I Am Doomed

 

I am doomed.

I can feel it in my bones.

Especially in my knees, after I go up six flights of stairs because the elevator is broken.

Some mornings, after I wake up and look in the mirror, I lose all enthusiasm for the day ahead. Because, yes, I am standing face to face with the truth: I am getting old.

Oh dear God. I am old.

My face is telling me this, my ears are telling me this, so it is a fact that is difficult to ignore.

To be fair, it’s not the idea of old age that bothers me. What annoys me the most is that I don’t feel old in my soul. Just in my aching, creaky joints.

Actually, everything went downhill when I reached menopause. You know, the crone era, when you are supposed to be calm and collected and impart wisdom to the younger generation, even if you feel and look like a dried-up raisin.

In the beginning, I was glad for menopause

 -gentlemen readers, please avert your eyes.

Gross stuff coming through –

I had heavy periods. The cramps were killing me. There were days when I couldn’t get out of bed because of the pain and the blood.

-you can come back now -

Nevertheless, I wasn’t prepared for what came with it.

It began with my eyes: dry, high intraocular pressure, the lot. Now, a pair of glasses costs me the national monthly wage.

Then, the skin. Dry and itchy. Not to mention the wrinkles.

Brain fog. Forgetfulness.

My joints. My bones. The anxiety that shot through the roof. My heart that decided it was time to try and kill me. When it doesn’t want to explode thorough my chest.

The disappearing hormones. The melting muscles.

Should I continue?

Sometimes I think I will just shroud myself in a white sheet and walk slowly towards the cemetery.

And please, no bullshitting about you have plenty of good years in you and other similar slogans.

The harsh reality is that we, women, are not needed anymore once we reached the end of our

 childbearing years. We are just supposed to disappear, quietly and without too much fuss.

For now, my daily routine consists of moisturizing, drinking water, eye drops, measuring my blood pressure, going to doctors, having tests done and trying to read as many books as I can before going blind.

I try to meditate to ease my mind and lower my anxiety levels, but my thoughts - crazy monkeys – are jumping from tree to tree, hanging on branches, screeching and making monkey noises.

At least they don’t have joint problems, the bandits.

If nothing else, my thoughts are still young.

So what are they doing in this old, crumbling building?

It is hard to let it go.

It is hard to get used to the idea that your body betrays you day after day after day until you disappear completely.

The thought horrifies me.

 Am not the sage I am supposed to be after living for sixty years. And no, sixty is not the new forty. They lied to you.

I am not ready.

I don’t want to be ready.

I want to be young and beautiful and healthy and carefree and especially pain- and worry- free.

But that is not possible.

Not in this time line. Not in this reality.

I am convinced that if we were to live our own lives over and over again, we would make the same mistakes every time. But, by gosh, I would have liked to be told about what awaits me. What awaits us.

The question is, though: would I have listened?

I don’t think so.

When we’re young, we’re stupid. We think we are immortal and we know everything.

 Wisdom comes later when we don’t need it anymore.

What we need, maybe, is acceptance.

And strangely enough, I don’t have it in me.

Not yet.

If ever.