Raising Hell
A ghostly tale of birth and death…
what all mothers can learn from menopause
It’s October, the time of year where the change of seasons feels like a web of magic all around us. The veils are thin, so they say, an easy time for the otherworldly and unseen to reach into our everyday lives, be it gently, or with a spook. At this time of year we celebrate the harvest, the ample bounty of what has grown, leaving what is not needed to return to the earth in a never ending cycle. We honor our ancestors, the lives and spirits of those who carried our seed, one after the other, into this very moment. We dance with the dead, we seek out the spooks, we enjoy a good fright. We make room for the magical, the strange, the weird, and that which we do not understand -- that which scares us.
So it seems in perfect timing that as I conversed with a dear friend who shared a story of how she may have been possessed -- for she was certainly not “herself” and felt like she had been “body-snatched” -- I was reminded of my own entrance into perimenopause and it’s likeness to the supernatural stories we gobble up as the days grow darker.
The journey towards menopause is a time of transition: of gathering our harvest and letting go of what is no longer needed as we journey into the dark, the fallow times. Just as the daylight begins to fade in autumn, for many, we are taught that menopause signals the fading light of our life. That does not mean, however, that all the blessings and brightness of our lives dwindle as we steadily march towards death. As much as society has entangled a woman's worth with the acts of childbearing and rearing; and would certainly have you believe that the end of this stage should have us quietly turning to dust, content with our cats-- it just isn’t so. Instead, our energy and vitality moves from creating the eggs of possible little humans to become the light that we carry into the darkness, the underworld -- the world of dreams, of emotion, of what has been suppressed, or oppressed. We carry the light of our attention, the fire of our creative forces, to the seeds gestating and awaiting their turn for birth. For, during Perimenopause, the veils also grow thin. What has been living in our underworld finds its way to the surface.
And just like a corpse rising from the grave, it rattles us.
What is seen cannot be unseen, and a wise woman would not dare try to bury those bones once more, for that death rattle drums the return of dreams, of passion, of the parts of ourselves that we tamed or locked away to fit into the roles we felt forced to, or agreed to play. It is the spook of liberation, the wisdom to create our own way forward. The fire that sears away bullsh*t, the poltergeist that stops “playing nice” -- our neatly packed drawers flying open and everything we kept hidden from view spilling out.
I remember feeling like I was crawling out of my skin, that I no longer fit in my body. I was somehow more pinched and uncomfortable than I had ever been. Something was in there and it needed to get out -- I didn’t know what, but I could feel the forceful urgency of it. Very much like a chrysalis, something was shifting, expanding, ready to pop. I was a volcano, molten lava of emotion erupting. At times, I tried to push that molten lava back in, at other times, I tried my best to direct it away from my life, to keep it from making a mess of things.... but it did make a mess, a mess was needed.
Birthing is a messy thing, so is death. Two sides of the same coin. To bring something precious and dear into this world, or to let it go, is a messy process full of a wide range of untamed emotions. It’s not a simple ‘handkerchief to the corner of an eye’, or a ‘delicate sniff’ kind of act. Those processes are not polite, refrained, or contained -- and menopause is spreading your legs wide open to straddle those two beasts at once. It is a threshold. A point of no return. Something will die. Something will be born.
It seems fitting to talk of menopause along with ghosts and horrors; for the passion, fire and power that lives just under the surface of women has been vilified, and is terrifying to most, including ourselves. The menopausal woman is kin to the witch, the hag. Ugly. Messy. Not suited to the neatly prettified, sexy costume many would prefer us to wear.
I am reminded that, not that long ago, women showing signs of upset, grief or anger, were quickly silenced by their male doctors and husbands -- diagnosed with hysteria, to be treated with shock therapy or locked away. Before that, using our voice, or our wisdom, or our choice led to a smoldering death at the stake. And let us not forget the ever present threat of domestic violence and rape. To survive as a woman meant to be quiet, to endure, to hide away our whit and our ire. To bite our tongue, to police one another, and most importantly - to police ourselves.
Menopause dredges up what was never spoken, like the spectral watery wraith come haunting. The untimely, murderous death that won’t be forgotten. She will have her time, she will drag you under. It's really best not to fight her. Allow her to pull you to her subterranean realms…There are always treasures to be found in the deep.
I am sure you are familiar with how sounds shift when underwater; when we submerge ourselves, everything above the water is muffled, while everything within is amplified. Those amplified sounds are strange, but not uncomfortable. Perhaps you may find them soothing, reminiscent of our time in the wombs of our own mothers. It is in this otherworldly place, if we so choose, that we can shut out the demands of the outside, of the other, and tune in to what has been speaking to us from within, all along. Time in the underworld brings a new perspective, to see our life from a new view...to return to oneself. It can be the healing balm to days and years of overgiving, forgetting our value, forgetting our worth, forgetting our connection to the earth - for she too is a mother.
”Something is wrong; I am not myself, I am so mean now,” my friend says. She has lost her tolerance for being talked over, for being advised when no advice was requested. She is tired of letting others drink from her well while she waits, dry and thirsty, under a sign that reads: it is better to give than receive. “Better for whom?”, she wonders. She is noticing the harsh words stumble out of her mouth like pebbles and boulders, no longer kept behind teeth, to be swallowed down. She is quite accidentally creating boundaries, claiming her space, her ways, and if you do not respect her land, then you may be bludgeoned by stone -- but that’s on you, dear friend, the signs have been clearly posted and she has used up all of her ‘kind words.’
Of course, this seems like it would be the point in which some wonderful advice is given to make this process more easy, graceful and palatable. “The top three ways to stop tolerating transgression, claim back your life, and look good while doing it.” Well, I don’t have that advice. That would be missing the point, as I have said, this transition is messy. Instead of looking for the glamorous, sugary way out that might keep our hands clean, let’s instead normalize messmaking.
Mess is a part of life. It is wild, raw, unpredictable -- and doesn’t that sound a little bit intriguing and sexy? I would like to rebrand menopause as Sexy Sovereignty. It is a portal to our power; when all of our parts demand their voice, when all of our desires rise from the dead, and all of our wisdom comes from their integration into, not isolation from, our lives. It is an opportunity, if we haven’t already, to pierce the illusory veil that we are somehow powerless, less than, meant to endure rather than enjoy; or that our safety, continuation, and likability depends on our silence, sweetness and well kept home. Our work is not to keep the peace, but to raise Hell.
To raise Hell is to raise the ghouls and specters: the ugly messy truths which we would prefer not to look at, to ignore-- in ourselves, in our families, in our communities, and on the earth. It is to squarely and resolutely face what we do not wish to see, and more so, what our culture does not wish us to acknowledge. And what if the Hell that gets raised during menopause is proportionate to all that we have ignored or suppressed along the way?
Here is a thought, and perhaps the real purpose of this blog: what if the more we listen to our inner voice and speak our truths now, before ‘the change’, the less we will have to struggle with during the transition? If we stop pushing things down into our underworld, if we start questioning the systems that we have gone along with even when they drain, exhaust and undermine us, then there will be less to dredge up when menopause comes calling. Perhaps we would not lose our sh*t, because there would be less of it to lose - we composted along the way. Perhaps instead of rattling bones, menopause would meet us with a warm embrace and an impish smile, with a wink that says “well done” as she invites us into the realm of the wild and wise woman. This woman knows how to protect what is vital, health-giving and supportive to all, for life flows from her. She has torn down the dams.
During the onset of perimenopause, I lost my mother. As I said earlier, however, the veils are thin, and she came to me, dream after dream, with this message: “Don’t do what I did. Stop being small- that’s a lie. Don’t settle. You know what’s best, shine your light…” I took this to heart. My body resonated with it’s truth, my hormones heard its harmony.
Menopause is a scary story, in that a good scary story sends shivers down our spines. It startles and wakes us the f* up -- reminding us that we are still alive, we are safe, we are well… Now go out and start living! Live well and live deep, for death will come, it is always near, but now is not the time. Instead, choose what you will give birth to, what you will breathe life into. This is your life, live it for you, by you, and share it with those you cherish. Life is meant to be enjoyed. Notice what feels pinched, listen to your inner knowing... and if you don’t, if you are not sure how, that is fine too, because Skeleton Woman will come find you. What has been living in the underworld always finds its way to the surface. This truth is confirmed every autumn and every spring.
