Let’s be a menopausal mess said no-one ever.

It’s official.  

Am not really raving loony.  :)

Am actually Peri-pausal.  :(

Have discovered that there is legitimate reason for me wanting to throw myself under every passing bus and cement mixer lorry, eating to ridiculous amounts - until I feel that I might really actually explode, having a prolific bad attitude with fucking knobheads who wind me up (which is practically e-v-e-r-y-o-n-e I encounter) and wearing the same stinky leggings for three weeks in a row despite them having a hole in the crotch and being three dress sizes too small. 

And whilst waving goodbye to ridiculously unsanitary sanitary wear, acne breakouts at 40+, stomach-ache that feels like someone’s kicked me in the fanny, tits so sensitive that I would happily commit murder should anyone be stupid enough to even touch them and a temper to match Hannibal Lecter’s . . . . .

Somehow saying hello to hot flushes, cold sweats, sleepless nights, amnesia, apathy and mood swings to shame Dr Jekyll seems somehow a fucking sorry, shitty exchange for all those years I spent being a smelly, neurotic, spotty mess once every single month for 33 years. 

‘I suggest Prozac’ My GP said. 

‘Eh?’ I exclaimed.

‘I’m menopausal Doc.  I’m not a fucking manic depressive.’ 

He looked down at my bag and nodded at the multi-pack razors, two packs of garden twine, three boxes of reduced priced paracetamol and a miniature bottle of Blossom Hill for my friend and sighed..

‘Maybe not . . . '

'But you probably will be if you don’t start taking these tablets.’