Pause
Author: Mary Ruefle
I recently came across an old cryalog that I kept during
the month of April in 1998. ‘C’ stands for the fact that I cried, the number of
C’s represents the number of times I cried, and ‘NC’ indicates that I did not
cry on that day.
The saddest thing is, I now find the cryalog very funny,
and laugh when I look at it.
But when I kept it, I wanted to die. Literally, to kill
myself – with an iron, a steaming hot turned-on iron.
This was not depression, this was menopause.
Reading this, or any other thing ever written about
menopause, will not help you in any way, for how you respond to menopause is
not up to you, it is up to your body, and though you believe now that you can
control your body (such is your strength after all that yoga) you cannot.
Of course, you may be lucky: I know a woman who
experienced menopause in no way whatsoever except that one day she realized it
had been a couple of years since her last period, which was indeed her last.
You hear a lot about hot flashes, but hot flashes are the
least of it, totally inconsequential in every way: you get as hot as a steam
iron at odd moments – so what? The media would have you believe that hot
flashes are the single most significant symptom toward which you should direct
your attention and businesses their products, but when I think of menopause I
don’t think of hot flashes; I am not here to talk about hot flashes.
Except to tell you that they do not cease even after you
have completely gone through menopause; they become a part of your life the way
periods were, they are periodic and, after a while, you stop talking about
them.
No, I am here to tell you that one woman, a woman who is
the most undepressed, optimistic, upbeat person I know, awoke one morning and
walked straight into her kitchen and grabbed a butcher’s knife (she is a world
class cook) with the intent of driving it through her heart. That was
menopause.
If you take the time to peruse the annals of any
nineteenth century asylum, as I have, you will discover that the ‘cause of
admittance’ for all women over forty is listed as ‘change of life’.
In other words, you go crazy. When you go crazy, you
don’t have the slightest inclination to read anything Foucault ever wrote about
culture and madness.
It may be that you recall your thirteenth year on earth.
Menopause is adolescence all over again, only you are an adult and have to go
out into the world every day in ways you did not have to when you were in
school, where you were surrounded by other adolescents, safe, or relatively so,
in the asylum of junior high.
You are a thirteen-year-old with the experience and daily
life of a forty-five-year-old.
You have on some days the desire to fuck a tree, or a
dog, whichever is closest.
You have the desire to leave your husband or lover or
partner, whatever.
No matter how stable or loving the arrangement, you want
out.
You may decide to take up an insane and hopeless cause.
You may decide to walk to Canada, or that it is high time you begin to collect
old blue china, three thousand pieces of which will leave you bankrupt.
Suddenly the solution to all problems lies in selling your grandmother’s gold
watch or drinking your body weight in cider vinegar. A kind of wild forest
blood runs in your veins.
This, and other behaviors, will horrify you. You will
seek medical help because you are intelligent, and none of the help will help.
You will feel as if your life is over and you will be
absolutely right about that, it is over.
No matter how attractive or unattractive you are, you
have been used to having others look you over when you stood at the bus stop or
at the chemist’s to buy tampons. They have looked you over to assess how
attractive or unattractive you are, so no matter what the case, you were looked
at. Those days are over; now others look straight through you, you are
completely invisible to them, you have become a ghost.
You no longer exist.
Because you no longer exist, you will do anything for
attention. You may shave your head or dye your hair or wear striped stockings
or scream at complete strangers. You’ve seen them, haven’t you, the middle-aged
women screaming at the attendant in the convenience store?
You are a depressed adolescent who sweats through their
clothing and says terrible things to everyone, especially the people they love.
You begin to lie. You have the urge to shoplift and if
you drive an automobile you have the urge to ram your car into the car in front
of you.
Nothing can prepare you for this.
The one thing no one will tell you is that these feelings
and this behavior will last ten years. That is, a decade of your life. Ask your
doctor if this is true and she will deny it.
Then comes a day when you see a ‘woman’ who is buying
tampons and you think of her as a girl. And she is; anyone who has periods is a
girl. You know this is true and it is very funny to you.
You are a woman, the ten years have passed, you love your
children, you love your lover, but there are no longer any persons on earth who
can stop you from being yourself, you have put your parents in the earth, you
have buried the past. Of course in the meantime you have destroyed your life
and it has to be completely remade and there is a great deal of grief and
regret and nostalgia and all of that, but even so you are free, free to sit on
the bank and throw stones and feel thankful for the few years or one or two
decades left to you in which you can be yourself, even if a great many other
women ended their lives, even if the reason they ended their lives is reported
as having been for reasons having nothing to do with menopause, which is
thankfully behind you as you would never want to be a girl again for any reason
at all, you have discovered that being invisible is the biggest secret on
earth, the most wondrous gift anyone could ever have given you.
If you are young and you are reading this, perhaps you
will understand the gleam in the eye of any woman who is sixty, seventy, eight,
or ninety: they cannot take you seriously (sorry) for you are just a girl to
them, despite your babies and shoes and lovemaking and all of that. You are
just a girl playing at life.
You are just a girl on the edge of a great forest. You
should be frightened but instead you are eating a lovely meal, or you are
cooking one, or you are running to the florist or you are opening a box of flowers
that has just arrived at your door, and none of these things are done in the
great spirit that they will later be done in.
You haven’t even begun. You must pause first, the way one
must always pause before a great endeavor, if only to take a good breath.
Happy old age is coming on bare feet, bringing with it
grace and gentle words, and ways which grim youth have never known.
About the Author
Mary Ruefle is the
author of the Trances of the Blast (Wave Books, 2013), Madness, Rack, and
Honey: Collected Lectures (Wave Books, 2012), a finalist for the National Book
Critics Circle Award in criticism, and Selected Poems (Wave Books, 2010),
winner of the William Carlos Williams Award from the Poetry Society of America.
She has published ten books of poetry, a book of prose and a comic book. Ruefle
is the recipient of numerous honors, including an Award in Literature from the
American Academy of Arts and Letters, a Guggenheim fellowship, a National
Endowment for the Arts fellowship, and a Whiting Award. She lives in
Bennington, Vermont, and teaches in the MFA program at Vermont College.
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