Breathe
By Mónica Hernández
It is very difficult, almost impossible, to take your finger off the menopause. And when you do not rest, when your spine creaks, your waist disappears and your mood no one can understand it, not even you, who have known you all your life... you have no choice but to negotiate.
My negotiation with my "meno" didn't happen overnight, but something must have been brewing behind my back. I saw the meme of Julia Roberts at the wheel, saying "put me to the test" and something clicked. A Eureka moment, as good old Archimedes would say. And that at the time she lived, people died around the age of 25-30, so a 40 plus or 50 woman was a rarity. From then on, menopause became a shame, a silence. Over the years, during the dark ages until the renaissance, menopause became associated with the image of a witch: old, wrinkled, white-haired, thin and pale skinned and above all, wise. I like this part. Literature was populated by witches (good and bad) and they all had in common the inability to produce children, even if they were dedicated to taking care of bodies and souls. And so the centuries went by. Dr. Charles Pierre Louis De Gardanne observed patients (with this fascination mixed with horror that female organs caused in doctors) with certain symptoms which he called ménespausie for the first time until 1815 and changed the name to ménopause in 1821. He did not burn his brains on the name, it is true, and defined it as "hell" for women. He was not wrong and perhaps he would like to know, but he added a term that more than two centuries later is still considered an adjective to define us all: menopausal. An insult that, as far as I am concerned, will change its meaning to a powerful one, such as a superpower.
Experts say that menopause marks the end of menstrual, monthly and monstrous (yes, monstrous) cycles. Well, that's just it. It is only a biological issue and for centuries women have been condemned to a corner, to a mental institution, to the kitchen, to the laundry room and to satisfy the needs of the "boss" of the day. Deprived of social, civil, military and economic-financial rights (with some honorable exceptions) we have been conquering a lot, which, like layers of an onion, must be removed one by one. That's where we are. The rest is our responsibility, to our body, our mind, our spirit. This is where the superpower lies.
So now I am a superwoman and all because I have in my hands, and not the other way around, my menopause. It is my new superpower because it is a new rebirth, not the beginning of decadence. Whoever wants to, put me to the test.
What makes the difference? No more worrying about counting days on the calendar, of any month of any year. Goodbye forever, goodbye to the anguish of tarnishing clothes and reputation, which like a sword of Damocles hung over everyone (and still hangs over many). There is no longer the obligation to look good to anyone but oneself. Do you want proof? Invite me out, to dinner, to whatever. I'll go if and only if I feel like it. I don't have to fit in anymore, nor do I care about "what people will say", nor am I interested in everyone liking me. I've already assumed that's never going to happen. Just as I don't like everyone I meet, I have assimilated that there are those who dislike my skin tone, my tone of voice and the words that come out of my mouth. Maybe they resent my figure or my conversation. And that's fine with me. It's not my problem. My problem is me. The years ahead of me will certainly be fewer than the ones left when I look in the rearview mirror and I plan to make the most of them.
And you, what is your superpower?
The opinions expressed are the responsibility of the authors and are absolutely independent of the position and editorial line of the company. Opinion 51.
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