In case I had any doubts, my body reinforced my decision to honor my own needs. I broke out in adult acne, a sign that something had “gotten under the skin” and was now about to erupt. When I turned to the Motherpeace tarot cards I had used to help me access my intuition, I kept drawing the Shaman of Swords card, whose message is about saying what you know to be true. The universe was speaking to me in many guises. I was now ready to hear.
MY MARRIAGE GOES BANKRUPT
Soon after the New Year, at the beginning of 1999, a series of overdraft notices that arrived from our bank seemed to me to symbolize the degree to which my husband and I had failed to create a viable partnership. Our household account had insufficient funds. So did our marriage. When I suggested that I needed my own space for a while and wanted us to consider separate bedrooms during this period, my husband left in a fit of rage. He did not return. Almost overnight I was handed the opportunity—and the responsibility—to assume complete financial dominion over both my business and my household.
Up until the moment my husband left, it had never occurred to me in all my years of marriage that I would ever end up divorced. My fantasy was always that my husband would change or that I would change or that something would change so that the two of us could become the team I thought we were capable of being. For years psychics and astrologers had been telling me we were meant to be together. This couldn’t be happening.
And yet despite what seemed to be in the stars, and despite our three years of couples therapy, I had reached the end of the road. I could no longer allow myself to be in what I perceived was an unbalanced relationship. I needed to come into my own. I was no longer willing to be controlled by another person, emotionally, financially, or physically. I had come too far.
Finally I was ready to do the last part of the self-healing that I’d spent half a century preparing for. Menopause had spurred me to make the ideals I’d been promoting in my work a reality. I knew I now had two choices: to mute my voice so that I could stay in my marriage, or to find the courage I needed to take steps toward divorce. But what a hard choice it was.
Perhaps one reason it was so hard was that the 1950s was the period in which my brain had been wired for relationships. If my marriage had broken up in that era, it would have been widely agreed that I had wrecked our relationship with my ambition. Why couldn’t I have just put my husband’s needs before my own? Why did I insist on being fully supported and fully met in my marriage relationship? Why did I insist on pushing my husband past where he felt comfortable going? I did it because I had no other choice. Something within me, some voice from my very soul, was urging me on, and I had to trust it.
Nonetheless, I was frightened of what it would be like to live without my longtime mate. And then one day I remembered something one of my daughters had said to me several months before: that things were so unpleasant in our house, she doubted she would come home for vacations once she had left for college. That gave me courage to move forward.
Healing Through Pain
Even though I could see, in retrospect, that I had started the process of letting go of my marriage several years before, I was still not prepared for the deep sense of loss I felt when it ended. Initially I felt as though one of my limbs were missing. For weeks I awoke before dawn, feeling an acute ache in my throat and in my heart as soon as the realization hit me, once again, that my husband was not next to me in bed.
Once out of the house, I found I could sometimes get along okay for days at a time. Then I’d go somewhere and have to fill out one of those forms that are ubiquitous in our lives, and I’d think about how the day was going to come when I would have to check the box that said “divorced.” I dreaded that day.
I remembered how hard it was for my mother after her marriage ended. But hers was a happy marriage, cut short when my father died suddenly on the tennis court at the age of sixty-eight. That had been a terrible blow for her. Still, in the early months of my separation, I remember thinking that my own pain was in some ways even worse, because it made me question the most central fact of my life for the past twenty-four years. Even though I knew that 50 percent of all marriages ended in divorce, I felt like an incredible failure. I was afraid I was becoming the kind of woman I’d always heard no one wants to invite anywhere lest she steal another woman’s husband: a woman alone at midlife, unclaimed, unwanted, and dangerous to the status quo.
Loss is a recurrent theme at midlife. Even women who don’t go through divorce at this time often face other losses—the death of parents or spouse, estrangement from a child, being let go from a job, changes in physical appearance, or the realization that the reproductive years are over. For a woman who has never borne a child and had always hoped that that was in her future, the end of her fertility can be a terrible loss. But no matter what the circumstances, nearly every woman has to give up some dream about what she thought her life would be like.
And when that realization hits, it is very painful. Gradually I allowed myself to feel all my grief and pain, secure in the knowledge that it would not destroy me. I knew that only then could I move forward with my life.
Healing Through Anger
I would be lying to you, and perpetuating a grave disservice to midlife women, if I allowed you to believe that my feelings at this time were solely about grief and loss. There was also another feeling brimming up from my depths, and this emotion saved me from the paralysis that I might otherwise have felt.
It was the emotion of anger that gave me the energy to proceed with the onerous task of dismantling twenty-four years of married life—and building another kind of life. I used the volcanic energy of my anger to guide me toward identifying my needs and then getting them met. Having experienced my husband’s departure as an abandonment of me and our daughters, I was determined to do whatever I had to in order to make our lives whole again.
At first I wasn’t sure I could do it. My anger was tempered by a liberal dose of fear. But every time I teetered on the brink of despair or terror, some piece of evidence would arrive in the mail that compelled me to see the truth: overdraft notices from the bank, credit card bills, and lawyers’ letters were showing up with great regularity. Like it or not, I was on my own, financially and in every other way. I was going to have to give up my sentimental fantasies that our marriage could still be saved. My focus would have to be on ensuring my own and my daughters’ well-being.
I also had another source of energy during this hard time. My brother had gone through a divorce himself some years before. He seemed to know instinctively when to call me and what to say to give me encouragement. His clear-sightedness proved to be invaluable to me.
Healing Through Acceptance
I began a daily prayer practice to give me the courage to continue the process of letting go of my marriage and my identity as a married woman. This involved taking a walk every morning and stopping halfway through to look out over the harbor. There I would think about all that I had to be grateful for in my life—which was a lot.
Then I would say a prayer of thanks out loud, sending the words down the river to its source. Each day as I stood there I watched the ice on the river receding, the tides changing. Spring would come soon, I knew, and with it the healing energy of rebirth and renewal. I was grateful for winter and the time it gave me to grieve, grateful for having spring to look forward to.
On the weekend just before our twenty-fourth wedding anniversary, about three months after our separation, I felt especially bereft, my feelings of loss temporarily obliterating all my intellectual and emotional reasons for proceeding with the divorce. A friend of mine had called that morning and told me how sad she felt about our split, since she could feel that there was still so much love between my husband and me. She told me she would spend part of the weekend burning prayer sticks for us in the ashram where she worships.
Monday, the day of our anniversary, I felt filled with longing. I spent the whole day wanting to call my husband. Then, as I was sitting d
own to dinner with the girls, the doorbell rang. It was the florist, delivering a dozen white roses accompanied by a card that read, “Thanks for almost twenty-four years together. And our two daughters.” I wept and said to the girls, “Never doubt that your father and I have always loved each other.”
ARMADILLO MEDICINE:
THE POWER OF VULNERABILITY
During the weeks just after my separation, a newspaper reporter interviewed me for a story she was doing about my work. “I have only one more question,” she said at the end. “Has Chris Northrup ever really suffered?”
I was shocked. At that very moment I was feeling the loss of the most significant relationship of my life, and feeling it in every cell of my body. How could she assume my life was easy? But I said nothing. It was too soon to discuss my situation publicly. The wounds were too new, too raw.
Earlier that same month Mona Lisa had said to me, “You’re not vulnerable enough, so no one feels drawn to take care of you. I, on the other hand, have had so many health problems that everyone feels drawn to take care of me. I attract ‘mothers’ wherever I go.”
This made me furious. It hadn’t felt safe to allow myself to be vulnerable with my husband, or before that with my mother. Somewhere along the line I had lost the ability. Besides, it hadn’t been an ability I admired. I’d watched far too many women milk the victim role, playing on the sympathy of others to get their needs met. I had never wanted to be such a woman. But I knew that our culture identified so deeply with victims that it doubted the humanity of those who didn’t assume that role. That was really what the newspaper reporter had been saying to me with her question.
For two nights in a row after my conversation with Mona Lisa, I sought guidance in a set of animal “medicine cards” that worked something like a tarot pack. Each time I drew I picked the card known as Armadillo (in the reversed position), whose message is this:
You may think the only way to win in your present situation is to hide or to pretend that you are armor-coated and invincible, but this is not the way to grow. It is better to open up and find the value and strength of your vulnerability. You will experience something wonderful if you do. Vulnerability is the key to enjoying the gifts of physical life. In allowing yourself to feel, a myriad of expressions are made available. For instance, a true compliment is an admiration flow of energy. If you are afraid of being hurt and are hiding from anything, you will never feel the joy of admiration from others.1
This message was right on target for me. And once again I was reminded of how well I had learned from my stoic mother to hide my vulnerability. It was now time to change this pattern, as part of letting go of my past.
At midlife, some women seek new satisfactions in the world beyond that of home and family life. They may need to don some armor. But other women need to let the armor down a bit. That was the case for me. And it’s also true for many men, who traditionally spend the years leading up to midlife focused on achieving success in the workplace. The point is that at midlife, more than at any other time, the aspects of your personality that kept you alive and functional for the first half of your life may actually put you at risk in the second half. All of us must find the courage to make the changes that will enable us to live our lives in an empowered fashion.
CELEBRATING THE PAST WHILE
CREATING A NEW FUTURE
Our household became much more relaxed once my husband left. The tension was gone. I adopted a couple of kittens from our local animal shelter and found that they brought me and my daughters a great deal of comfort and enjoyment. We had never had pets before, because a dog had always seemed like too much trouble, and my husband was allergic to cats.
Surprisingly, I also found that I was sleeping better than I had in years, waking up easily every morning without the alarm clock. This had never happened before. Looking back now, I can finally appreciate how much energy I had been using in the effort to keep my marriage going.
As the weeks went by, I began the slow process of feeling what it was like to have myself to myself. And on some very deep level I began to feel, ever so gradually, that I was recharging my inner batteries from a source deep within me. As with all grieving and letting go, there were ups and downs to this process. One week, for example, I found myself crying while watching the Thursday night TV shows I used to watch with my husband and daughters as a weekly ritual. But then one week later I was able to spend the evening alone, away from the TV, reveling in the beautiful light on the river outside my home. I was alone, but I was not lonely. I knew I was going to make it. I was happy.
The kind of marriage I had worked well for me for many years, and I am very grateful for having been able to experience all the joys and pleasures of family life with my husband and our two children. Those joys were very real, as I was reminded the day my husband came to claim his share of the paintings that were hanging on our walls. After he removed them, I was left with that awful feeling of loss that newly bare walls give you at such times. To get me past this latest milestone in grief, two friends and I spent an afternoon creating an entire wall of family photos in the dining room—providing concrete and comforting evidence of the good times in my past. A year later I replaced the photos of my husband with those of my daughters and me. Later still, when I remodeled that room, I changed the space yet again. I have learned that letting go is a process, not an event.
I have also learned that part of the process is acknowledging the past value of the relationship you are leaving behind, and doing this not just silently, to yourself, but, when appropriate, to the person who was part of that relationship.
I did this myself five months after our separation, when my husband and I were nearing a settlement. As we were leaving one of our mediation sessions, I asked him to meet with me privately, and then I poured out everything that was in my heart. I apologized for trying to change him. I said how glad I was that neither of us had used an affair to get out of the marriage. I thanked him for the safe haven of the family we had created together, and for the wonderful children who would not have existed without our love for each other. I told him I was grateful for the support and structure he provided for me when I was out blazing new trails in women’s health. I also told him that I loved him.
My feelings were so poignant during that outpouring of gratitude that I could easily see why estranged couples might want to keep their anger and resentment alive. That way they wouldn’t have to feel all the pain of what they are losing. But I could also see how damaging this could be to their children, themselves, and everyone else involved, and I was glad I had found the courage to express what was in my heart.
I let go of so much that year, including my feelings of failure. Margaret Mead, the renowned anthropologist, once pointed out that in the past, most marriages continued “till death do us part” because after twenty-five years of marriage, one or both members of the couple had died! In other words, at the same age that most of us are going through the changes of menopause, our ancestors were falling ill and dying—or were already dead. “Till death do us part” was much easier to accomplish when lives were shorter. Mead’s observation helped me feel less of a failure for being unable to preserve my marriage.
My health remained good throughout the difficult and painful year of my divorce. I allowed my tears to flow freely, my anger to erupt and dissipate. I also called on spiritual guidance unceasingly, and this, together with my new emotional openness, helped me negotiate a period characterized by significant hormonal change with minimal symptoms. I also used a variety of natural approaches to hormonal balance, as I will discuss in chapter 6. As I write this now, ten years later, I look back with amusement and compassion on the woman I was then—so frightened about the future and so worried that I had wrecked my children’s lives. I see now how my divorce actually saved my life and also ushered in a whole new world for me to enjoy with my daughters.
From the age of fifty onward, I, like so many other women of the baby boom generation, have bee
n re-creating the second half of my life on my own terms. As we do this individually and collectively, we must keep in mind that physical and emotional health is our natural state, even during this time of transition. And although the life ahead of many is uncharted territory, fraught with all the uncertainty that accompanies change, I have now been on the other side. I can guarantee you that this second stage of your existence is set up to be the most liberating and fulfilling time if you heed your inner wisdom and follow its dictates.
Have no regrets, whatever you decide. Take advantage of the clarity of vision that is the gift of menopause, and use that gift to let the second half of your life be truly your own.
2
The Brain Catches Fire
at Menopause
A woman once told me that when her mother was approaching the age of menopause, her father sat the whole family down and said, “Kids, your mother may be going through some changes now, and I want you to be prepared. Your uncle Ralph told me that when your aunt Carol went through the change, she threw a leg of lamb right out the window!” Although this story fits beautifully into the stereotype of the “crazy” menopausal woman, it should not be overlooked that throwing the leg of lamb out the window was undoubtedly Aunt Carol’s outward expression of the process going on within her soul: the reclaiming of self. Perhaps it was her way of saying how tired she was of waiting on her family, of signaling to them that she was past the cook/chauffeur/dishwasher stage of life. For many women, if not most, part of this reclamation process includes getting in touch with anger that arises because of unmet and unacknowledged needs. Anger often triggers blowing up at loved ones for the first time, but the events that evoke anger are never new. What is new is our willingness and newfound energy to let that anger be acknowledged and expressed, both to ourselves and to others. This can be the first step toward much-needed change in our lives … change that is often long overdue. With time, we must also learn how to skillfully articulate our needs as the first step to getting them met. This can happen only when we stop feeling guilty or ashamed for having needs in the first place!
The Wisdom of Menopause Page 5