Nowadays, I think of perimenopause as menopause’s dastardly little sister: a mean girl that puts you down when you least expect it, when your career and family life are at their fullest. But when it hit me, in my late forties, I had no idea what perimenopause was – nor did I know about its mind-bending properties.
When the loving, nurturing hormone oestrogen leaves your brain as well as your body, and progesterone also ebbs and flows, you are prey to strange mood swings. Or, in my case, dramatic rage. I’d never been an angry person, but during perimenopause, coping with three teenage children, a full-time job as a film critic, and a mother living with Alzheimer’s disease, I threw the following items at the kitchen wall: a butternut squash,…
