This week: Menopause

DESPITE being open by nature, and frequently plundering my own life for copy, I have never written about my experiences of the menopause. The reasons for this are myriad and complicated. By the time I hit 51, I was finding it hard enough to keep afloat without chronicling the vagaries of my body and my mind. Then later, when the madness subsided, I had no appetite to return to that dark space.

More selfishly, perhaps, I didn’t want to be defined by it. I know what happens when you start opening up about “women’s problems” and particularly about mental health: you become a talking head, one of the go-to people on the subject.

Every time a news story breaks, you’ll be asked to add your tuppenceworth, and I had other, more interesting things to be getting on with.

I had nothing but admiration for Davina McCall and the other crusaders who led the charge in raising awareness of the benefits of HRT but, at that point, I wasn’t on it, and I didn’t want to be one of them.

In any case, I lacked their certainty. I never suffered from hot flushes or night sweats, so I wasn’t clear if what I was experiencing – intense anxiety, insomnia, depression – was caused by falling levels of oestrogen, or stress, a sense of panic over time running out and a predisposition to catastrophising.

I know other women have different experiences of the NHS but my GP was kind and proactive. She prescribed antidepressants (because that’s what I asked for) and, eventually, a short round of CBT, which I found too generalised to be of much use, but at least provided a safe space to talk. Much later, still prone to anxiety attacks, I started HRT.

I believe it helps, though equally I am prepared to accept it may just be that I got better. Either way, for me, it seemed worth the health risks, which I understand to be minimal. If that ever changes, I will come off it.