“If I knew then what I know now…” Finish that statement any way you like. For me it has no meaning whatsoever because what I know now is that there is no knowing how to deal with any stage of life no matter how old I get. I swear if I don’t get some relief from this betrayal my body seems intent on committing, I will spontaneously combust. Each blink, every breath, any moment of the day or night I think I might explode from the pressure of my own pulse. I am uncomfortable in my own dry, itchy, prone-to-breakouts skin. I’m like some sort of pre-pubescent freak, except my hormones don’t rage like Storm Troopers, no, they crash and burn in true Kamikaze style. My biology threatens to destroy me.
I am exhausted. In fact, before I finish this post I may need a nap.
I have never taken on the mantle of victim. However, lately it seems everywhere I look there is an indoctrination into victimhood happening. I am irritated by, well, by a lot of things. Today it is the notion that each insecurity or knucklehead remark made by moronic frat boys is too challenging for the average college student to handle. Victim-building, the new GDP it seems, will have legions ready, willing, and able to play a role after graduation. Not me. I refuse to buy into it. Call me old-fashioned. Call me whatever you want.
It won’t bother me one bit.
Most of my classmates will look back on this year as a magical time of self-discovery, first love, first epiphany, first hangover. I, on the other hand, will remember it as the year I went through menopause. Seriously, WTF!