Fuck the Fourth of July

On political and hormonal exhaustion, and forming a more perfect union with my antisocial tendencies and Love Island UK

I used to love celebrating Independence Day, or at least that’s how it appears in photo albums and 1976 school assignments. Just look how excited I was about the bicentennial fifty years ago, when I contributed to this delightful little book with my kindergarten class:

I especially associate July 4th with Woods Hole, the tiny Cape Cod town where my parents met back in 1964 while doing research at the Marine Biological Laboratory (MBL). A few years of bicoastal courting later, they married and built a vacation home about a mile from the village center. Our nuclear family (as my mom always called it) returned to that house nearly every summer for the first two decades of my life.

I’ll never forget making the drive down from Boston, stopping at Friendly’s restaurant for a burger and Fribble, and then unpacking all the boxed-up toys, dishes, and sheets that had been stashed in mothballs in the attic for the previous nine months.

Summer Lovin’

For me, Woods Hole was pure magic at every turn — three blissful months during which my parents always seemed happy and rarely fought, and endless memories were made: catching the ferry to Martha’s Vineyard, sitting under the drawbridge eating sandwiches, picking fresh berries bursting from the bushes behind our back deck, bringing home frogs in buckets from the pond down the road, taking a path through the woods to a small tennis court to hit balls against the backboards.

Most weekday mornings were spent at the Children’s School of Science, where I learned about marine life and took regular field trips to salt marshes and tidepools with my brother and friends from around the country, whom we reunited with each year, all of them scientists’ kids and summer people like us.

Tiny scientists of the seventies

Afterwards, we’d go to Stony or Nobska Beach, refusing to leave the ocean unless the ice cream truck pulled up, prompting us to rush over for a Creamsicle, lemon Italian ice or Chocolate Éclair (the latter two were my mom’s favorites — one to cool her down, the other to satisfy a craving).

Ice Cream Truck Appreciation Fest, Stony Beach, circa 1973

At night, after we had dinner — often lobsters we played with on the kitchen floor until my mom dropped them in the pot — we’d head back into town for movie night in the big auditorium, or folk singing or dances at the MBL Club. If the bioluminescence was active, we’d go back to the beach in the dark to watch the water light up, picking up glowing jellyfish when they washed ashore.

I still smile any time I think about all my old haunts. There was The Landfall, the fancy restaurant where my parents met, and where I always ordered the swordfish and grabbed handfuls of the pink and green mints from the crystal dish at the hostess stand; the corner drugstore, where we’d buy Charleston Chews, Bazooka bubblegum, and the latest Archie comic; and The Captain Kidd, a bar and restaurant where my friends and I were only allowed in the front area which housed the Ms. PacMan table that we’d feed with quarters, desperate to get the high score.

The highlight of every summer was the July 4th parade, led by a flute-playing, folk-singing local fixture named Phyllis. Kids and adults would get all dressed up in red, white, and blue, carrying patriotic signs or riding bikes or unicycles, winding from one side of town to the other. I insisted on wearing my long pink nightgown at least once or twice, certain I had captured the very essence of Betsy Ross as I used a needle and thread from my mom’s sewing kit, pretending to embroider a tiny American flag.

Me and my brother, apparently repping Hawaiian tourism?

Those were the good old days, when my energy levels abounded and everything in life felt full of wonder and possibility. But lately, celebrating this country — or much of anything, really — has felt almost impossible. This past Independence Day was particularly painful. Zero stars. Cannot recommend.

Bullet The Blue Sky

First, there were the fireworks, which started the night before, and had me publicly declaring how much I fucking hate them for like the 10th time in as many years. I get that a lot of people still love to watch the rockets’ red glare and bombs bursting in air. But especially at this point in the American experiment, when they start shaking the foundation of my house, polluting the air, and terrifying people, pets, and veterans with PTSD, all I can think about is a war-zone, or a mass shooting, or the government-sponsored assassinations of immigrants and the people trying to protect them. I equate each explosion with the obliteration of women’s rights, voters’ rights, equal rights, civil rights, freedom of speech, criminal accountability, credibility on the world stage, common decency and humanity — destroy, destroy, and keep fucking destroying.

It breaks my heart and blackens my soul.

Honestly, I’m at my wit’s end with this country. I’ve spent the past ten years marching in protests, calling my representatives, sending postcards to voters, donating to candidates and causes, and showing up at the polls to vote. I even got my British passport last year, and looked into the possibility of relocating.

I appreciate that there are still folks out there fighting for justice and holding out hope for a better tomorrow, but I’m not sure I have it in me anymore. I’m exhausted in a way I’ve never felt before, largely for political reasons but also because I’m still riding a hormonal roller coaster that’s brought my perimenopausal symptoms back with a vengeance.

Don’t Stand So Close To Me

I mean, I was so exhausted, disoriented, dizzy, and depressed last weekend that I bowed out of everything, including a Dodgers game on Friday that I’d been looking forward to, parties with friends, and even dinner plans with my son and his fiancée on Sunday.

Instead, I managed to eke out a few workouts, part of a daily routine I’ve decided is non-negotiable for managing my mood, and spent the rest of the time in an antisocial cocoon — crying, reading, or watching Love Island UK. On Monday, I woke up with more energy, so we had our postponed family dinner. But three hours later, I was ready to get back in bed. The past several days have been equally hit-or-miss: one minute, I feel like I’m focused and ready for whatever comes my way, and the next I’m too depleted to think, let alone form complete sentences.

The good news, kind of: I saw a new gynecologist the other week, and the labs she ordered confirmed the hormonal piece is real. According to the results, my estradiol levels are shockingly low for someone who’s still in perimenopause and on the highest-dose patch. The day the doctor messaged me, noting a clear correlation between the labs and my symptoms, I sobbed — partly because it shed some light on why I’ve been feeling so miserable, but also because the appointment itself had been awful.

I had specifically gone to this gyno because she’s certified by The Menopause Society. So, I was shocked when she questioned why I’d been on HRT/MHT while still in perimenopause — she said she might have recommended the pill instead, never mind my family history of breast cancer — and devoted the majority of the after-visit summary to more intense workouts and recipes for protein pancakes. I’m grateful she made the right call in ordering the labs, but she offered outdated ideas about hormone therapy and lacked the kind of compassion I expected from someone who works with women who are hormonal AF.

I’ve since confabbed with a wonderful menopause specialist, paying out-of-pocket for her guidance since she’s not in-network, and we’re working on a path forward — starting with relocating the estradiol patch from my ass to my abdomen and, if that doesn’t work, switching delivery systems. But I still can’t shake the sense that the other gyno believed my symptoms were all in my head, at least until my bloodwork suggested otherwise.

It’s a feeling I know all too well, coming from a family that viewed fatigue or falling apart as character flaws rather than medical events. Even though my mother, and her mother before her, quietly battled the same things I do now, the thinking in our home was that therapy was for other people, and drugs were a copout and a crutch (but self-medicating with alcohol was A-OK). The constant refrains were Count your blessings! and Look on the bright side! When that didn’t stick, it was Snap out of it or I’ll give you something to cry about, with a side of gossip about people using mental health diagnoses as excuses for their inadequacies.

All of this to say, even while holding lab results saying my exhaustion has a number attached to it, there’s still a voice in my head insisting that I’m being melodramatic, too sensitive, and really fucking lazy. Especially in a world where productivity culture piles on with messages to keep showing up no matter what, honor your commitments, and don’t let people down.

Hold On

The thing that helps the most is knowing I have the support of The Husband, along with a bunch of friends going through similar struggles, and — as I noted in my Cougar Puberty essay a few months ago — people on Substack who share their own stories and help me feel less alone. Like this one about The Sads from Mila at The In Between, and this one In Defense of the 5 out of 10 Life from Cara of The Forensic Optimist.

Truly. Every time I read a post, I feel like I’m being given permission to rest, to clear my calendar, and to declare, in no uncertain terms, that I’m in my hermit era and I will not be taking questions.

This doesn’t mean I’m rotting in bed 24/7, although you’d be forgiven for thinking that if you saw me last Saturday, watching a bunch of kids with British accents making questionable dating decisions while fireworks rattled my windows. It simply means I’m continuing to be even more selective about where I put my time and energy.

My hope is that, eventually, I’ll be able to show up with a renewed sense of passion and purpose — maybe even march in a parade, if and when there’s something worth celebrating.

Until then, I’m declaring my independence from performance and exhausting obligations: no flags, no fireworks, no forced festivities. Just me, my estradiol patch in its new location, and an increasing belief that I’m making the right choices when it comes to my life, liberty, and pursuit of happiness.