When Running Away Is A Good Thing
By: Lisa Wathen
Tags: Personal Growth, Women, Womens Health, Self-awareness, Menopause

When Running Away Is A Good Thing

Photo by Emma Simpson on Unsplash

I ran away from home this morning.

Well. Walked away.

It’s the “away” part that matters.

The sun was bright, low in the sky, making me squint. It was kind of annoying. Gave me a headache.

But I didn’t care. “Away” was calling to me. With a bullhorn.

I had to go.

As I put distance between myself and my house, my family, my life one hurried, a desperate step at a time, I kept wondering: Who am I? Who is this woman who is so filled with rage, impatience, resentment and intolerance that she has to run away from it all?

Hello. It’s me. The same old person I’ve always been. But for some reason, the past few days I woke up each morning stripped of my usual ability to dip into bottomless wells of patience and willingness to sacrifice my priorities and agenda for other people’s. I have felt my marrow vibrating with the need for isolation, shivering in the biting cold of NO, and this morning I was very much afraid that I was going to lose it.

Photo by Priscilla Du Preez on Unsplash

I thought I might explode if anyone did so much as make eye contact with me.

So I left.

At least if I lost my shit away from the house, the unsuspecting souls who share it with me would be spared. I could still manage that one, last considerate act for them.

It was cold outside, 38 degrees, but I felt warm. Actually, hot. Burning up from the inside out with all the arguments I’d stuffed deep down inside, the snarky remarks I’d held back, the criticisms and sarcasm that had been rattling around the inky black echo chamber that filled the void where my soul used to be.

Where did all that come from?

Alone and striding through a wintery morning world, I had the room to spread my thoughts out, not feel choked and maddened by them. I walked, squinting and sweating, propelled forward by this insane need to be by myself, wondering where the maelstrom of rage had come from.

I didn’t remember feeling this way a week ago. Or a month ago. Oh, all right, here and there I wished I didn’t always have to let go of something, or yearned for more “me” time, or felt bored watching a movie of someone else’s choosing on a Friday night and wished with all my heart I could just go to bed and read… But it was never overpowering — not like it’s been these last few days.

So what gives?

I walked (stomped — now my feet were pounding a little harder than necessary to keep time with the inner thunder) down the road, past houses decorated for the season, winter gardens, and into a copse of pine woods. Eventually, this road would take me to the river, and that was where I wanted to be: with the water, a cold wind to cool the internal conflagration and the birds crying out to the morning sun. I wanted something external to remind me that there is a bigger world than what’s going on inside of me, even though it feels all-consuming right now.

Inside of me.

That’s when the penny dropped, there in the shade of the pines: of course.

I just turned 50. I am in peri-menopause. I’ve read about sudden mood swings some women experience during this time. One of my friends will only hint in faint whispers at how epic hers are and refuses to say more. I thought she was just being dramatic….

…but now I’m reconsidering that conclusion.

This settles me down a bit. Gives me a little distance from all the internal durm und strang. I poke it, prise it apart: is there truth at the root of it, even if the magnitude is a result of an invisible hormonal tide?

Of course, there is.

Photo by Atte Grönlund on Unsplash

I make it to the river and stand at its banks, gazing out. There is no wind, and the surface is still, quiet. I breathe in the salty smell of the brackish water and hear those birds overhead.

This is a gift, I realize. This rage, this inner roiling sea of outrage and overwhelming NO. This midlife transition, as unwieldy and unpredictable as it is, has nonetheless done me a favour.

It is telling me (screaming in my face, actually): I am too old, and have too much at stake, to continue to adhere to the old ways of putting myself last, and everyone else first. I spent decades doing that because to a large degree, that’s what a responsible parent does, and what an ambitious young teacher does, and all too often what a woman in a struggling marriage does because she doesn’t know how else to try to make things better.

But those days are behind me now. The children are grown — it is their turn to learn to make room for what I want, and not take for granted that I’m there to cook and plan and make everything just right. That struggling marriage died a long time ago — now I’m in a new partnership, and it’s time to make new rules about what that means, and how two lives will be shared. And I’m a veteran of the classroom now, I don’t need to prove anything to anyone. I know where to put my energy and where to let things go.

This black hysteria is a wakeup call from those lady parts for which it was named: this is my time, and the rules need to change if I’m going to live it fully and make the most of it for myself.

My steps were softer, but no less powerful as I headed back home, each footfall determined, strong, focused. The sun on my back, it warmed me gently. I looked up at the trees, saw the sky clear and blue overhead.

As I rounded the last corner onto my own street, I began mentally rolling up my shirtsleeves. There was work to be done, but it was my work, and I was ready for it. There were conversations to begin, eyes to open to a few things. Some questions to ask, some ground rules to lay down. I realized that instead of angry, I was feeling excited, electric, alive because suddenly a page has turned, a whole new chapter begun, and this time I’m the one in charge of the narrative.