MEMOIR BLAST — The Hormone Drop Day

Wireless dropped again and so did I. The veil came down — that hormonal curtain that doesn’t ask permission, just falls. The boiling‑blood feeling, the sweating‑from‑the‑inside, the back‑of‑the‑neck sweat, the skeletal pain that’s been stalking me for days. I knew it was washing over me, before I even left the house. That chemical shift that makes everything feel pointless, heavy, too bright, too loud.

Hormonal.

I push myself — I know this is not me.

I got myself up. I wanted to take myself to town. I wanted movement, because when the hormones drop, staying still feels like drowning. I distracted myself with household mundane tasks, circles — the pointless ones — because my brain was already slipping into that negative hum. I even recorded a voice note, hearing myself say I didn’t see the point in anything. That’s hormones talking. That’s the drop.

I dressed myself because being out of the house was better than sitting in the hormonal soup. I thought: treat yourself. Coffee, scone, tea. Minimum things. But the drop was already steering.

Primark sucked me in. Cheap brightness, fake dopamine. Hormones make you grab at anything that looks like relief. And the funny part? I hadn’t shopped in Primark for years — boycotting the cheap throw‑away stuff, holding myself to my own menopause‑maturity quality‑control standards — but the hormone drop made me rethink.

(That teamed with my menopausal marmite.)

Before I knew it, my basket was full of clothes, trying to convince myself to buy something, while my brain whispered I’ll never wear any of it. Fighting the hormonal fog, trying to beat it, makes you think it’s not worthwhile — but yes, treat yourself, yes, you need that — pushing, goading, ready to give it all back even when you don’t. You tell yourself you’re not wasting money or time, but you can’t beat the relentlessness of the hormonal lash. Then the crash: why do I look so casual? Messy? Why did I feel good for a moment?

Why did I think town was worthwhile?

I emptied the basket. Put it all back. The hormonal guilt kicked in. The “you don’t need more nice things” voice. The “you’re not going on holiday anyway” voice. Fighting the urges after spending forty‑five minutes in a shop I don’t even shop in, wrestling with the reasons why.

So I rationalized buying a few things — just to show I could — and settled on cheap holiday bits for a holiday that isn’t happening. Classic hormone logic.

Now one hour has gone by while you wrestled with yourself — flustered and confused, hot and bothered, £75 later on crap.

I was already angry at Rich before I left the house because the house is horrendous. Hormones amplify everything — the mess, the unfinished bits, the comparison. Everyone‑else logic: homes fixed, finished, cared for, complete. I was taken aback by there front door. Hormones make you see someone else’s life as proof of your own failure. Why do I do it to myself? Because hormones strip away the buffer.

My shoulder pain amplified — then that hormonal ache that sits in your skeleton and you ache. I thought it was the heat, the boiling blood, but no. It was the drop. And it hit again as soon as I walked into John Lewis.

Usually John Lewis sparks joy. Colours, quality, the ritual of a cup of tea. But hormones flatten joy. I walked through the makeup department — first hurdle, the strong smell. Candles, plants — all the usual tiny sparks — nothing, absolutely nothing. And when I focused on a small, partially dead Pothos to save, I realized: get out, go home. Hormones make everything feel like a waste of money, a waste of time, a waste of effort.

I left with a Primark bag, a fake flower, and a tablecloth from Flying Tiger. Small purchases, lots of them — the hormonal attempt at self‑rescue. But I’m 53 now. I know it never works.

Money stress hits harder when hormones drop. The car took the savings. Now I have a car to do what I want, but no money to do anything. I know I need a job, paid to back my art.

Hormones make that thought feel impossible. Even if I tried, it would be wasted energy. No one will employ me. And I don’t want to be employed. Hormones make every path feel blocked.

I am an Artist. I don’t want any other job.

Four days of boiling in my own blood. Sweating through my clothes. Yesterday’s reel — jeans and the rest‑up top — the uniform that saves me because I don’t have to think. Hormones make thinking about clothes too much. And I like thinking about clothes. But the drop was already happening. I pushed through it.

I’m going to go home and make myself something nice for lunch

- No scone, no Gails pot of tea .........

the purpose of my outing, before the misfiring brain ruined it.