#5 — Rage

I am not proud of myself.

At least not lately. I haven’t been the best version of myself, and I am struggling to get back to an older version of me who was calmer, more tactful, and less mouthy under stress and adversity. I woke up one day and, suddenly, I was in perimenopause. What they don’t tell you is that one of the symptoms is moodiness and, dare I say it, Game of Thrones, dragon-worthy rage.

Sometimes I look like I have it together. But just beneath the surface lives a vengeful chihuahua, ready to go feral at a moment’s notice.

Rage has me against the ropes

I am fighting to control this rabid urge almost every day.

The thing is, it’s mostly not my fault. And it’s surprisingly hard to explain why I’m no longer the upbeat, jolly version of myself I used to be. As a woman, it feels like you enter this phase of life and are dropped into a complex maze of symptoms and health issues, with no sherpa to help you navigate your way through.

It’s heartbreaking. Piercingly lonely. And you somehow feel like a failure for not handling it better.

Internally, it feels like some alien parasite has taken over my body. I have no control, and I’m constantly bracing for what comes next.

I am exhausted, in every sense of the word. Things I once had patience for now leave me hanging by a thread. Yesterday, I nearly had a breakdown at the grocery store because a woman was taking too long to decide which milk to buy, and I had to wait my turn. This is who I am right now, apparently.

Chihuahua.

Rage.

I fight so hard to keep it together during the day that by evening, I become the worst version of myself. Grumpy. Nitpicky. Short-fused. When I finally can’t take it anymore, I cry, and then I nap.

My enemies may not be suffering, but my partner is

I am the absolute worst version of a toddler: a mean one with big words who screams like a banshee.

Simmering rage.

I am not proud of myself.

The other day, my poor partner endured a twenty-minute monologue because he made a small mistake loading the dishwasher. It was as bad as you’re imagining. He had just stepped out of the shower, towel around his waist, still dripping wet, when I cornered him.

Somewhere in the middle of my tirade, my brain registered that what I was doing was completely unhinged. But I had short-circuited. My mouth had taken over, and I could not stop. My partner is the kindest, gentlest person I know. He has endured, and is still enduring, this strange, volatile version of me. He gives me grace. He makes me breakfast. He gives me pedicures and rubs my feet.

I am horrified. And I am deeply ashamed.

If you’re reading this, honey, I am so sorry.

Finding some peace during this rageful season

This week, my naturopath prescribed new supplements, and in two weeks, I’ll be speaking with my GP about medication. In the meantime, I’m leaning more into meditation and breathwork. I’m slowly learning to pace my workday so my body isn’t constantly in fight-or-flight mode. I’m trying not to overwork the way I used to. And I’m trying to give myself grace.

One of my colleagues, an adultier adult who has been through this, promises me that it gets better. The hardest part, she says, is the adjustment. Finding the right balance.

Today was a good day.

I slept in. I did Pilates. I sat quietly in the sauna and meditated. Less rage. More peace.

I hope for more days like this. I hope to return to the more joyful version of myself. I miss her.

And to anyone else going through this: I see you. I wish you well. I hope you, too, find your way back to yourself.

And if you have any survival tips, please share them with me. You don’t have to comment publicly; a quiet message counts too.