In May 2024, at 55, I sought medical care for hot flashes, depression, brain fog, insomnia, severe back and hip pain, and uncontrollable crying. The pain was so intense I couldn’t sit, stand upright, or lie on my back. Despite flagging menopause as a concern, my doctor prescribed medications for each symptom separately.
Over nine months, I had nearly 100 appointments—pain management, psychiatry, physical therapy, orthopedics, neurology—while cycling through antipsychotics, antidepressants, opioids, and sedatives. I was drugged, impaired, still in agony, and desperate enough to reach out to a suicide hotline twice from the debilitating cognitive impact of drugs which still did not make it possible to comfortably sit, stand, or lie down, only reclined or in child’s pose. Surgery seemed the only option.
A highly recommended fourth surgeon warned spinal fusion would fail and refused to do it. At the same time, a friend suggested progesterone for sleep, which I shared with my psych medication manager. Stunned that not one doctor had checked my hormones or ordered a bone density test, she ordered progesterone and estrogen for me. When my estrogen was increased, I improved vastly and immediately, stopped oxycodone, was able to now sleep(in a recliner) sit upright, and stand for short periods. And my hysterical crying relented.
I have now come to understand that estrogen regulates pain, while in deficit, no amount of medication could have relieved me. I endured months of unnecessary suffering, misdiagnoses, and overmedication—while the real solution was ignored. Instead of being cared for, I was prospected for surgery and made to feel as if I were being difficult by feeling so much pain and despair. It is true I have severe spinal degeneration and major depressive disorder, and the recommended surgery would not only have failed but actually compromised me. Pain and suffering were worsened, prolonged, and traumatic. I am beyond lucky and grateful to be on my way back to functionality.
This failure in women’s healthcare is not just my story—it’s a systemic issue that calling for change.
This was a terrifying experience—to feel there was no hope, no cure, no relief, no procedure, and no doctor who communicated any sentiment resembling, We’ll figure this out. We’ll get you the help you need. We’ll take care of you.
This ordeal heightened my reliance on a man I recognized as toxic for me. Ok, well I did not recognize it, but my friends did. Ao, in the absence of family support, he was the one showing up—for appointments, and panic attacks. I was starved for even the illusion of love, and I settled begged for some serious, undeniable bullshit.
Thank God for microdosing psilocybin. It allowed me see clearly and to do the impossible. My experience with this calls for it’s own post. It was a miracle for me.
This man loved me more—and better—than anyone before, including my family and the man I married—particularly during the love-bombing phase. I see now how my attachment wounds made me a good match for someone like him. And when the medical crisis hit, the pedestal on which I placed him grew bigger, even as his regard for me grew smaller. I revered him as a god, a hero, just for showing up—for a broken, worthless piece of shit like me. How lucky was I to have that? Amazing Grace. I suppose.
