Wicked Witch

I was watching a documentary about Mark Twain while I texted with my friend, half-listening to the story behind the legend and honestly, I’m not a fan. I’ve never been a fan and though I love to read, I considered pulling my own tooth just to get out of reading another page of that sweet, down-home, syrupy writing.

So you can imagine my ‘what the fuck’ moment when I burst into hysterics, sobbing at the story of his life, this man that I wasn’t even a fan of. Within the hour I was then laughing, feeling like a giddy cheerleader who just spotted the new quarterback and I was sitting on the toilet when I looked up at myself in the mirror and curses upon the person who thought that shitting in front of a mirror would be a good bathroom design, and I thought, “whoa, I look like a stereotypical witch,” my face smeared with the day’s makeup, swollen from the tears an hour before, but eyes twinkling and laughing as I yell to my roommate from behind the bathroom door.

Holy shit, epiphany time….how the fuck many ‘witches’ throughout history has been accused of being a witch, demon, harpy, succubus, seducer and the list is far too long…because of menopause?

My physical senses weaken while my visions are clearer, readings more precise, workings more expedited and with the discomfort of my aging body, my mystical one is riding high on life.

How many women have felt that frenzy, that chaos of menopause and how many around her have considered her to be possessed, insane, mad, and how many ‘witches’ have been in the ecstatic throes of the cessation of the menstrual cycle, the end of birth control for the purpose of birth control….

insert Public Service Announcement about continuing to use condoms throughout your sexual life because STD’s aren’t ageist and neither is the pleasure of banging the night away.

and how many have considered the beginning of menopause to be the end of their ability to bear children, as if that would be the extent of the power of the human female…to breed…to bear life….oh no….

Why should the focus be about the end…when it is the beginning….the small door of procreation closes and the large, unfettered door of wisdom, of aged women thought to be past our prime, of power that was once distributed to creating the world around us through others, and all at once, when the blood stops flowing and the eggs stop laying….a rush of power floods everything within us, and we can feel everything, with a filter of fluidity, moving easily from moment to moment, not dwelling too long on one, experiencing them but not grasping at them, trying to hold on so tight.

So sure, sobbing one moment, laughing the next, maybe in another time and another world, it would have bothered me, but I just don’t feel like holding on that tightly.

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