There are some conversations I didn’t expect to be having with my daughter. Not now (when she’s three). And actually not ever (before I became a mother and a feminist). ‘What’s that a picture of Mummy?’ My daughter said looking at my Google image search results. ‘Well darling that’s a picture inside a very poorly vagina. It’s a grown up … Read More
You think that sticking those scribbles with magnets onto your fridge shows your child how proud you are of their Picasso-like inclinations. It doesn’t.
They don’t care about it, because their pleasure was in the doing. As we cling or worse, frame our favourite documentation of our children’s achievements so we teach them that the outcome is more important than the journey. The result is more important than the effort expended, the pleasure experienced and the time sacrificed.
For a time I seriously considered having sex without desire. But in the end, I knew that I couldn’t, because forcing myself to do it, would lower my self-esteem even further…tying it irrevocably to my ability to satisfy someone else’s sexual needs whilst overriding my own. How much do you have to despise yourself to do that?
I’ve created routines, bought activity books, depended a little too much sometimes on Peppa Pig. I’ve forced myself to go out, to face the demon.
As the world evolves, so humanity remains essentially emotionally the same. One part angel, one part devil, all of us suffering from the influences of religion, society and our parents. All of it crystallized in sharp relief within the hellish prison of childhood. I always said I’d never forget…and yet now I have children, I find myself getting annoyed because … Read More
I’m a fan of being deliberate. Conscious. And yet whilst it is important to take a stand on the principle of infantilizing women, I really didn’t want to have to grow my pubic hair to actively take a stand.
I felt like dying. There was no hope of reprieve. This was what my life had become. Frantic worry about what I might or might not do to damage her. Not all the time. But any time I was alone with her.
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.
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.
Pethidine locked me away in my own pain prison far away from the delivery room. I rocked myself moaning quietly in the foetal position whilst blue shadows flitted across the room ignoring me, now I was ‘manageable’ and in an altered state of reality.