Let’s talk about wine and the menopause.
Part Two: The Slow Descent and the Six Weeks That Saved Me!
Missed the beginning? Read Part One.
After a blood test and a few mandatory questions about my general health, like “Do you smoke?” “No” Truth.
“ How many units of alcohol do you drink a week?” “ About two or three.” Lie.
“Do you exercise?” “Oh yes, I walk and do Pilates every day.” Another lie.
I was sent away until the results came back.
Two weeks later, I walked out of the pharmacy with my HRT patches. I felt elated, sure that these would annihilate the panic attacks and night terrors. This was a very good day, a cause for celebration. Wine would be perfect, so I popped to my local shop.
I am not sure when the one bottle a night crept up to two bottles a day. The time just got earlier and earlier. On reflection, I told myself this was just until the HRT patches started to work.
My work was suffering, I was making bad business decisions; I felt so damn tired all the time. Every little thing would make me paranoid and fearful; still, I did not make the correlation between the wine and the anxiety, which was now heading into depression.
I reached a breaking point after twelve weeks of constantly abusing my body!
One Wednesday morning, I logged on to work and just broke down in tears; I was a mess! I couldn’t hold a thought for more than a second; I was tired, overwhelmed, puffy-faced, and grey.
Back to the doctor’s I went, tail between my legs and was signed off work for six weeks, also given a prescription to help with the panic attacks.
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Once a week I had to check in with the doctor for a face-to-face consult. The first time I went for a check-in, they must have smelt the booze on me.
Gently, the lady doctor asked me how I was looking after myself. I told the whole truth this time. She walked over to me and pulled me into a warm hug. That hug, that human acceptance and compassion, changed everything for me.
The Slow Ascent
The next morning, I showered, got dressed and walked to my local park with a notebook. Sitting in the sun with a coffee, I wrote everything down.
I left nothing out. All my feelings were there on the pages. The shame, the guilt, the anxiety, the booze, the lying, the laziness- all of it! I did that every morning for six weeks.
I also made a conscious decision not to drink wine in this precious gift of time away from work. Some evenings the voice was loud, telling me a few glasses of wine wouldn’t hurt, but a newer version of myself was emerging, so I told the voice to shut up.
A happier, calmer, more measured Ginny was emerging. The anxiety was subsiding, I felt clean and lighter. Hopeful even.
I started online yoga for beginners, mainly to pass the time. It was tough- who knew yoga was so hard. Downward dog made my head spin and my arms ache. The only pose I enjoyed was corpse pose at the end. But something about trying to match my breath to each movement calmed me. I began noticing my body, what niggled and what felt nourishing.
Meditation also became part of my new morning routine along with yoga, walking and journaling. Life felt fuller, happier.
People started noticing how refreshed I looked, not such a smelly, haggard old bag, I assume ha ha!
The anxiety had all but gone by the time I went back to work and to this day I still count my lucky stars that each of the people I met in those six weeks, whether in person or an online instructor, was there at the right time, right place for me.
I still stay away from wine, partly because I can’t stand the smell anymore but mainly because of the fear of slipping back into the dark, messy descent.
Looking back, without each kind word- from the doctor, to my friend at work who checked in with me every day I was signed off, to the lady in the cafe with my cappuccino- my story would be a very different one.
