from the inside out.

My heart starts to beat rapidly, and beads of sweat pop up on my forehead and my upper lip.

My head is filled with pressure. 
I’m sure it’s about to implode.

Holding hands with the heat is Anxiety. 
This anxiety isn’t about any one thing or, really, anything at all. 
I’m not anxious about a situation or something I need to do or figure out. 

This anxiety is like a banshee, it comes in screaming and suddenly I am tangled in the gauze of its tattered white gown. 
It’s hard to breathe. 

I am suffocating.

I’m gripped in this embrace: the heat, the screaming in my head, the sweat. It feels never-ending.

And I can’t think. Even if I am in a moment when I need to think, like working with clients or talking to a loved one.

They really should put a warning label on me: 
“When in hot flash mode, do not allow her to operate heavy machinery, be around others, or play with matches because she will absolutely burn it all down.“

Sometimes they come on fast and quick and without much fanfare. 
A slight dampening of my body (and spirit) but back to daily life without much of a hiccup.

The other times? 
The other times take me down a few pegs. Quite a few.
They are harsh and I sometimes feel as if they last a full 20 minutes, start to finish. I should time them. But honestly, my brain stops functioning when I’m in it. 

Then there are the other other times, the ones where there is no finish.
It feels as if one rolls into another and they keep rolling in, like waves crashing against the shore during a hurricane.

I’m left feeling wilted, deflated, and, quite frankly, depressed. 

I haven’t even mentioned the rage. 

The anger fills up my lungs, and boils my blood, as the heat and screaming swirl about inside me.
I know anger. I’ve experienced it, I’ve had my road rage moments. I’ve been angry about this that or the other.
Sometimes frivolous, mostly there’s a real reason for my anger.

But this feeling of anger is different. Much like the anxiety, it isn’t about any one thing or directed towards someone - okay maybe it’s directed towards the hot flashes.
But it’s not. It comes with them. 

Like the sickest Combo Meal Plan I’ve ever been forced to order and devour.
Here’s a whopping dose of heat, a big gulp of anxiety, and a side of Rage Fries. 

Fucking enjoy.

It’s an awful experience and it’s one I would only wish upon my worst enemies. 

And once the heat starts to dissipate and my heart starts to beat normally again -
I’m left with the aftermath. 
Soaking wet.

Shivering because suddenly I am so cold and I cannot seem to get warm. 
My head hurts. My mind is buzzing from exhaustion. 

And I am sad. I am sad for so many reasons and no reason at all.
I am desperately sad that I cannot make this stop. I am sad that I have no control over my body or so it feels.

And I haven’t even touched on everything that I experienced before, during, and after a hot flash.
The nausea. The headaches. The shakes. 
The itchy prickly skin, that feels as if you’re being poked by millions of hot needles over, and over, and over.
Desperately itchy ears, like inside, way inside, an itch you cannot scratch but you sure as hell can feel.

I once described my symptoms to someone, I told them it was like I was experiencing the worst flu fever I’ve ever had. The kind where you’re hot and cold and shivering and sweating and dizzy and ugh.
They said that it sounded like I was going through withdrawals. 
And I think that’s pretty damn accurate. 

And it’s maddening. 

It’s all maddening. And in certain moments I just want to scream it all away.
I want to rage cry, I want to give up.
It’s no wonder there is an uptick in people who experience peri/meno and have also had suicidal ideations.
It makes sense. 

This shit is hard.

They come at me anytime they want. 

They Hulk smash into my life, taking with them so much I hold dear, so much I thought was stable and good. 

So much I thought I could rely on. 

They ruin my quiet comfortable moments. 

They fuck with my peace.

They burn down the intimacy in my bedroom. 
They stop me from being in the moment, violently yanking me around, and spitting me out onto the floor, a crumpled bedraggled sweaty mess, heaving and shaking from the disruption of it all.

They keep me from staying connected and present during interactions. 
Some unavoidable times, like with clients and work, I am forced to stay in the moment but inside I am being burned alive, my thoughts become like ash, disappearing into the air along with my desire to even want to try anymore.

I want to stay inside my house because at least inside, no one can see my struggle. No one can see the red face and chest, the sweat beading on my forehead, the panicked breath I can barely contain.

It’s a whole new world for me and it isn’t an easy one to navigate. 

The medical community readily admits that not enough studies have been done. 

Gee, I wonder why (disgusted sarcasm alert).

And even the doctors who say they are experts, who can you believe? Some have their programs and diets and books - and I get it. I am all for giving support to someone who has taken the time to research, who truly wants to help.
Some are pushing pharmasuticals. And I’m not against using pharma.

Fuck, use whatever you can to help you feel normal again.

But friggin-a, there’s so little true research out there, it’s hard to compare notes. And a LOT of people I talk to are dismissed by their dcotors. Or told they need anxiety meds. Or anti-depressants. 
And maybe that’ll help some. But it doesn’t get to the root cause. 

There’s so much about what we don’t know. And I’m very wary of popping pills or slapping on a patch if the risk of gettiing cancer is super high. 
My dad died of cancer. I am not willing to play that game of Russian Roulette.

Here’s the deal. I don’t know the answer. 

No one really does. 
Because much like our periods, one size treatment does not fit all.
Advil worked for me with my severe cramps. 

And hot water bottles on my abdominal area. 

I’d have to lay down for hours those first 2-3 days as blood gushed out of me.

Someone else may have only ever dealt with pressure and no pain and slight bleeding. 

And maybe had to take one midol. Or no meds at all!

What may work for me to alleviate my peri/meno symptoms may not work for you.

Or worse, may not BE for you.

And vice verse.

But what I can do is write about this. 

Say it out loud. 

Enough with the hush-hush bull shit.

Time to get loud my friends. It’s how we’ll get seen. It’s how we’ll be heard.

It’s how we are going to get help, even if that help comes from us.

I deserve that.

You deserve that.

We all deserve that.