The Constant Soundtrack of My Decline

You know what’s fun about perimenopause?

Nothing.

But you know what’s extra? Perimenopause with tinnitus.

For the uninitiated, tinnitus is that high-pitched ringing in your ears - except “ringing” makes it sound whimsical, like a fairy just texted you. No. This is the sound of a fluorescent light about to explode, the whine of a mosquito you can’t swat, the relentless beep of a smoke alarm battery you can’t reach. And it never. shuts. up.

Apparently, my inner ear decided it was tired of being helpful and now just plays ambient noise at full volume 24/7. It’s like my brain hired a mosquito to DJ my midlife crisis.

Sometimes it’s a hiss, sometimes it’s a buzz, mostly it’s a constant high-pitched squeal that echoes through time and space.

Here’s the kicker, not only do I have tinnitus, I’m also losing my hearing. Which means I can’t hear my kids unless they’re screaming, but I can hear the phantom hum of an imaginary fridge running in my skull.

I can’t hear low-pitched colleagues who ask me a question from two desks over, but I can absolutely hear my own private high-pitched scream. And somehow, my ex-husband’s sadistic, sinnister laugh? Loud and clear. (Nature is cruel.)

The thing about perimenopause is that every symptom likes to gaslight you.

Hot flashes? Maybe it’s stress.

Brain fog? Maybe you’re just tired.

Ringing in your ears? Maybe it’s old age… or maybe cicadas have invaded your townhouse?

I’ve spent entire conversations nodding along to comments I definitely didn’t hear and wishing I had learned to lip read in Spanish. Using “Sorry, I didn’t hear you” as both an excuse and a boundary. And pretending to ignore the immutable ringing like whitenoise, while futilely trying to meditate.

I guess the upside is that tinnitus is a constant reminder that I’m still alive… because if I were dead, I assume the ringing would stop. Maybe. Hard to say. But at least I have something to focus on when insomnia hits at 3 a.m.

So here I am: hot flashing, half-deaf, and listening to the never-ending hum of my own slow decline. Perimenopause didn’t just take my waistline, my patience, and my ability to sleep, it also gave me my own personal soundtrack. And just like my 20s, it’s loud, annoying, and I can’t turn it off.