My collective decisions about my son’s and my daughter’s environments shoehorns them into an identity. My sons clothes are brown. Dark blue. Green. Black. Mini combat trousers. Mini puffer jackets. Mini sweatshirts. My boy is only allowed to be a soldier, a rapper, or a sportsman.
In my old life I was constantly distracted. My preoccupation with consumption, money to live and struggle to achieve in my career despite the recession. The battle to live in our beautiful city and sustain our way of life blocked my ability to be open.
I’ve studied porn statistics for years since part of my job as a financial analyst is to forecast content demand for many high profile telecom firms. Yes, we talk about it in the board room with a straight face.
I don’t know whether the roaring was in my head or from his throat, but it felt like I had gone mad.
As she climbed naked down the ladder, she said ‘Watch for the light from the microorganisms ‘ And as she threw herself into the water her lit up ghostly self followed her as microscopic bioluminescent creatures emitted flashes of light as a fear response to the movement of the water. It was amazing. Nudity and magic.
Today when I arrive at nursery, my daughter is playing outside with the other children. I see her hiding behind a screen and popping out like a jack in the box to the repeated amazement and delighted applause of her teacher. ‘Ta-dah’! She does it 5 times before she spots me. And when she finally does see me, she leaps out and runs across the yard … Read More
The genitals are the hottest place on a woman’s body. It’s from here that our power emanates. It’s the organ that gives birth to our babies. It’s the organ that gives us the greatest physical – and maybe spiritual – pleasure you can know here on earth through sex. When you reflect on it (which I don’t normally), vaginas are amazing.
As she paused for breath I felt my unborn baby move in my belly and my eyes, filled with tears. The image of calves so young that they still had their umbilical cords and the horror of calves being taken away from their mothers was too painful to think about.
But here it is from the horse’s mouth. Being an alcoholic is frequently exhilarating. Sometimes dangerous. And always an adventure. Sure, it is also a nightmare. You are spurned and adored in equal measure. People know that you can be counted on to create party, drama and a spectacle (albeit sometimes at the expense of yourself), whilst also providing the fodder for endless gossip. It can kill relationships and in the worst cases, damage innocent bystanders. Thus in no way do I advocate it. But my journey through alcoholism allowed me to uncover who I really was. And that has ironically saved my life.
Personally I like to measure my success in this life by how content I am with my circumstances, how happy my children are and how much opportunity I create for me and those around me (and not only in professional terms). I am no saint, but I have realised that it is impossible for me to be happy at the expense of others. And it is impossible for me to be happy by working 12 hours a day in the corporate sphere. But I am not everyone, and cannot make that call for others (unlike Ms Sandberg who seems to speak on behalf on all women).
I don’t of course expect anyone to take care of me. I don’t expect to be taken care of, period. Surely that’s not a mother’s lot. But by not taking care of myself and my own needs, by not living my own life, my therapist says I am not taking responsibility for my own happiness. Because I have been taught to believe that my happiness should be found in my children.
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