One Does Not Simply Start a Blog

One does not simply start a blog… right?

I mean, it has to start somewhere. And with the current state of my peri-menopausal brain, there’s a solid chance you’ll walk away from this post either deeply enlightened or…

…squirrel.

This has been a goal of mine for years. YEARS. But it took me an embarrassingly long time to realize that 99% of people on Facebook don’t give a shit about what I post… so why would a blog be any different?

I don’t have an answer for that yet.

But here I am anyway. Giving it a real go.

I am either in peri-menopause or full-blown menopause. Honestly, who the hell knows. I had a hysterectomy 3.5 years ago, so the whole “tracking your cycle” thing is no longer an option.

About a year ago, things started… changing. Down there. In the big old vagina region.

Skin changes. Burning. Itching. Sex becoming about as appealing as stepping on Lego.

My GP suspects lichen sclerosus, but isn’t totally sure, so off I go to a women’s health specialist (not a gyno, because apparently that would be too straightforward).

She puts me on estrogen suppositories and a steroid cream for my muff—which, by the way, is not a phrase I ever thought I’d say out loud in my lifetime.

Things improve a bit. I go back for a follow-up. Up into the stirrups I go—those super comfortable, dignity-preserving contraptions we all love.

She has a look around.

And then she says the words that aged me about ten years in ten seconds:

“You have lichen sclerosus, which we discussed… but now I also see vaginal atrophy… and a prolapsed bladder.”

🥳🥳🥳

Fantastic.

So yes. My bladder is essentially trying to make a slow, dramatic exit through my vagina.

I’m not even 49 yet, for the love of God.

When I used to think of menopause, I pictured women in their 70s—like my grandmothers. Nobody really explained that this shit starts way earlier.

Not growing up with a mom will do that, I guess.

Anyhoo… just… fuck.

From what I’ve heard, it can take up to three years to see a gynecologist. THREE. YEARS.

But somehow, by some miracle, I got a letter from the clinic that did my hysterectomy, and I have a phone appointment in 2–3 months.

I am genuinely flabbergasted.

And also extremely grateful for this tiny win.

And just to make things extra fun, this is all on top of my already existing collection of diagnoses:

Fibromyalgia.

Colitis.

Arthritis.

Scoliosis.

Dysthymia.

CPTSD.

My medical chart is basically a novel at this point.

Midlife.

I don’t sit and think about it too often, but I turn 49 this year. And if I do the math (which I try not to), there’s a very real chance I’ve lived more days than I have left.

And yeah… that hits a little heavy.

Have I lived my best life? Been my best self?

Nope.

Not even close.

There are plenty of things I’ve done that I’m not proud of.

But there are things I am proud of.

My kids.

My husband.

Our marriage.

It hasn’t been perfect—far from it. But we figured out that we love each other more than we hate each other’s mistakes.

That counts for something.

Twenty-seven years together. Twenty-one married.

And I love that man more than lobster.

And I really love lobster. 🦞

Alright, enough mushy crap.

I’ve only just started dusting off the layers of the life that made me who I am. This blog is going to be honest. Blunt. Probably inappropriate at times.

I don’t sugarcoat things. Never have.

And I’m not about to start now.

Whether anyone actually reads this… who knows.

But I’m here.

And I’m doing it anyway.

Until next time… go with the flow.