From Puberty to Perimenopause: A Xennial Perspective

Even my body is raging against the patriarchy right now

Photo by Dollar Gill on Unsplash

Life has been strange.

I grew up Gen X, was sorted into the Millennials in my thirties, and then routinely kicked out of both groups until someone somewhere snagged onto the Xennial label to describe a generation with an analog childhood that shifted into a digital existence, all in the space of a few years.

With that being said, I’m used to a little strangeness. I’ve been kicked from one generation to the next for half my life, which is giving me middle-child energy. (I’m also a middle child.)

But I digress.

When growing up a Toys-R-Us kid, I didn’t foresee the future changing so drastically. I expected technological leaps thanks to the Back to the Future franchise, but no one warned me that we’d see a resurgence of the Jim Crow era or that the aforementioned franchise would predict our future president. It’s been a lot to process.

The good thing is this, we have plenty of rage for this fight — and then some!

From Puberty to Perimenopause

Puberty was hell. I remember that vividly enough. It was awkward, uncomfortable, and filled with annoying things like periods and pimples. My body was changing, and I was quickly discovering all the unwritten rules for girls and women — rules that mostly make us responsible for how we’re objectified, even though that objectification will take place no matter how we dress, act, or behave.

Puberty was also filled with firsts beyond periods and pimples. First crush. First kiss. First serious friendship breakup. First boyfriend. It was a tumultuous time that I wouldn’t return to for love or money.

But I got through it. The only way out, really, was through. There was no clever little skip button to fast forward from one good stage to the next. I had to move through all that awkwardness with my crooked teeth and bad hair, forever documented in those dreaded school pictures.

Adulthood seemed better. Less angsty. Fewer pimples. Periods were still hell, but I had gotten somewhat used to them (if we can ever get used to bleeding profusely while bearing the pain of stabbing, aching cramps). I still had the occasional bad hair day, but I got my crooked teeth straightened, and I felt like a million bucks.

Then, along comes perimenopause.

What’s strange is that my perimenopausal symptoms kicked off a disorder that I didn’t have until then. I developed Premenstrual Dysphoric Disorder (or PMDD), and suddenly, my periods became the relief after a two-week life-or-death battle every month.

I’m not exaggerating. For two weeks, I dealt with mood swings, severe anxiety, depression, rejection sensitivity, impulsivity, body aches, fatigue, and suicidal ideation. I became chronically ill, and upon diagnosis, the doctor opined that the perimenopausal changes in my body may have been a factor in my developing this illness.

Fast-forward to now, nearly 7 years post-diagnosis, and I’ve found medication to successfully suppress most of the debilitating PMDD symptoms. I would say that I feel normal again, but I’ve discovered that there aren’t really medications to suppress the hell that is perimenopause. It’s like puberty in many ways, and I am not pleased.

Perimenopause: A Whole New Hell

Beyond the nightmare of developing a chronic illness, I also got night sweats. Those came before the hot flashes. I would start sweating, soaking sheets for no discernible reason other than my body malfunctioning. Hot flashes quickly followed. I felt sweaty everywhere, all the time.

I’d heard about hot flashes. I’d heard the dreaded words “vaginal dryness,” a term cold enough to give anyone shivers. I haven’t had that particular problem, nor have I had any sudden mustache onset, but I do have enough night sweats and hot flashes to make up for it. Although, I must say that “hot flashes” seems an inadequate description of an experience that feels more like hell descending upon us periodically.

What truly surprised me about this period of my life is the weird way my body has changed. At one point, I was rapidly gaining weight while regularly exercising and eating well. No amount of calories burned or vegetables consumed seemed to impact my body.

My weight kept fluctuating, and the little pouch of my post-baby stomach seemed to grow, an annoyance worse than the pimples of puberty. People started giving me unsolicited advice on how to deal with this changing body, none of it taking into consideration my perimenopausal difficulties.

The only good thing about perimenopause is that most of it seems to happen in our forties. I left the majority of my f*cks behind at 40, entering my feral era, and that helps quite a bit. I don’t care if other people think I’m attractive or not. When asked about my belly, I call it my pocket for pizza and tacos. And I flip a solid middle finger at the diet culture in exchange for a healthier mindset.

I’m not as easily tricked into the capitalist consumer mindset as I once was. I don’t need nips and tucks or endless filler. I’m not trying to look like I’m 20, although I still often pass for younger than I am. I don’t hide my age or lie about it or pretend to be anything other than what I am: a woman who is 44, feral, and furious to be going through perimenopause.

A Xennial Perspective of Peri-life

I should be used to the changes by now. I’ve lived through cassette tapes and Walkmans, CDs and iPods, VCRs and DVDs, Blu-ray discs, and Netflix DVDs sent in the mail to streaming services easily accessed from home. I’ve seen the rise and fall of Blockbuster Video. I once owned a TomTom to navigate traffic. I’ve been there, done that, and got all the t-shirts along the way to prove it.

Perimenopause should be old hat to me. I’ve seen enough changes that I should be able to navigate this in my sleep. But when I was prying a cassette tape out of my car with a butter knife, my body’s temperature settings weren’t malfunctioning.

When I was watching the latest Blockbuster Video selection with a “be kind, rewind” sticker, I wasn’t sweating through my clothes with the air conditioning on and two fans blasting at me.

When I was recording new songs off the radio, I wasn’t also being told that I needed Botox to get rid of my fine lines and wrinkles or the latest in Korean skincare to make me look 17 again.

Looking Forward, Regressing Backward

I grew up in a time when toxic masculinity and blatant misogyny were in the air we breathed. It was everywhere. But for a little while, it seemed to be getting better. We rolled into the year 2000 with the idea that things were steadily improving.

For a little while, maybe they were. But then they got worse. A lot worse.

In case you haven’t noticed, the blatant variety of misogyny is back. The war on women has escalated so far beyond voting and reproductive rights. The patriarchal powers that be want to drag us back to an earlier time, but no amount of love or money could induce me to return to those puberty years or anything reminiscent of them. Perimenopausal me will fight like hell to keep that from happening. Honey badgers have nothing on women filled with little more than coffee, hot flashes, and hormonal rage.

I can learn to navigate hot flashes, although I will continue to complain about them. I will manage the night sweats. What I won’t do is allow anyone to drag us back to a time in our existence where we were made to feel shame just for existing in our bodies.

I’m not going to willingly participate in my oppression or the oppression of other women. I’m going to learn to use the rage flowing in me for the next probably ten years to fight this societal regression until we turn the tide back toward that better future.

I could never foresee the changes that were coming with technology, but I’m better equipped to predict the patterns of human beings with a little more accuracy. I know where we came from, and I know where we’re going right now.

More furious women need to channel that perimenopausal rage into defeating a system still throwing a hissy fit over the first Black President and the first woman Vice President. The backlash we’re seeing today? We need to slap it back into whatever podunk hole it’s been hiding in because today is not the day to mess with me, not when I’ve burned out the batteries on my neck fan and sweated through my thinnest shirt of the most breathable fabric.

Tomorrow won’t be the day either, not when I’ve fought my way through insomnia and night sweats to come out furious on the other side. There’s not enough coffee in the world to make sparring with me an attractive possibility when I wake up like that. Best to avoid it (and me) entirely.

The day after that isn’t looking good either because my belly pooch might look a little more pronounced without any change to my diet or fitness routine. And when I have to try squeezing into my third pair of pants before giving up and throwing on my favorite worn-out leggings, I won’t be in the mood to argue with misogynists that women’s rights are, in fact, human rights. I’m more likely to smite them with the heat of the coming hot flash.

In fact, the next decade doesn’t look good for messing with perimenopausal women, and even after we move through to the other side, there will be women coming up after us. And women coming up after them. Best not to mess with any of us, as it turns out, because we’ve left our f*cks behind at 40, and we’re dealing with issues we haven’t had to cope with since puberty. We’re mad as hell and done with the bullshit.

So, go ahead. Bring your best fight our way. We wake up and choose violence while sipping coffee out of our favorite mugs. Pick a day because any day is as sure to get you triple-btch-slapped into the stratosphere as any other. We’re perimenopausal and just Xennial enough to have grown up with the anthem We’re not going to take it! *You better believe we mean business. Just try us and find out.

If the tone of this essay seemed increasingly furious to you, I was navigating what I suspect was an insomnia-induced headache along with a sudden hot flash despite practically sitting directly over the air conditioning vent. I’d ask you to send thoughts and prayers, but perhaps wine and chocolate might be more beneficial, given the circumstances. Or coffee. Just send coffee.

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