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).
When Joanna Eberhart, protagonist of the 1975 chilling feminist statement “The Stepford Wives”, glides down the supermarket aisle transformed into a robotic parody of her once vibrant self, the feminist in me riles in helpless fury. But my guess is that the film touches a deep nerve in any woman sensitive to male oppression (and let’s face it, that’s most …
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.