Every day, I spin the flashy, neon wheel of Melany’s Perimenopause Symptom Randomizer. One day, the prize is aches and pains; on other days, it’s vertigo. Some days, I am possessed by incomprehensible menopausal rage (that or anxiety-laced panic attack).
Coincidentally (or not), I am raising a teenage daughter. She keeps getting her period, while I keep waiting for mine to happen. I face long stretches without a cycle now, but I still get the ‘freebie’ of constant PMS. Ugh.
In depth psychology, there is a principle that parents develop and mature in consonance with their offspring. When you raise a young child, you are called to heal the wounds of your inner child. At the stage I am in now, the reckoning is with my inner teen.
Fact: Puberty and perimenopause are mirror developmental periods—times where neurological reorganization takes place. Have you heard the term “middlescence”? It’s like “adolescence,” but encompassing the age range of the mid-40s to early 60s.
I’m right smack in the center, and if so are you, read on.
Hormones Matter
In perimenopause, estrogen levels go completely haywire. Perimenopause is the transitional phase leading up to menopause; after twelve consecutive months without a period, a woman is officially declared in menopause.
But estrogen isn’t just for egg production and making babies; it’s a potent neurochemical. Estrogen directly impacts our mood and frustration tolerance because:
- It modulates serotonin – regulating mood stability and emotional baseline. When estrogen drops, serotonin plummets. Boom! Irritability.
- It drives dopamine circuits – fueling our reward, motivation, and energy systems. Sudden hormonal dips can instantly drain your drive. Boom! Fatigue.
- It enhances GABA signaling – acting as the brain’s natural Valium, helping the nervous system downshift. Without enough estrogen, GABA doesn’t work right. Boom! Can’t relax. Anxiety.
- It maintains prefrontal-limbic regulation – anchoring your emotional center (limbic) and your logical brain (prefrontal), preserving impulse control. When this connection is destabilized, boom! Impulsivity.
In short, when my estrogen levels go whacko in perimenopause, it affects everything I do. The end result? Me, like all perimenopausal women, just say, “My moods are all over the place.”
Accompanied by the infamous hot flashes, this hormonal joyride perfectly explains the phenomenon legendarily coined as “menopausal rage.” Some days, I just have a primal urge to burn it all down.
Poetic justice, isn’t it? Some days I just want to get rid of all of it. Plans, perfectly arranged rules, everything. Watch it all burn—my regrets about the past and accumulated frustration along with it.
There’s a charge in the air, electric like lightning, and it makes me feel oh so alive. I hear the words deep inside me: “You go, gurrrrrlllll.” And I take action. But unlike an unruly teen, I know these urges are mere by-products of my hormones, so I apply moderation and discernment—may gigil lang nga.
No BS
Perimenopause does not tolerate bullshit—not even my own.
Recently, I rediscovered Chinatown, specifically the chaotic expanse covering the Binondo and Divisoria areas. For many years, I relied entirely on air-conditioned shopping malls for the sake of convenience. Back then, my world was heavily confined; I was limited by the demanding logistics of raising two young children. But now, those aforementioned people are teenagers, and I finally have the time to explore and seek out better, cheaper options.
When I visited last week to buy a new mobile phone, drawn by rumors of bargains at 168 Mall, it was as if the scales suddenly fell from my eyes. Everything truly is cheaper in good old “Devi’s Park” (my father’s term) everything all in one place.
I recall what I have known for years as a third-generation born Chinoy: standard mall merchants capitalize on this direct source. They curate it, place it in a visually appealing storefront, market it, and jack up the price—by at least 20%, and sometimes it even goes up to 100%, would you believe?!
Seeing what I saw, I call my own bullshit. For a few years now, I have been working to transition from impulse shopping to intentional shopping.
In the past, I accumulated stuff to try and fill an internal hole. I thought it was the right way—the only way. But being in the thick of **The Source of All Goods—Wholesale! Bargain! Lowest Price!—**drove the message home: material things are plentiful, cheap, and easily replaced.
The purchases made me feel good for an instant, for a very short time, and then the feeling waned. All that stuff is thrown away now or nakatambak lang, binubulok, walang pakinabang.
What is actually valuable is how I put meaning into things. What was valuable then and what is valuable now is how I construct meaning in my life.
Entering this midlife transition means reckoning with this old version of me: Ms. Shopping Addiction. I regret all that money wasted in convenient malls and convenient groceries—what I once saw as instant solutions to my pain. I find myself furious with that old me in my thirties, that struggling Baby Mama who tried to find her meaning in life scoring retail highs.
But it is not all a waste. And I am not a waste, nor am I wasted.
When I look closer, this potent concoction of anger and regret is actually just non-acceptance. The truth is, I can’t do it all. I was not able to do it all.
As always, I do my best with what I can do and what I have at the moment. This is the constant hum of my being. I could give myself a lot more credit than I do.
I will melt the negativity! I will turn it into self-acceptance!
To do this, I will practice 和自己和解 (hé zìjǐ héjiě). The literal translation is “to make peace with oneself.” But if you parse into the etymology and philosophy, the character 解 (jiě) means “to separate, to untie, to deliver out of bondage.”
I watch this ancient philosophy play out on my doorstep.
Every day around eleven in the morning, a Lazada delivery guy makes his rounds. He unfastens parcels from his delivery vehicle—goods originating from Divisoria, Binondo, 168, or 999 Mall, destined for my neighbors who shopped online.
Package delivered! Items received!
In this simple exchange lies an analogy: I, too, am in transition. I must untie myself from the heavy cargo of my past regrets.
A Chinoy like me survives different iterations. It is part of the vicissitudes of life. Commerce changes forms, adapting to the endless shifts of the market—so why can’t I?
