Phoenix Fights

Fighting the FEAR, depression and BDP on a daily basis AND making my own bread. Bring it on 2016….


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JAMMIN’

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They’re ba-ack…

And I’m not talking about poltergeists either, and quite frankly they’d be more welcome than the return of…..my periods!

WTF?!

Men (or women for that matter), look away now if you’re squeamish…

And it’s not minimal I’m-just-dropping-by-on-my-way-out kind of flow either.  Nope.  It’s a gusher. 😦

OilGusher

No, no, no, no, no, no, NO!!

This would explain a lot about those strange, excessive sexual urges and my recent turbo bout of ‘woe is me’.  A PMT /depression/meds cocktail is a  pretty formidable thang it seems.

Fruitlessly I search for a tampon, but there are none to be found.  I stare accusingly at the cats (who were, and probably still are, skilled ‘white mousy’ kidnappers/torturers) but they return my gaze with their standard wide eyed ‘Who me?’ look of cute innocence.

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Hmm.  I’m sure there are a few mangled fluffed up corpses around here somewhere, but it’s not like I can put them anywhere near my mimsy now.

So I curse under my breath, and continue to turn out the contents of my knicker drawer onto the floor.

Nada.

I am so not going to buy more.  No sir.  That would be tantamount to admitting that they were back indefinitely, which is something I do not care to consider, which is why I’m mincing around gingerly with the equivalent of an adult nappy (i.e. an enormous jam rag from my previous ‘endo’ years) rustling away under my gusset.

And of course the thing about a towel is that unlike with a tampon, you can feel your flow exit. God it’s disgusting.  How do we women put up with this shit for all of those years?

What is the deal here?  Is it a final gore-tastic finale before it bows and leaves the stage forever?  Can periods come back for a defiant, futile second innings?  Seems to be I’ve been ‘peri’ forever…how do you know when ‘post’ happens?

Anyone who’s come out of the end of the menopause, please help as I am in no mood to start buying things to stick up my foof again now that I’ve had a taste of freedom, so will continue with the diapers if the end is actually in sight?

Is it?  Please tell me it is!

In the meantime I’m jammin’, jammin’, jammin’, jammin’, jammin’ and I wish I that I could say adieu…

😦

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MRS MOJO RISIN’……

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So just to update you on my Scary Man Juice (aka testosterone gel) treatment, since applying it (albeit tiny amounts as I am fwightened) I have, of late, felt something of a stirring down there……

I’ve also had strange, random, erotic dreams, (which, you will be relieved to hear, I will not go into on here) and, as I can’t blame my usual mixing alcohol with my meds habit, I think it’s fair to say something is happening.

So whilst I wouldn’t go as far as to say I feel horny, last night I had a bit of a tingle, and as I couldn’t get to sleep, I decided to have a play and see if my orgasm was working again.  For the sole purpose of reporting back in this blog of course……

Please don’t close this page, this isn’t going to be some female porno wankfest, I promise!

So  initial signs were promising.  Arousal was swift and it was fair to say that pretty much from the onset it felt like orgasm was only seconds and a slightly firmer stroke away.  But, again for science purposes only 🙂 , I dragged it out as long as possible, hoping for a better return as it were.

The overall sensation stayed the same.  Very intense, almost peri climatic, but pretty much ‘Get on with it, I’m ready to go here!’ rather than the slow, steady, gradual but amazingly rewarding journey I was used to.  So as soon as I realised this, I listened up and went for it, hoping for a glorious return to the heaven I once knew and loved.

Hmmm.

OK, if I’d never had a proper orgasm before, I might have thought this was fantastic.  But I have.  So I didn’t.  ‘Cos it wasn’t.

Let’s use the Rollercoaster analogy again.

If my real orgasm was a rip roaring, ride of thrills, spills and excitement with lots of different levels, dips and climbs that once it got started, seemed as it it would never end, until eventually, breathless, exhausted, totally satiated, you just  had to come down before you passed out?

An my pre Scary Man juice orgasm was an ancient old rollercoaster where the rusty old car slowly and painfully chugged to the top of the lowest peak, then, just when you thought it might make it over, it rattled, creaked, groaned and broke down leaving you stuck, totally dissatisfied and wishing you’d never got on the damn thing in the first place?

In this orgasm the car raced you to the top so fast you almost got a nose bleed, then just as you hit the peak, and almost flew over, it then ran out of gas, hissed as the tyres deflated then slid slowly into the dip below and stayed there.  Rocking, throbbing and humming annoyingly.

In sum, ‘It’s an orgasm Jim, but not as we know it.’ 😦 😦

And it might be enough, if a nice big willy slid in there afterwards and added a whole new dimension to the experience, but as it is I’m just left squirming and arching, trying to rid myself of an unsatisfied throb/burn that didn’t abate for a good half hour or so.  Grrr.

So, on the plus side, things seem to be going in the right direction.

But riding solo?  No go.

Never was a woman, so alone, so alone 😦

I don’t normally request comments, but please if there are any peri or postmenopausal women reading this I’d love to know how you are faring when it comes to the Big ‘O’?

Also, anyone whose anti depressants or other meds are affecting them?

In the meantime, I’m off out to buy some shoes, get some Haagan Dazs, and punch a passing traffic warden or something.

Over and out.


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HIS NAME IS DR FEELGOOD IN THE MORNING

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OK <deep breath>, this is where I stop skirting around the subject and get down to brass tacks.

I think, well, I know I’m going through the menopause.

(Men you are permitted to leg it if this is all too much for you.)

I’m not sure what the stages are, I know it starts with peri, then you’re then smack bang in the middle of it, and you’re only done when your periods totally stop.

Mine haven’t yet. That said, I went on HRT the minute I thought it was happening, so I haven’t had that much in the way of hot flushes (flashes?) or night sweats, mood swings are par for the course for me, as for vaginal dryness I haven’t test driven her for a couple of years so not sure really, but I don’t think so….

There’s a well know adage that says ‘move it or lose it’, well clearly I haven’t moved it enough because I went into this quite young, and now I’m being deprived of something that has been seriously important to me all of my adult life.

So what’s actually bugging me apart from the pending loss of my periods, which have incidentally been the bane of my life?

Well, apart from the message from the gods to tell me that I might as well kiss my sexual attractiveness to men goodbye (for what its worth), along with my waistline, skin quality and libido, my orgasms are, well, fucked.

One minute they were still earth shattering, the next, barely worth the bother.  From a bang to a whimper.  A massive earth shattering expulsion to a tiny mouse like nearly-sneeze, you know, one of those ones that is all ‘Ah-ah-ah-ah…’ and no ‘Tishoooo!’.

No one tells us about this part, do they ladies?

This was and is a big deal; whilst I don’t date that much and I haven’t had a lasting relationship for a number of years, I do masturbate, I’m very good at it, and it was very good for me.

Concerned, I went to see my gynaecologist who hummed and haa-ed and eventually came up with ‘Well sometimes that’s what happens, it’s part of life.’

WHAT?  I was incensed.

‘Would you say that to me if I was a man?! Would you forgo yours just because ‘it’s part of life?’’

He swallowed and fiddled with his specs, clearly flustered.

‘Would you say that to your wife?  Or is it not a problem to her?’

Clearly stung by my implication that his missus didn’t get off, he just upped my progesterone prescription and wished me luck.  Twat.

I went back to my GP decrying this misogynistic quack, and she, equally outraged, sent me to a new one, whom I saw for the first time (oh the irony) on Valentines Day morning.

Whilst I suppose a lot of women might be intimidated about talking about the quality of their climax with strange men, I went in feisty, belligerent and determined to be taken seriously, but I did not have to worry; Dr FG was a very different fish indeed.

Rather suave and dapper with a little smile ever hovering around his lips, Dr FG had the air of someone who held a woman’s gratification in the palm of his hand like a glowing little pearl that he may or may not hand over to you.

‘You do know that your anti depressants are likely to be having an adverse effect on your libido don’t you?’

‘Ye-es, but this isn’t my libido, this is what happens or rather doesn’t happen when I actually masturbate.’

‘So, what happens when you try?’

‘Well…it’s like being on an ancient roller coaster creaking to the top of it, then the car breaks down, you’re stuck, agitated and disappointed, and you wish you’d gone on the big wheel instead.’

He smiled a world weary smile of a man that has heard far too many ‘women’s problems’ jokes, then took out a box and handed me a small tube.

‘I suspect your testosterone levels are low, so let’s put you on this for a while and see what happens  I’ll write you a prescription.’

Testosterone?  I look at the instructions and read aloud ‘Apply one tube daily’.

‘Ignore that; this isn’t normally prescribed to women so they are the instructions for a man.’

Huh?  What am I, a fucking guinea pig?

‘You just need to apply a pea sized blob every day and one tube should last you a week.’

I try to sound casual ‘So this is the, erm, only solution?’

Dr FG breaks out his best reassuring, urbane smile, and tilts his head ‘What is it that concerns you Ms Sertraline?’

Facial hair.

‘Erm, are there any side effects?’

A big, sticky out Adams apple.

‘There shouldn’t be as long as you use the prescribed dose, but any that materialise are totally reversible.’

A huge clitoris like those steroid fuelled female bodybuilders get.

‘OK, I’ll, well I’ll give it a go!’

He smiled and shook my hand, holding it a couple of seconds too long, leaving me in no doubt that Mrs FG undoubtably gets off as regular as clockwork.

So that is that, I have to apply this stuff every day and risk ending up looking like a pre-op trannie, and for what? Vanity?  Sex appeal?  Physical gratification?

Whilst I would never admit this to anyone in real life, I think it’s about hope.

Because right now I feel like a battered little rowing boat stranded out in the middle of the lake, trying to ignore God on the megaphone shouting ‘Come in No. 6, your time is up!’ because I’ve blown all my chances of a happy loving relationship he has given me so I need to come back to shore and hang up my oars so to speak.  Any sexual powers I ever had are rapidly diminishing, the market is narrowing and I still haven’t met someone with whom I can share my life.

I know I’m being a bit hypocritical here as the whole premise of my doing this is to rise like said Phoenix from the ashes of my old life and embrace and develop the new, but in reality the thought of losing my womanhood makes me feel like a wizened old air dried duck.

Questions fill my head at night; will I ever snog anyone again? Will anyone need me again?  Will I ever have sex again without the aid of lube?

That said, a friend wanted to fix me up with a friend of her lover (who demands and gets sex from her up to five times a day) and instead of jumping at it, or at least being open to it, I was horrified!  What if he’s like U (her man) and paws at me morning, noon and night like a whining toddler?

I know, I know, I’m very, very confused…..

I know being single isn’t necessarily a bad thing, but I know I’ll never be a mum now, and I’m OK with that but I don’t want to be on my death bed not having had another significant love in my life thinking ‘Was that it? What was it all for?’

I have so much love inside I just need someone to give it to in some way, shape or form.  But I guess I need to fix myself before releasing it upon an unsuspecting world.

In the meantime, I’ll keep you posted on my man juice medication and the hopefully imminent return of my mojo.

Look out world, ‘cos one day this is gonna blow…..


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SCARY MAN JUICE

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I’m sat on the edge of the bath, wrapped in a big blue towel staring in fear and loathing at a little tube of gel.

This can’t be right, surely?

I part the towel slowly and regard the suddenly goosepimpled landscape of potential application sites.

But where?

‘Not us!’ say my tits, ‘for we are the epitome of femininity.  It wouldn’t be right, in fact it would be downright obscene!’

Good point.

‘Don’t even think about it!’ shrieks my tummy, ‘your fucking ovaries are in here!  Are you mad?’

Not totally, but I’m well on my way thanks.

I open the tube, squeeze a bit of gel out and smear it between my fingers.  It stinks of some kind of chemical perfume, obviously added to mask the smell of man musk.

Urggh!

‘If you put it on us’ hiss my arms, ‘people will smell it!  They’ll think it’s your perfume!  They’ll think you want to smell like this!’

Shit, thats true.

‘Not us, not us’ plead my thighs, ‘put it on your calves!  No one will smell it down there!’

Yes, but it might be too far away from my core to work, plus it might get on my cats and they’re mental enough as it is without any additional testosterone.  There is no doubt about it, my thighs or rather one of my thighs is the only option.

I squeeze a pea sized blob onto my fingers, reach down to the spot above my right knee and pause.

Come on bitch! Do you want your va va voom back or not?

I’m hyperventilating now.

DO IT!

On the next out breath, I smear it all over my knee and lower quad, then hang up the towel, run into my bedroom and yank on some jeans.

That’s it.  It’s done.

I can still smell the cloying sweetness half an hour later, so decide to put on some body lotion.

I strip and look down at my right knee, half expecting to see a thatch of newly grown hair like a werewolf’s pelt.  Nothing.  But the smell is overpowering.

‘You may not have a hairy knee,’ whispered my right thigh, clearly piqued at being singled out ‘,but what you end up with is very hairy legs, like a geezer. And it won’t be fine hair, oh no; it will be thick and bristly like a badgers arse.’

Oh God.

‘That’s right,’ chipped in the left thigh, ‘I can feel it growing on me now.  Can you see it yet?  You’re going to look like a geezer from the waist down.  A big, rugby playing, alpha male, hairy arsed geezer.’

As quick as a flash I’m back in the tub, hosing down my legs, grimacing in horror as man juice dribbles down my calves. And not in a good way.

‘And nor is it likely to be ever again is it?’ said my nunny, clearly unimpressed by my blatant cowardice, ‘Well done you. Don’t expect to get any co-operation from me any time soon.’

But I don’t care. Bollocks to sex (pardon the pun), it’s a highly overrated activity as far as entertainment is concerned anyway.

That’s not true.

My memory isn’t anywhere near as bad as my ability to delude myself is good.

I’m just not quite man enough for man juice yet.

😦