I’m going to do this in two parts. Part 2 (which hopefully won’t take forever for me to write – but it might, my father post is still being written) about my actual mother, and this post, part 1, about wanting to be a mum one day, and miscellaneous other stuff.
If ever people ask, or hint at it, or it somehow comes up in conversation, I’m very quick to assert that I won’t ever have kids, that I’m not interested, that it’s not for me, no thank you. To my therapist or to pocketcanadian, I might say that I don’t want to fuck up innocent children by being their mother. That I wouldn’t be any good. That I’d mess it up and damage them and carry on the cycle. Not in an abusive way or an intentional way, but in the way that my trauma would get in the way, and without wanting to or meaning to, despite actively trying not to, I’d mess it up, because I’m too damaged to be able to be a mother. That I don’t want to pass my shit on to another generation, like it was passed onto me.
And, if I was to admit to it, I want to be a mum.
I just wrote a paragraph about that, and I’ve deleted it, because who am I kidding? It doesn’t matter if that’s something I want. It won’t happen for a bunch of reasons, and nor should it. I would be a terrible mum lol.
Maybe I’ll come back to this one too, I think this is enough for tonight.
i went through a phase where i read a lot of jung, so this reminded me of his notion of the shadow (even though he kind of stole it from nietzsche, the bugger); that is, those dark, base unconscious desires within us. greed. lust. hatred. fury. envy. those parts that we either hide, or don’t even realize we have. those parts that are denied expression.
which always led me to wonder, where do those shadowy bits go?
my answer came, i think, via working with a therapist i saw for a while, who spoke about how our children reflect our shadows back to us. that when we struggle with an particular aspect of our offspring, we are likely coming face to face with those dark, repressed parts of ourselves. (this idea terrified me. both in thinking about what was passed to me, and what i am passing on to our daughter.) and indeed, many psychotherapists both before and since jung, like freud, for instance, examined the ways in which we deflect our shadow, deny its existence, and even project it onto others in order to avoid confronting it within ourselves.
heady, sleep-stealing stuff, that.
especially tonight, after a long weekend that felt endless and hard and sad. where i was exhausted and present, loving and impatient, absent and nurturing, all. was my shadow what made me want to throttle our daughter? was i projecting my shadow onto my wife, onto pocketbrit?
i hate the thought of the unconscious. it is terrifying and destabilizing. i don’t want to have a shadowy ocean inside. just reading that there are parts of me that i won’t ever know, that are buried in a deep darkness, makes me feel so sick and scared.
I feel like I need forever to actually be able to write this post and do it justice for all the power this word holds over me.
Being ‘weak’ is the most insufferable, sickening, shrinking, painful thing to me. The idea of it, the suggestion that I might be it, the thought that people may misjudge me and consider me weak where I am not.
The origins of the pain of this word, of course, are from my family. They lie in the fact that being upset, needing, being sensitive and emotional were considered to be ‘weak’, and that being weak led to abuse and trauma and pain.
My mother was not the cuddly, gentle, reassuring, patient mother that small children need. She was generally inpatient, had no time for tears or being upset, or hurt. She didn’t react to those things with gentleness, but instead with annoyance and sometimes anger, and frankly, a lack of mothering. I hadn’t actually made the connection between this word and my mother to this extent until I began writing, but it is extremely clear. I don’t think she meant any harm by being that way; it was not intentional, likely passed down from her own upbringing. However the effects of it were far-reaching and really quite devastating. How was I ever going to feel like I could turn to somebody and admit how I was being hurt, when doing exactly that had been ingrained into me as being weak? How could I cry and need and ask for attention when that only ever resulted in impatience and annoyance, and a “come on, you’re fine, stop making a fuss”.
And all of that just caused so much shame. I closed in on myself to keep myself safe. Don’t cry, don’t be little, don’t be needy, don’t hurt, don’t be hurt. The white hot shame of doing those things only to be ten-folded when met with cold irritation. I hate that bastard shame, I really really do.
Today this word sits differently amongst different parts of me. The older parts don’t like it, but they are generally disdainful, quietly hating or judging the younger parts when they do something ‘weak’. If the rage-y one rages then this often is a source of huge self-hatred that she uses as ammunition. They take the place of my mum, inputting all of her shame. The youngest part pays no mind to not being ‘weak’; shes needy and emotional, and full on, and doesn’t care except to not want to be told off for it. The one that this is the be all and end all for is one of the young ones. The word sits in her belly and weighs it down with shame. It is always in the background, always there. It’s why she is spikey and walled up and tries to scare people away. It why she can’t ever let anybody totally in, despite being desperate to be loved and cared for like the little one she is. Her world centers around this 4-lettered stupid little word. It causes more pain, keeps more relationships from deepening, and keeps us more alone than any other word in the dictionary. And worst of all is the self-hatred it invokes.
I think this is going to be a part 1 of 2 (or more). There’s more to say…its huge impact even today, how I thought I deserved it all for being weak. How I thought if I physically made myself strong I would hate myself less for being weak…. But this will do, for now. It’s a start.
whenever someone’s child has a birthday, i wish the kiddo a happy birthday…and then, wish their parents, a happy birth day.
never mind the nausea and heartburn and ten-month takeover of your mood and hunger by a growing parasite who seems to reside simultaneously on your bladder, in your crotch, and between your second and third ribs…or the physical pain pushing a miniature human out a narrow stretchy tunnel that happens to be an intimate part of your body, or the weeks of bleeding afterwards. i’m talking about the creation of a whole new person and being responsible for bringing them into the world. yeah, it happens every day, in all sorts of ways, all over the world. but it changes you.
it changes your body. your identity. your shape. your function. your meaning in life. your role. how your body works. who you are. who you’ve been.
birthing our daughter changed me in ways i never thought possible. most obviously, i became a mother (and what a tangled identity that is, more so now than ever). i grew her in my body, from a microscopic bundle of cells, to a fully formed tiny human. and then, i fed her from my body, on the outside, for several more months. i never felt more powerful than i did in those first few weeks; at least once a day, i would find myself looking at her in wonder, thinking, i made that. as her cheeks filled out and the dimples on her knuckles deepened, i marveled that i was sustaining her, growing her, nourishing her.
it was the one time in my life i appreciated my body for what it had done, and was doing. it was the one time in my life i felt i was in the right place…if not just for a few months.
this is a word that is both meaningful and hard for me.
meaningful, because i hold kindness in high esteem…value it greatly. aspire to it, try to embody it, cultivate it, and live it in my daily life. i fail often, of course. but i won’t ever stop trying, because i know its profound impact, and i believe in it, am a devout follower.
and yet, hard, because there was a bit of a shortage of kindness in my household, growing up. my parents were purposely unkind fairly often, but even when they were not, i would not describe them as especially kind. things at home felt very particular, all sharp edges and expectations and discipline. measured responses. a lot of impatience. it is difficult for me to recall spontaneous cuddles or affection or praise. when i think of kindness in my childhood, it is not their faces i see (but thankfully, i can think of other instances of kindness. kind eyes and kind faces and kind hands and kind acts, and i am grateful to have those.)
many times, even a stranger unexpectedly calling me ‘dear’ or ‘sweetheart’ invites a massive lump into my throat, floods my eyes, even before i can control it. it is so so embarrassing, how a correctly-timed kind word, or a loving glance, or someone speaking gently can entirely do me in. i used to say to my therapist that my idea of torture would be to have someone say a bunch of loving, positive, things about me to my face. like in a row, one after another. it makes me squirm even now, ugh, where would i look, what would i do with it all, when would it stop ugh ugh ugh. but tie me to a chair and criticize me, withhold praise, shrug at me or otherwise act indifferently for hours, and i’d snuggle in like i was home.
speaking of therapy…yesterday, i had an appointment and we were about to do some work that i had been avoiding. my therapist was asking me to check in with my little one inside about something, and i didn’t fucking want to, i just didn’t want to hear about it. i crossed my arms, pulled faces, fidgeted in my seat. she waited, and watched, patiently, and then, right in the middle of my huffing and puffing and eye-rolling, surprised me with a snort and a belly laugh. you’re so, so cute, she said. i could just see her in you right then, that sweet wee girl. i could’ve laid in her lap and cried just from that, for hours and hours and hours. my face is wet just remembering it. why is she like that with me?
and why weren’t they?
the most pride i feel as a mother is when people say our daughter is kind; we’ve heard it from her teachers, our friends, her friends’ parents, her grandparents. she is kind, so kind to nearly everyone.
and when i am reminded of that, when i see that and hear how mean she is to her little self, how intolerant, when she makes a simple innocent mistake and is sobbing and telling me that she is the worst kid, she is a rotten person, she doesn’t deserve to be here, it is the most desolate i ever feel as a mother. it is hard not to just quit, right then and there. did i do that to her? is it just in my blood, something i can’t help being and giving to her? is it a cultural affliction, or just a genetic one?
years ago, i remember hearing about amma, a woman colloquially called ‘the hugging saint’ from a province at the southern tip of india. i don’t remember where exactly i heard of her, or read of her, but i remember seeing a picture of her and being struck by her kind face. and also recall a video of her, quietly but meaningfully hugging people, hordes of them, one by one, for hours on end. searching out their eyes, and holding them close to her, smiling gently as people dissolved into tears in her arms. when asked why she did it, she responded simply that we all deserve love, no matter who we are. at last count, she has apparently comforted over 34 million people…that amazes me. how much love she gives, but also how much she gets back. she must be brimming, all of the time.
this is not really finished but it’s all i’ve got for tonight…sorry it’s just trailed off in the middle, i’m overcome by sadness and tiredness and the kindest thing feels like burying myself in my flannel sheets and succumbing to sleep.
this one would make me more sad if i weren’t so tired.
i think of nurturing as being something mothers do. and i had a mother who could be nurturing, but who also took it away with little notice. so it was not something to be trusted.
when i think of nurturing, i think of little, small, innocent people, who require patience and love and consistency and steadiness so they can develop and grow. i hope i was sometimes a mama like that when my daughter was smaller, and i want to keep being that for her in meaningful ways as she grows bigger. i want to be a nurturing, loving presence for pocketbrit (both big and little), and i want to be that for little me, who still has a chasm of hurt in her chest for what she didn’t get (and got instead) all those years ago.