“You have a perfectly healthy cervix, uterus and ovaries,” she says to me. I can see the black and white swirls on the screen in front of me transmitting the picture from the small camera that is currently inside me. It doesn’t look like anything I recognise from anatomy books, but I trust her opinion.
I sit in the small consulting room barely big enough for the massage table in the middle on a small green vinyl stool which looks like it came from my parents’ kitchen. On the other side of the room sits a Chinese man peering at me.
“It’s menopause,” I say, “I haven’t slept for two weeks because the hot flushes keep waking me up at night.”
All these years you’ve been trying and trying to lose weight with the only tool that you have — a hammer. You try hitting the screw with the head of the hammer and using the other end to prise the wood from the wall, but you have made little progress. You are tired, frustrated and on the verge of tears.
I spent a long time pretending that I was perfectly OK. I was just one of those women who wanted to be lean, fit and healthy. Eating disorders — anorexia and bulimia especially — were things that happened to teenage girls with low self esteem. As a middle aged, educated, happily married, career woman, it was impossible for me to succumb to this disease.
The trees were knotted and scarred from years of neglect, the young plants were still too small and fragile and her own design was amateur and inferior compared to the professionally landscaped yards. The faults and flaws were obvious and ugly and she wondered how she could have ever overlooked them.
Jeremy and I used to be in love. He was handsome, funny and charming. But people grow apart and things change. We broke up as elegantly as we could. We weren’t good for each other so we went our separate ways. I knew that there were other women that Jeremy would be perfect for, just… Read More