Part of this post was written in 2005 (May? I can't remember, the post has lost its original timestamp because I've read it and corrected spelling errors in it since then, updating the timestamp) and part of this post was written November 13, 2006. I have since merged these posts into one giant Super Post. These thoughts remained unpublished because I felt too self-conscious to publish them before. And, well, nowadays, I've taken to saying, "Fuck it," to the things (or people) that (in the past) I would have previously allowed some small smidgen of power over me. Of course, I do not say "Fuck it" to these people to their faces. But I no longer internalize the things that are said to me or done to me, but I do try to let people know that their opinions do not matter to me anymore. The only person whose opinion matters to me is B's. For far too long I cared about what other people thought too much. I think I did this because it was easier to try to please others than it was to please myself. Because I didn't really know myself. It was too scary to look inward. I didn't want to know the truth about myself. But having since realized this--that I did really care about what people thought--has freed me to the point where I don't feel so self-conscious about the truth anymore.

For instance, I felt self-conscious about people reading about certain topics over and over again in my blog (people complained that it was getting monotonous, and for some reason, I cared what these people thought and tried to self-edit). But in the spirit of following the need for my own self-expression, and in the spirit of Quentin Tarantino: fuck it. It's cathartic for me to write and it's also cathartic for me to publish these thoughts to the void and spectacle of (semi-random/semi-non-random) readership. Ever since I read Sharon Marcus's Between Women, all that stuff on lifewriting has given me a new perspective on blogging.

Lately, I have tried to be honest in all aspects of my life. I'm vain. I didn't realize that until recently, but I am. And not in that Gaston from Beauty and the Beast sort of way, where one finds empowerment in their source of vanity. Contrary to what I was taught as a child, and contrary to what society attempts to paradoxically sell to me, vanity is not necessarily a bad thing (isn't it strange that capitalism relies on people being vain but then society chastises vanity as a vice? But that's a whole 'nother post altogether). I remember my dad used to find my websites and try to hurt me by saying that it was just a "vanity" site or ... actually I have forgotten what else he called it. But I remember at 17, 19 and 21, (he seemed to find me every two years), the words hurt me. That's because I bought what my parents were selling: vanity as a vice.

Whatever.

Vanity gives me reality checks on my appearance and my self-worth. It means that after seven years with B, I still try to look attractive for my husband, as opposed to gaining weight and not shaving my legs. It means what I write is not quite good enough, and keeps me trying harder. So this is my blog, and if I use it for vanity-lifewriting-catharsis, then so be it. I just need to confront that truth about myself.

Plus, I like to chronicle my thought-process for self-reflection in the future. And the blog is a nifty form for that. I must do a lot of self-reflection because I have this blog and I have notebooks filled with my scrawl. It's a shame that I wasn't really interested in self-reflection until recently. Anyway, so now with the realizations I have made about myself over the last couple of years for my one long, Super Post:

So yeah, another post on the child topic. I figure I'd give a warning to the people who want out now before having to slog through my thoughts on this yet again This was written eight months ago... I am a different person now.

It's probably dangerous to post this on my website, especially since I think my mom knows my website address, but I'm going to trust the people who know my mom not to tell my mom, mmkay?

I'm really pissed at my mom.

And I couldn't feel more guilty about this.

I realized that I harbor a very real resentment towards my mother shortly after viewing Neon Genesis Evangelion. It shames me to admit this (the resentment, not that anime spawned this realization). I love her so much, and yet I'm so angry with her. And I'm mad about things that I'll never be able to talk to her about, because whenever my mom comes under any kind of criticism--or what she interprets as criticism, even though it never occurred to me that it could be misconstrued in such a way--she hangs up on me, or freezes me out. There is no reasoning with her if it means she's wrong in any way. She won't even apologize. She has never once apologized for any of the awful things she has done. But she lords the fact that I moved out at 18 and "abandoned" her over me every opportunity she gets--even though I've apologized so many times, some of them crying with guilt, and she says in an eerily calm voice, "And you know you can never undo what you did. That's what makes it so horrible."

All I did was move out!

Anyway... while this is not the only reason why I'm upset with my mother, it does add to the list of things I don't appreciate. But this is slightly off-topic. Let me try to bring it back.

In 2004, for a very brief moment, I wanted to have children with B.

Two Three years ago, my little brother graduated high school. I saw my father for the first time in four years, but didn’t speak to him in person. He called my mom’s house later that day and we attempted to speak to each other. I wanted to start fresh, start from that day and try to have a relationship. But instead, he wanted to bludgeon me with words.

I took my last beating from him that day over the phone. But B was my rock. He pulled me through. Not even my own mother could console me the way he did. She seemed to expect that this is what would happen and seemed to blame me for being silly enough to try with that man.

I love B. Fiercely. But I fell in love with him all over again that day.

I told him something, though, that day. I confessed something in my deepest hour of vulnerability. I kissed him and looked him in the eyes and told him that I did want to have a family with him. I felt it so deep in my heart that my bones ached with my conviction. It felt right and true, unlike anything before. I was seeing the world through this new sight. I had known hate for the last time, and now I would know only love. And I could finally be free. Free to feel that love I held for B, but still kept guarded even after four years.

I told him in that moment of ethereal joy, as he held me in his arms. I looked him in the eye and told him. The situation was not handled well in retrospect. I mean, the moment, well, there was no moment. B looked away from me. And how could I blame him? I mean, I can't. This was the girl who was walking off the kids-pooping-in-the-Kids-Dept-at-Barnes-and-Noble. But in that brief moment, I shoved those feelings into a corner and bricked over them Cask of Amontillado style. I justified it to myself in a multitude of ways. At first I pretended that he hadn’t heard me. And then I pretended that I had never uttered such nonsense. How stupid of me to have believed in such freedom.

Approximately a year two years ago (2005--a year after the day I confessed that to B in 2004), I realized that when my parents were our age (at the time I wrote this, B was 25 and I was 23--my parents share the same age difference, except in reverse gender order), I was two years old, which seriously shocked me. And the shock was palpable. But I think the shock was so real because I had buried "those feelings" so far down that I quite literally forgot they ever existed. (I'm very good at self-delusion.)

The first time we ever had a serious conversation about children was 2005 (we had been together for 5 years, married for 3 at that point), he brought up that day in 2004. He asked me if I remembered saying what I had said.

I lied and said no. I didn't even flinch at lying.

He said it was just as well because he hadn’t believed me at the time anyway. “I knew you’d just change your mind five minutes later! That’s why I didn’t say anything.”

I think that was the moment that cemented it for me. I had created such a pigeon-hole for myself, that not even my husband could believe a change of mind and heart. And so began my strange crusade of self-preservation. I never wanted to be that vulnerable again. I would justify and out-logic anybody on this topic. I would never let my feelings supersede reason. Never would it occur to me that having a child would be okay. I sought out books and websites and articles to justify my attitude. Thus began my fervent argument for CFBC.

That moment in 2004 has haunted me--ever since I unburied it and truly began to analyze the situation. B had just seen me through a very traumatic experience with my father, and I guess I felt like I was loved more in that moment, and I loved him more in that moment than ever before, and somehow that love obliterated all fear in life. I had just graduated college. We had just moved across the country. We had been unemployed for four months, but I had just landed a job in the film industry (before I was disillusioned by said job). We were struggling, but insanely happy. I had never experienced such a lovely phase of existence before. Where dreams were coming true because we were taking risks, because we weren't giving up. Because we loved each other and supported each other through the good and bad.

But I felt really really stupid that I had ever let my guard down in the first place. I pretended that the moment never happened, that I never felt that way, that I never said those words. I buried those feelings. The next year, there was a brief pregnancy scare. I posted that my breasts were abnormally large, and other than getting sick a lot, being laid off at Aero Film was agreeing with me. Then Laura posted maybe I was pregnant, and B asked me when my last period was. I was 10 days late. It didn't occur to me that I could be pregnant. I thought I was just stressed out. We used condoms properly, for Christ's sake. B said I should take a test, and I remember crying and refusing to do it. I knew my body was just going through a rough patch and it'd work itself out. I pleaded with him to not make me do it.

He made me do it anyway. And it was negative. I felt validated. But a week later, I still didn't have my period, and I prayed to God that the test wasn't a liar, and that I'd get my period soon because I was actually starting to freak out a little. And how this wasn't a very funny joke, God. But I promised to laugh afterwards. I got my period the next day, and I felt relieved.

That was January. My militant march about being anti-children began around May when the full realization of the closeness of the call in January finally starting to hit me. B and I couldn't agree on where we stood. He was ambivalent. I was avid. Stalemate. Over the months of the stagnation, I would do research on both motherhood, being childfree and what it's like being on the fence. We went camping in August 2006, and the militantness of my stance disappeared. I could be ambivalent as well, and I had better things to occupy my mind with the semester starting in August.

So how is this, Neon Genesis and my mom related?

Well, as I watched Neon Genesis, I felt as though I was finally able to put my feelings and the experiences surrounding my father away--for the most part. I felt like the series helped me heal wounds that I didn't know how to deal with. As I severed those bonds, I felt lighter and freer than normal and I felt more optimistic about life again. I started to contemplate the new ambivalence I was feeling about children. Maybe it wouldn't be so bad? But still, "not so bad" is a far call from actually wanting them. Could I ever want children after .... well, everything?

I started to change my mind. I started thinking maybe I'd like to have a child with B. But then I realized that the child would be half me, and the me part isn't so great (I have a grandpa who actually murdered someone while in prison for grand theft auto). I don't think I could take any joy in it being half me. Plus, I think it'd be just one more area that my mom could use to lord over me as some sort of indicator that she's better at this one thing than I am. Like, how I could never be as good a mom as her because I will put my husband first, because I won't stay home, because I'll have a life outside of my children.

Even though I thoroughly support parents not putting their children absolutely first--I think the ideology of sacrifice we have around parenthood breeds the kind of self-centered children that populate the landscape today, which is not to suggest that children shouldn't be a parent's priority. They should. I'm just advocating that children shouldn't be a parent's only priority--I still think the ideology that my mom has raised me with (children are the be all and end all of existence; you'll never understand until you have your own; your child is your life; you won't love your husband as much as you'll love your children) will creep into my consciousness and give me a guilt complex. Especially because my mom literally sacrificed her life to raise us. Now, perhaps that's my own perception of the situation. I mean, she wanted to stay home and raise children and she got her wish. So is that really a sacrifice? (It only seemed to become a sacrifice after she divorced my dad and we were suddenly poverty-stricken.)

I've worked so hard to not be like my mom, that I realized that motherhood was never a possibility for me precisely for this reason.

And that's why I'm very angry with her.

But I'm also angry with myself. Because as much as I am trying to take the power people have over me away and use it for myself, I don't think I can do this with my mom. And I don't know if I'll ever be able to.

Labels: california, cfbc, childfree by choice, children, parenthood, parents, power, questions, the children question, tired, uncomfortable questions, vanity, whatever, women, work

( 1comments )

at July 6, 2007 9:38 AM  Jezebel said...

I don't even know where to begin, what words to start with that won't escalate into a comment rivaling your post in length, except to say those cliche words, "I know what you're saying, I know what you mean." Motherhood, my mother, using my childlessness almost like a weapon as I navigate a world that still finds me freakish for being married and choosing not to procreate, and then of course that tiny nagging internal voice that says 'Are you really THIS against motherhood?" And of course, that copper-tasting resentment against my mother, that despite what I can only describe as her best efforts to raise me, she still irrevocably damaged me. I see so many of us hurt by our parents, and I cannot convince myself that it doesn't have to be this way, that it is possible to raise children who love and respect you, not to hurt them, not to disappoint and damage them as I have been.

You can't hear it, but I have to applaud you. I still remain completely incapable of even thinking of any of this yet. The wounds of my father's abandonment. The guilt of knowing that my mother gave everything of her being, of her self over to being a mother, entwined it into her identity so thoroughly that nothing else of my mother exists, and knowing she receives so little from me in return.

It's a tangled mess of family life. I'm not ready to even write about it without being sort of paralyzed with a dull panic.

And as for the complainers on your blog who dislike redundancy, who bitch about the themes that run through it. Fuck them. These are our spaces. It is their choice to come in.