Thoughts Unleashed

~Not My Circus, Not My Monkeys. Respectfully~

I really wish people understood just how unbothered I am these days. When I say, not my circus, not my monkeys, I mean that with my whole heart. If something doesn’t directly touch my life or the lives of the people I love, I don’t care. That might sound cold, but honestly, it’s the only way I keep my mind clear and my heart from breaking over things that aren’t mine to carry.

I’ve always had deep empathy, and I used to let other people’s problems eat at me for days. Then I’d find out it was all rumor and gossip, and I’d feel like a fool for giving it space in my head. These days, when I hear things, I usually keep them to myself. I did recently pass something along because I felt that person needed to know, but that was the exception. I just can’t do that anymore — it only feeds the garbage people say about each other, and I can’t stand that energy.

I know people talk about me too — I’ve heard it. But I don’t bother addressing it. Some folks are just so toxic they can’t help themselves, and I want no part of that. I’m old enough to know: if someone talks about others to you, they’re definitely talking about you to others. That’s why I know exactly who gets a seat at my table and who doesn’t. And I’m very careful about what I share — people think I’m an open book, but very few actually know the real me. That’s a gift more people should learn to give themselves. It’s protected me and my family for years.

The funny thing is, I’m a social person. People meet me and within minutes they’re spilling their life story, then wondering why they opened up so fast. I just have that kind of energy — I can read people like a book. But after that? I need to recharge. That’s why I disappear after work. I use up all my energy being “on” for others.

And the emotions? I feel them all. If someone’s angry, I tense right up and, if they get short with me, I’ll tell them exactly how I feel — no filter. If someone’s sad, I want to hug them. If someone’s happy, I feel their joy. It’s beautiful and exhausting at the same time.

At the end of the day, though, it all comes back to this: Not my circus, not my monkeys. If it doesn’t affect me or the people I love, do your thing — just leave me out of it. Respectfully.

Ode to Angela, Maine’s Winter Hermit

My name is Angela, and I loathe the snow,
Why I live in Maine? Even I don’t know.
The cold bites my face, the wind chills my spine,
This frosty hellscape is no friend of mine.

I’m social, I swear! But lately, it’s clear,
My best conversations are when I’m near a mirror.
Warm sherpa wraps me, fuzzy socks to my knees,
Who needs the outside? I’ve got warmth and cheese.

True crime podcasts whisper tales of gore,
As I paint bright beaches on my studio floor.
My cat, Luna, thinks I’ve gone mad in the head,
But she’s the lunatic—cats can’t talk, I said!

In this small coastal town, there’s no Uber, no delivery store,
I brave frozen tundras just to eat more.
The air hurts my face, my soul takes a hit,
But hey, at least my fridge is well-lit.

Depressed? Not a chance! I’m great company,
I’m funny, insightful—a true friend to me.
The snow can’t last, soon the sun will appear,
And I’ll crawl from my blanket, one with spring cheer.

Until then, I’m cozy, my laughter abounds,
As I craft my escape in soft brushstrokes and sounds.
A toast to my hermit life—warm, weird, and true,
Here’s to Angela in Maine, surviving winter’s coup!

"Call Me Menopause Mary"

Hi, everyone! Thanks for reading my ramblings. Let’s talk about something truly thrilling, mysterious, and downright infuriating—menopause! Or, as I like to call it, the crazy rollercoaster ride from hell.

I’m back at writing again—mostly because if I don’t laugh at my life, I might actually lose it. Transparency is my thing, so if my misadventures can help someone else, great. If not, well, this isn’t the place for you. Exit stage left if you can’t handle hearing about what us women go through.

Let’s start with the basics: Hot flashes. Holy mother of sweat! I keep to myself these days because, honestly, it’s just easier than explaining why I’m sitting in my bra and panties with a cold washcloth draped over my face like some kind of sweaty mummy. Call me Menopause Mary, the queen of overheating and spontaneous wardrobe changes.

And let me tell you, I’ve gone almost six months without a period, which means I’m still in the delightful perimenopause phase. (Don’t clap—this isn’t an achievement.) Apparently, you have to go 12 months without one before you’re officially in menopause. But Mother Nature loves to mess with me. I’ll go months without anything, and then BAM—spotting out of nowhere, like a guest star in a horror movie.

Picture this: I’m mid-flight on a four-hour trip, wearing cream-colored linen pants. Linen, people. Do you think I was prepared? Of course not! So there I am, shoving toilet paper into my underwear and tying a sweatshirt around my waist like I’m trying to bring grunge fashion back. Lesson learned: Always be prepared for the nightmare scenarios.

Now, let’s talk about cravings and weight gain. I’ve got nighttime cravings for all the salty, sugary junk I can’t enjoy anymore because the minute I eat it, my scale starts screaming. Good news, though! That perimenopause bloated belly starts to shrink when you’re transitioning into menopause. So... yay? A tiny silver lining in a sea of misery.

Oh, and the joint pain. What fresh hell is this? Suddenly, my knees creak, my elbow is outbof commission, my back hates me, and my sciatica has become my new best frenemy. I sleep with a heating pad, pop ibuprofen like they’re dinner mints, and rock compression sleeves on my arms and knees like I’m training for the Senior Olympics. Gold medal in hobbling, anyone?

Then there’s the brain fog. I walk into a room and immediately forget why I’m there. The milk ends up on the dry food shelf, the cereal in the fridge. I write things down, then lose the list. I forget words mid-sentence and hope the person I’m talking to can just read my mind. What was I saying again?

Oh! And the impulsive decisions. One day, I decided to chop all my hair off because I thought it’d help with the heat. Spoiler: It didn’t. Now I hate my haircut. But hey, it grows back... eventually.

And don’t get me started on alcohol intolerance. One minute, you’re sipping your favorite drink, feeling fine. The next, you’re drunker than your embarrassing aunt at a wedding. I’ve learned to laugh it off and blame it on crazy menopause brain.

Migraines? New. Horrifying. The first time I had an ocular migraine, I thought I was dying—colorful lights, spinning, full-on panic. I was like, “This is it. The Grim Reaper is coming, and he’s wearing disco lights.”

Let’s not forget the bonus symptoms! Anxiety, depression, itchy skin, acne, random chin hairs, deodorant that suddenly quits working. My face care routine now requires more moisture than the Amazon rainforest. My libido is confused, my nails are brittle, and apparently, my nose has decided that everything stinks. And eczema? Why not? Let’s add that to the party!

Honestly, I thought getting older would take longer. Nobody warned me about this madness. I knew about hot flashes and periods ending, but this? This is next-level insanity.

So here’s my advice: Do your research. Take your vitamins. Drink water. Eat protein. Wear comfy clothes. Avoid people—kidding! (But seriously, sometimes it helps.) And don’t be afraid to do what works for you—whether that’s medication, hobbies, or just yelling at the sky in frustration.

Thanks for joining me on this journey. Let’s do it again sometime—assuming I can remember where I put my notes.

~Angela