Well it seems that it has been nearly a year since I last blogged, since before we moved to Yapeen. I have often thought about writing but have experienced a sort of writer's block, something I have never had to deal with before. It's been like a sort of tongue-tiedness, where I have things to say but no words with which to express them. In truth, I've also been without energy - six months pregnant when we arrived, then caring for a new-born baby - and it's been easy to drop blogging down the list of priorities.
But now that baby Tabitha is five months old, it is time to write again. I know this because I have just had a visit from my dear friends Jessie and Pedro and their two children, and Jessie unwittingly gave me a kick up the backside abou writing. She told me of the people who she had told to look my blog up, and how one of them had bought the book I wrote of, Attack of the 50-foot hormones. The knowledge that I had let the blog, which at least one person had thought well of at some point, didn't sit well; in fact I felt a hot wave of shame wash over me as I realised how little I had done to further the cause of Telling The Truth About Pregnancy, and now, Telling the Truth About Parenthood, or more generally, Telling the Truth About Settling Down. I have been busy, distracted, and immersed in a new life; but I've also let that process detract from my ongoing identities of writer, proselytiser and thinker.
So I am back, hoping to post at least once a week. There is much to catch up on, and I will give some thought as to how I will go about bringing this site up to date. I hope someone is reading but if not, I think I know now that I need to write, no matter what else is happening.
Monday, July 5, 2010
Tuesday, September 1, 2009
It has a dreadful cover, but this was the book I needed three months ago
Emma Tom, Attack of the Fifty-Foot Hormones: Your One-Stop Survival Guide to Staying Sane During Your Pregnancy, Harper Collins, 2009.
As a Proselytiser About Truth in Pregnancy, I have been frustrated by the lack of written information available around about the emotional aspects of pregnancy. Uncertainty, terror, anxiety, agitation, despair... all of these reactions are mentioned only in passing, if at all. At times, this silence has appeared to confirm that I am the only woman in the entire world to have not been thrilled at being pregnant, which in turn has led me to feeling isolated and something of a freak.
In fact there is a lack of literature on pregnancy that is in any way irreverent or light, as if preganancy were simulatenously unquestionably wonderful, but also very significant and serious. There is one notable exception, Kaz Cooke's Up the Duff, which has for a decade reassured women that having to buy supersize undies is to be expected, that relatives and in-laws can be both well-meaning and excruciatingly annoying, and that being pregnant is quite uncomfortable, thankyou very much. Cooke's book is divided into weekly sections and features both hard information, and a fictionalised pregnancy diary written by Hermione, a character who clearly has much in common with Cooke herself. It was with Hermione's experiences that I most readily identified, though I also appreciated Cooke's sarcastic or sly asides on some of the advice commonly given to women at various stages of pregnancy.
A new book, however, has taken over Cooke's mantle as the most relevant and hilarious book available on pregnancy. Attack of the Fifty-Foot Hormones, by Emma Tom, though furnished with absolutely dreadful cover, provides an invaluable addition to the pregnancy book market. It focuses far more upon the emotional aspects of the experience than on the physical - and what a relief that is. As Tom writes,
'Thousands of words are devoted to varicose veins and dicky knees and why your ginormous boobs are turning up at bus stops five minutes before the rest of you. But how you feel about about those things is glossed over as if it doesn't count. As if the panic, fear and depression are somehow less difficult and debilitating than the nausea, fatigue and ouchy nipples.'
Hallelujah! The woman gets it! Of course there is a place for explaining physical changes, but there surely is a place for discussing emotional changes too, and it is this that has been overlooked. 'For me,' writes Tom, 'the emotional aspects of pregnancy were far more taxing than the physical ones because so few of my preggers books took them seriously or provided useful advice.' Hence this book, which sprang from her experience of being pregnant with and giving birth to her daughter Alice.
Like Cooke, Tom includes a weekly pregnancy diary, but with a difference. This time the character is not fictionalised, but presented as Tom herself. Of course, I am sure there is still embellishment and retrospective editing at work here: the diaries are too funny, too eloquent, and too attentive to detail to represent a pregnancy in real time. (Or am I excusing my own lack of regular diary-keeping here? Hmmm.) However, just knowing that a real person would claim these experiences as their own gives this diary a power that Cooke's Hermione never possessed. Hermione, I sensed, was a composite picture, a carefully constructed woman who experienced just enough of the ridiculousness of pregnancy to be comical, but not enough trauma to scare other women off. Emma Tom, meanwhile, just lays it all out for us to read: the physical changes, the change to her plans represented by the pregnancy, and most of all, her emotional rollercoaster ride through nine months. It is remarkable that she manages to make this a hilarious account as well.
In doing so, she has provided a heroine for those of us who struggle with the emotional side-effects of what she calls fifty-foot hormones. Not only that, but in the other sections of the book devoted to providing information, she unpicks the emotional issues plaguing both herself and, potentially, her readers. Consider these subheadings, scattered through the book: 'So you're psychiatrically mobid', 'Glowing schmowing' and 'I hate being pregnant, does this mean I'll be a bad mother?'. That last one in particular made me want to weep: so terrified was I of the answer to this question (definitely 'yes', I thought) that I didn't even have the courage to ask it in the first place. And yet here Tom is, laying it bare and reassuring me that the answer is, 'In a word: no'. Thank the Goddess. I mean, really.
Tom also includes testimony from other women about their pregnancy stories, gathered over what she claims were 'hundreds of interviews', testimony that focuses on emotional reactions. This to me is a slightly less successful device than either the diary or the practical information. Many of these 'interviews' seem more likely to be written accounts by professional women, women with access to computers and an eloquence that undoubtedly gives the book a seamlessness, but does little to portray the confusion that so often accompanies what is emotionally taboo. It is not that I didn't identify with these women, it is more that their accounts were, like Hermione's, constructed well after the fact with a few to being logical, readable and simple. Which is fine - it's just that emotions are not like that at all! They are messy and contradictory and at times debilitating. Perhaps it is simply a function of these women reflecting back on their experiences from a distance; perhaps women in the throes of antenatal depression (or just confused by pregnancy) would be better able to explain how hard it really can be when you are in it.
In any case, I am so excited by the publication of this book just a couple of months ago. My best friend sent it to me after hearing Tom interviewed, and I am so grateful she did. If you or anyone you know is experiencing pregnancy confusion or antenatal depression, this the book to track down. Emma Tom will make you feel normal, sane and in good company while exploring your reactions to being up the duff.
As a Proselytiser About Truth in Pregnancy, I have been frustrated by the lack of written information available around about the emotional aspects of pregnancy. Uncertainty, terror, anxiety, agitation, despair... all of these reactions are mentioned only in passing, if at all. At times, this silence has appeared to confirm that I am the only woman in the entire world to have not been thrilled at being pregnant, which in turn has led me to feeling isolated and something of a freak.
In fact there is a lack of literature on pregnancy that is in any way irreverent or light, as if preganancy were simulatenously unquestionably wonderful, but also very significant and serious. There is one notable exception, Kaz Cooke's Up the Duff, which has for a decade reassured women that having to buy supersize undies is to be expected, that relatives and in-laws can be both well-meaning and excruciatingly annoying, and that being pregnant is quite uncomfortable, thankyou very much. Cooke's book is divided into weekly sections and features both hard information, and a fictionalised pregnancy diary written by Hermione, a character who clearly has much in common with Cooke herself. It was with Hermione's experiences that I most readily identified, though I also appreciated Cooke's sarcastic or sly asides on some of the advice commonly given to women at various stages of pregnancy.
A new book, however, has taken over Cooke's mantle as the most relevant and hilarious book available on pregnancy. Attack of the Fifty-Foot Hormones, by Emma Tom, though furnished with absolutely dreadful cover, provides an invaluable addition to the pregnancy book market. It focuses far more upon the emotional aspects of the experience than on the physical - and what a relief that is. As Tom writes,
'Thousands of words are devoted to varicose veins and dicky knees and why your ginormous boobs are turning up at bus stops five minutes before the rest of you. But how you feel about about those things is glossed over as if it doesn't count. As if the panic, fear and depression are somehow less difficult and debilitating than the nausea, fatigue and ouchy nipples.'
Hallelujah! The woman gets it! Of course there is a place for explaining physical changes, but there surely is a place for discussing emotional changes too, and it is this that has been overlooked. 'For me,' writes Tom, 'the emotional aspects of pregnancy were far more taxing than the physical ones because so few of my preggers books took them seriously or provided useful advice.' Hence this book, which sprang from her experience of being pregnant with and giving birth to her daughter Alice.
Like Cooke, Tom includes a weekly pregnancy diary, but with a difference. This time the character is not fictionalised, but presented as Tom herself. Of course, I am sure there is still embellishment and retrospective editing at work here: the diaries are too funny, too eloquent, and too attentive to detail to represent a pregnancy in real time. (Or am I excusing my own lack of regular diary-keeping here? Hmmm.) However, just knowing that a real person would claim these experiences as their own gives this diary a power that Cooke's Hermione never possessed. Hermione, I sensed, was a composite picture, a carefully constructed woman who experienced just enough of the ridiculousness of pregnancy to be comical, but not enough trauma to scare other women off. Emma Tom, meanwhile, just lays it all out for us to read: the physical changes, the change to her plans represented by the pregnancy, and most of all, her emotional rollercoaster ride through nine months. It is remarkable that she manages to make this a hilarious account as well.
In doing so, she has provided a heroine for those of us who struggle with the emotional side-effects of what she calls fifty-foot hormones. Not only that, but in the other sections of the book devoted to providing information, she unpicks the emotional issues plaguing both herself and, potentially, her readers. Consider these subheadings, scattered through the book: 'So you're psychiatrically mobid', 'Glowing schmowing' and 'I hate being pregnant, does this mean I'll be a bad mother?'. That last one in particular made me want to weep: so terrified was I of the answer to this question (definitely 'yes', I thought) that I didn't even have the courage to ask it in the first place. And yet here Tom is, laying it bare and reassuring me that the answer is, 'In a word: no'. Thank the Goddess. I mean, really.
Tom also includes testimony from other women about their pregnancy stories, gathered over what she claims were 'hundreds of interviews', testimony that focuses on emotional reactions. This to me is a slightly less successful device than either the diary or the practical information. Many of these 'interviews' seem more likely to be written accounts by professional women, women with access to computers and an eloquence that undoubtedly gives the book a seamlessness, but does little to portray the confusion that so often accompanies what is emotionally taboo. It is not that I didn't identify with these women, it is more that their accounts were, like Hermione's, constructed well after the fact with a few to being logical, readable and simple. Which is fine - it's just that emotions are not like that at all! They are messy and contradictory and at times debilitating. Perhaps it is simply a function of these women reflecting back on their experiences from a distance; perhaps women in the throes of antenatal depression (or just confused by pregnancy) would be better able to explain how hard it really can be when you are in it.
In any case, I am so excited by the publication of this book just a couple of months ago. My best friend sent it to me after hearing Tom interviewed, and I am so grateful she did. If you or anyone you know is experiencing pregnancy confusion or antenatal depression, this the book to track down. Emma Tom will make you feel normal, sane and in good company while exploring your reactions to being up the duff.
Thursday, August 20, 2009
Intersex matters
Last night a South African athlete, Caster Semenya, won the women's 800m at the World Athletics Championships. She won by a whopping 2.4 seconds, and is only 18 years old.
Both of those factors alone would be worthy of comment for sports fans - she was almost unheard of, yet clearly the best runner in that distance competing in the women's events by some distance. Now, however, there is even more chatter surrounding Semenya amid widespread reports that she is to undergo a complex 'gender identity test', to prove that she is in fact a woman and eligible to run in women's events.
Semenya is certainly strong and muscular, with a build that is different to many of her rivals' lean physiques. At first sight it is easy to see why she is considered to be unfeminine; she does not sport long hair and has not been 'blessed' with a narrow waist or noticeable bust. Comment has centred on whether she is 'male' or 'female', as if she could only ever be one or t'other. Her coach and South African officials have insisted that they are 'completely sure that she is female', suggesting that doubters should enlist Semenya's roommates for corroborating evidence. 'They have already seen her naked in the showers', said one official, 'and she has nothing to hide.' Meanwhile, media outlets have taken great delight in asking the question, 'Is she a MAN?' (or, its variant, 'Is SHE a HE?'). The only indication that it may be more complex than that comes from those who admit that determining gender can be a fraught business; it has been reported that Caster Semenya will have to undergo a series of tests involving a gynaecologist, internal medicine, a geneticist, an endocrinologist and a psychologist. If we are all absolutely male or female, how come it will take all of that to decide which Semenya should be classified as?
The fact is that there is a group of people who are neither male nor female, but who are accorded no recognition by our society at all. These people are intersex. I do not mean to suggest that Semenya herself is necessarily intersex - I am no gender scientist, and I am less interested in her gender identity as such than I am in the absence of the word 'intersex' from what has been a pretty loud and sensationalised debate so far. In fact, this omission nothing new. Intersexuality has long been misunderstood, overlooked and ignored, so much so that I feel obliged to give a definition of it here. The Intersex Society of North America defines intersexuality as 'a general term used for a variety of conditions in which a person is born with a reproductive or sexual anatomy that doesn’t seem to fit the typical definitions of female or male.' In practice this means that intersex persons display physical attributes that are considered 'male' as well as physical attributes that are 'female'. It is estimated that 1 in 100 live births can fall into the category, with 1 in 1000 undergoing 'corrective' surgery to restore 'normal' gender identity. Thus, although intersexuality is rare, it is not that rare. It's not so rare as to be completely ignored by wider society, I'd have thought.
Of course, there are many reasons why Caster Semenya and her team's officials would be reluctant to even suggest such a possibility in her case. She would be disqualified from racing against women, given that women's events have to be contested by people who are determined to be female. This would end both her reign as world champion and her career. But again, I sense more than this is at stake. For many newspaper reporters and their readers, there seems to be a reluctance to even countenance the possibility of anything other than male and female. After, all our society is built on the importance of the heterosexual pair, the organisation of men and women into individual partnerships. We simply don't have a place for intersexual politics, an identity that falls outside of the male/female binary.
As well as leading to injustice and discrimination meted out to intersex people - ranging from social ostracism to invasive surgery - there are other, possibly even larger implications resulting from our reliance on a binary understanding of gender. If we as a society really do think that everyone is male or female, we are closing down the possibility of 'playing' with gender, the possibility of seeing more variety than we currently admit to. This is the sort of rigid thinking that leads to women and men being considered inherently different to each other, and being assigned complementary roles, e.g. women as nurturers and men as providers. I don't mean to argue that all men and all women fall into those roles in an uncomplicated way, but as long as we rely on this way of viewing gender, we will have trouble giving each other the flexibility we might well benefit from. For example, I would like very much for Simon and I to both be considered nurturers and providers; and yet it is only I that is questioned as to my career plans after the baby is born.
I wish Caster Semenya all the best in what is about to happen to her - invasive tests, international scrutiny and perhaps being stigmatised for the rest of her career. I also wish we could perhaps move to a more empathic level of comment and debate when such people come to our attention. We could all benefit from widening our horizons on gender, I reckon.
Both of those factors alone would be worthy of comment for sports fans - she was almost unheard of, yet clearly the best runner in that distance competing in the women's events by some distance. Now, however, there is even more chatter surrounding Semenya amid widespread reports that she is to undergo a complex 'gender identity test', to prove that she is in fact a woman and eligible to run in women's events.
Semenya is certainly strong and muscular, with a build that is different to many of her rivals' lean physiques. At first sight it is easy to see why she is considered to be unfeminine; she does not sport long hair and has not been 'blessed' with a narrow waist or noticeable bust. Comment has centred on whether she is 'male' or 'female', as if she could only ever be one or t'other. Her coach and South African officials have insisted that they are 'completely sure that she is female', suggesting that doubters should enlist Semenya's roommates for corroborating evidence. 'They have already seen her naked in the showers', said one official, 'and she has nothing to hide.' Meanwhile, media outlets have taken great delight in asking the question, 'Is she a MAN?' (or, its variant, 'Is SHE a HE?'). The only indication that it may be more complex than that comes from those who admit that determining gender can be a fraught business; it has been reported that Caster Semenya will have to undergo a series of tests involving a gynaecologist, internal medicine, a geneticist, an endocrinologist and a psychologist. If we are all absolutely male or female, how come it will take all of that to decide which Semenya should be classified as?
The fact is that there is a group of people who are neither male nor female, but who are accorded no recognition by our society at all. These people are intersex. I do not mean to suggest that Semenya herself is necessarily intersex - I am no gender scientist, and I am less interested in her gender identity as such than I am in the absence of the word 'intersex' from what has been a pretty loud and sensationalised debate so far. In fact, this omission nothing new. Intersexuality has long been misunderstood, overlooked and ignored, so much so that I feel obliged to give a definition of it here. The Intersex Society of North America defines intersexuality as 'a general term used for a variety of conditions in which a person is born with a reproductive or sexual anatomy that doesn’t seem to fit the typical definitions of female or male.' In practice this means that intersex persons display physical attributes that are considered 'male' as well as physical attributes that are 'female'. It is estimated that 1 in 100 live births can fall into the category, with 1 in 1000 undergoing 'corrective' surgery to restore 'normal' gender identity. Thus, although intersexuality is rare, it is not that rare. It's not so rare as to be completely ignored by wider society, I'd have thought.
Of course, there are many reasons why Caster Semenya and her team's officials would be reluctant to even suggest such a possibility in her case. She would be disqualified from racing against women, given that women's events have to be contested by people who are determined to be female. This would end both her reign as world champion and her career. But again, I sense more than this is at stake. For many newspaper reporters and their readers, there seems to be a reluctance to even countenance the possibility of anything other than male and female. After, all our society is built on the importance of the heterosexual pair, the organisation of men and women into individual partnerships. We simply don't have a place for intersexual politics, an identity that falls outside of the male/female binary.
As well as leading to injustice and discrimination meted out to intersex people - ranging from social ostracism to invasive surgery - there are other, possibly even larger implications resulting from our reliance on a binary understanding of gender. If we as a society really do think that everyone is male or female, we are closing down the possibility of 'playing' with gender, the possibility of seeing more variety than we currently admit to. This is the sort of rigid thinking that leads to women and men being considered inherently different to each other, and being assigned complementary roles, e.g. women as nurturers and men as providers. I don't mean to argue that all men and all women fall into those roles in an uncomplicated way, but as long as we rely on this way of viewing gender, we will have trouble giving each other the flexibility we might well benefit from. For example, I would like very much for Simon and I to both be considered nurturers and providers; and yet it is only I that is questioned as to my career plans after the baby is born.
I wish Caster Semenya all the best in what is about to happen to her - invasive tests, international scrutiny and perhaps being stigmatised for the rest of her career. I also wish we could perhaps move to a more empathic level of comment and debate when such people come to our attention. We could all benefit from widening our horizons on gender, I reckon.
Wednesday, August 19, 2009
Preggers photos
Well, thar she blows! I'm getting to be quite proud of my bump, especially as for so long I just looked like a fatty. Note the blinding Alice Springs sunshine, a feature of many photographs taken here. Also note the beard (not pictured).
Monday, August 17, 2009
The lighter side of pregnancy, I: I have a beard
I did promise to return and give light-hearted pregnancy updates as and when they occurred to me - as opposed to agonising updates covering mental health and existentialism - and I have one today.
I'm sure some of you are sick of hearing about my pregnancy symptoms. Heck, I'm sick of hearing about them. But get this.
Last night I had finished brushing my teeth and was examining myself critically under the flourescent tube that looms over the bathroom mirror, when I noticed something. Turning to Simon, who was gravely brushing his own teeth while reading a book (a fascinating habit, which sometimes sees him brush his teeth for more than half an hour), I said,
'Could I get you to look at this?'
'Loo' a' wha'?' he managed.
'This. My jawline. I seem to be growing a pregnancy beard. Don't you think?'
He started laughing then quickly spat his toothpaste, I presume to prevent choking.
'Have I always had this? Tell me the truth!'
He laughed and laughed. And then said, 'No you haven't always had that. But I must say, it's a fine set of whiskers.' And then sauntered out, giggling. (It wasn't that funny.)
So I followed him. Many people assume that having a GP in the house at all times must be a great advantage, and indeed it can be when one wants to, I don't know, take one's own blood pressure with a fancy blood pressure machine. (I do this most days.) It can also be handy when there is an urgent need for a prescription, such as when a dog we were looking after was savaged and needed antibiotics, and Simon just wrote a child-size prescription so we wouldn't have to pay vet fees. For many other situations, however, having a GP in the house is just infuriating.
'Will it go away?' I asked my GP-partner-man-boy, who looks after numerous pregnant women every day with what I assume is a professional attitude. He just laughed.
'Simon, will my beard go away?'. More cackling.
'SIMON, AM I A BEARDED LADY FOR LIFE?' He sobered up.
'Well,' he began. 'It really depends on how your homones settle after the birth. The whiskers might go away, they might not. Some women have grown really impressive beards after being pregnant.'
I was horrified. 'Have any of the mothers that come into your clinic had a beard?'
'Oh, sure. The other day I saw one lady who had dyed hers rainbow colours.'
I saw the glint in his eye. 'You're lying, right?'
He couldn't help it. 'Yeah.'
'So my beard is temporary?'
'Definitely.' We both started laughing at that point.
'And I think it looks good on you anyway. You're a hot bearded pregnant lady.'
(OK, he didn't say the last part, but he would have if he'd thought of it, I'm sure.)
So I am temporarily a bearded lady. The hairs are fine and blonde (another anomaly - I am as brunette as they come) and long and numerous. Just another experience to add to the list of weird bodily experiences, I guess. And now everyone reading this will examine me closely and not necessarily covertly when we next meet - hopefully by then I won't have resorted to combing or braiding or dyeing my whiskers, but you never know. He might have been lying about lying, after all.
I'm sure some of you are sick of hearing about my pregnancy symptoms. Heck, I'm sick of hearing about them. But get this.
Last night I had finished brushing my teeth and was examining myself critically under the flourescent tube that looms over the bathroom mirror, when I noticed something. Turning to Simon, who was gravely brushing his own teeth while reading a book (a fascinating habit, which sometimes sees him brush his teeth for more than half an hour), I said,
'Could I get you to look at this?'
'Loo' a' wha'?' he managed.
'This. My jawline. I seem to be growing a pregnancy beard. Don't you think?'
He started laughing then quickly spat his toothpaste, I presume to prevent choking.
'Have I always had this? Tell me the truth!'
He laughed and laughed. And then said, 'No you haven't always had that. But I must say, it's a fine set of whiskers.' And then sauntered out, giggling. (It wasn't that funny.)
So I followed him. Many people assume that having a GP in the house at all times must be a great advantage, and indeed it can be when one wants to, I don't know, take one's own blood pressure with a fancy blood pressure machine. (I do this most days.) It can also be handy when there is an urgent need for a prescription, such as when a dog we were looking after was savaged and needed antibiotics, and Simon just wrote a child-size prescription so we wouldn't have to pay vet fees. For many other situations, however, having a GP in the house is just infuriating.
'Will it go away?' I asked my GP-partner-man-boy, who looks after numerous pregnant women every day with what I assume is a professional attitude. He just laughed.
'Simon, will my beard go away?'. More cackling.
'SIMON, AM I A BEARDED LADY FOR LIFE?' He sobered up.
'Well,' he began. 'It really depends on how your homones settle after the birth. The whiskers might go away, they might not. Some women have grown really impressive beards after being pregnant.'
I was horrified. 'Have any of the mothers that come into your clinic had a beard?'
'Oh, sure. The other day I saw one lady who had dyed hers rainbow colours.'
I saw the glint in his eye. 'You're lying, right?'
He couldn't help it. 'Yeah.'
'So my beard is temporary?'
'Definitely.' We both started laughing at that point.
'And I think it looks good on you anyway. You're a hot bearded pregnant lady.'
(OK, he didn't say the last part, but he would have if he'd thought of it, I'm sure.)
So I am temporarily a bearded lady. The hairs are fine and blonde (another anomaly - I am as brunette as they come) and long and numerous. Just another experience to add to the list of weird bodily experiences, I guess. And now everyone reading this will examine me closely and not necessarily covertly when we next meet - hopefully by then I won't have resorted to combing or braiding or dyeing my whiskers, but you never know. He might have been lying about lying, after all.
Thursday, August 13, 2009
Some good news for the capitalist within
Finally, at the age of 31, I have bitten the bullet and gone down the capitalist road of home ownership. And in style. Simon and I went to Victoria last week to look for a house, and we found a giant one with lots of land, beautiful kitchen, incomplete studio and wood fire. And horse boxes. And dams. Eh? Dams...? Anyway, this morning our offer was accepted on the property, and we have entered into the process of pre-purchase inspections, final home loan arrangements, contracts and looking for movers.
(This sort of development makes a mockery of antenatal depression. Feeling blue? Borrow heaps of money and buy a giant house! It will make you feel giddy and excited and powerful!)
If you'd like to see photos, here is the address:
http://www.domain.com.au/Public/PropertyDetails.aspx?adid=2007527844
And you are all invited to come and join us for visits whenever you want. We will have a baby to squeeze as well, you know....
(This sort of development makes a mockery of antenatal depression. Feeling blue? Borrow heaps of money and buy a giant house! It will make you feel giddy and excited and powerful!)
If you'd like to see photos, here is the address:
http://www.domain.com.au/Public/PropertyDetails.aspx?adid=2007527844
And you are all invited to come and join us for visits whenever you want. We will have a baby to squeeze as well, you know....
Wednesday, August 12, 2009
Antenatal Depression, part II, or, How can one person be so lucky and yet feel so doomed?
It's taken a while to work up the courage to write this post. I've thought about it often: what I would write, what the narrative arc would be, how I would explain myself. But waiting for inspiration hasn't worked; I still don't know how to do this. I've just decided to take the plunge, see what comes out, and hope that it makes sense.
My previous post laid out in somewhat impersonal terms the fruits of my research into antenatal (or prenatal) depression. It should be fairly obvious that the interest I have in the topic is not impersonal at all, but rather touches on some of the darker moments of my pregnancy. I am now in my seventeenth week, which is just over three months of real time given that two weeks is added to the date of conception when calculating how 'far along' a pregnancy is. It's been a really hard few months, I must say, and not how I expected it to be at all.
I've written before, repeatedly, about the physical challenges associated with early pregnancy. For me, these have been accompanied by a noticeable if uneven descent into emotional volatility that was unexpected and difficult to deal with. After all, this was a planned pregnancy; we were successful at our first attempt at pregnancy; and we are financially secure. What's not to be excited about? My love of lists dictates I must set this out in a list form for clarity, so here goes:
1) Dependence/independence. The physical symptoms of pregnancy have been so debilitating as to make me dependent on Simon for almost everything- at one stage he had to shower me and wash my hair because I couldn't do it myself. He has consistently done the food shopping, the cooking and the dishes since my earliest symptoms and has been pretty good at laundry and house-cleaning as well. While on the one hand I rejoice in having bagged such a good man, on the other I have found myself feeling quite helpless and weak, unable (or unwilling?) to complete the basic household tasks that have been part of my life for over a decade. This has not been good for my confidence or self-esteem. (How do single women who are pregnant do it? I salute them and what surely must be their untidy houses, stacks of empty takeaway containers and frustrations at having run out of milk/shampoo/washing powder, again.)
2) Control. The control that I have lost during this process has been shocking. If this is what it means to put another being first - by which I mean that the baby has been taking my energy first, leaving me with whatever is left over, forcing me to acknowledge that I am not important after all - then I am not sure I want to be a parent! So many of my former pleasures have been foresaken for this pregnancy. I do not enjoy eating, even the junk food that occasionally is the only thing the baby will accept as fuel. I do not enjoy sleeping, as the baby will wake me whenever it needs me to eat more. I do not enjoy choosing an outfit in the morning, as I have packed away my civilian clothes for a time when I am less rotund. I do not enjoy sex, as my libido has almost entirely disappeared. And so on. My life is just not my own any more, and working out what to do for fun is difficult indeed.
3) Finally, and I reckon this may actually be the crux of it, I am absolutely terrified of being a parent. My appalled reaction to the issues of discomfort and dependence has lent itself to a suspicion that actually, I am too selfish to be a parent. My own mother faced similar soul-searching questions when I and then my brother were born, and was not always successful in negotiating the balance between her needs and ours. I grew up with the notion that children are a lot of hard and at times unrewarding work, and that they are a drain on one's professional and social opportunities. Not suprisingly, this resulted in my a) feeling somewhat in the way, and b) feeling that I wouldn't be having any children of my own, thankyou very much. Meeting Simon dissolved my conviction about the latter, and it has only been pregnancy that has reminded me of the former, in vivid terms. I do not want my children to feel like they are a burden or a drain on me; and yet, that is how I have experienced this pregnancy, as something to be endured until it is all over.
As a result of all of these things, self-doubt has taken over my mind and functioned to dilute my excitement about the prospect of having a child, to the point of its being almost non-existent. Sometimes I can hear my inner voice saying, 'I don't want this child'; at this point, weeping is common and apocalyptic predictions are rife. ('What if I am not cut out for this and have to leave the baby with Simon and run away, like that woman does in The Riders?') Which is terrible - what has this child done wrong? Come to that, what has Simon done wrong? (Answer: absolutely nothing.) The baby may be oblivious (though I suspect my depression must impact on it in some way) but Simon is not; he is living it all with me, the lack of enthusiasm, the fear, the pessimism. He is as shocked and possibly more bruised than I am. This is not how it was meant to be.
And of course, the vicious circle that is depression makes escape difficult, much more so than one can understand, I sometimes think, from the outside. I often fall into the trap of presuming that the power of positive thinking must help me. So when I am unable to do this, unable to convince myself through repetition or just blind determination, that I will be happy and it will all be fine, then I blame myself again, for being weak, or disorganised, or ill-disciplined. Which in turn brings on further self-hatred and despair, in the face of a looming deadline (only 23 weeks to go!) when I really do have to pull myself together and take responsibility for another little human.
Having said all this, I do not wish to leave you with a completely bleak outlook. I am actively engaging with the things I can do to help myself and help Simon, according to all the prevailing wisdom. I am swimming at one of the hotel pools and doing antenatal yoga for exercise; I am eating reasonably well; I cooked dinner last night and experienced the gratification of a job well done; and I am having counselling. We are also in negotiations to buy a house in Castlemaine, which may lead us to finally move to a place we can settle down. Simon and I, though frustrated and experiencing some hard times emotionally, seem to be getting through it ok by keeping lines of communication open, and being as honest and as gentle as we can be with each other. And although I avoided my friends for a long time so as to not have to admit to being ungrateful or unappreciative of my good fortune in being pregnant with a wonderful man, I have now started to make contact again.
Indeed, if you are reading this and have recently been aware of a certain lack of communicatory zeal from me... please forgive me. I need you all, even if it doesn't look like it from where you are. I certainly haven't forgotten you. I've just been fighting these inner demons that have crept up on me and made me feel overwhelmed, trapped and unworthy.
May none of you experience such darkness at what is, rationally speaking, an exciting time in life. And may I be able to return at some point in the not-too-distant future and report that I have recovered, been emancipated, and am back to where I expected to be, happy and planning for a bright if complex future of parenthood and responsibility.
My previous post laid out in somewhat impersonal terms the fruits of my research into antenatal (or prenatal) depression. It should be fairly obvious that the interest I have in the topic is not impersonal at all, but rather touches on some of the darker moments of my pregnancy. I am now in my seventeenth week, which is just over three months of real time given that two weeks is added to the date of conception when calculating how 'far along' a pregnancy is. It's been a really hard few months, I must say, and not how I expected it to be at all.
I've written before, repeatedly, about the physical challenges associated with early pregnancy. For me, these have been accompanied by a noticeable if uneven descent into emotional volatility that was unexpected and difficult to deal with. After all, this was a planned pregnancy; we were successful at our first attempt at pregnancy; and we are financially secure. What's not to be excited about? My love of lists dictates I must set this out in a list form for clarity, so here goes:
1) Dependence/independence. The physical symptoms of pregnancy have been so debilitating as to make me dependent on Simon for almost everything- at one stage he had to shower me and wash my hair because I couldn't do it myself. He has consistently done the food shopping, the cooking and the dishes since my earliest symptoms and has been pretty good at laundry and house-cleaning as well. While on the one hand I rejoice in having bagged such a good man, on the other I have found myself feeling quite helpless and weak, unable (or unwilling?) to complete the basic household tasks that have been part of my life for over a decade. This has not been good for my confidence or self-esteem. (How do single women who are pregnant do it? I salute them and what surely must be their untidy houses, stacks of empty takeaway containers and frustrations at having run out of milk/shampoo/washing powder, again.)
2) Control. The control that I have lost during this process has been shocking. If this is what it means to put another being first - by which I mean that the baby has been taking my energy first, leaving me with whatever is left over, forcing me to acknowledge that I am not important after all - then I am not sure I want to be a parent! So many of my former pleasures have been foresaken for this pregnancy. I do not enjoy eating, even the junk food that occasionally is the only thing the baby will accept as fuel. I do not enjoy sleeping, as the baby will wake me whenever it needs me to eat more. I do not enjoy choosing an outfit in the morning, as I have packed away my civilian clothes for a time when I am less rotund. I do not enjoy sex, as my libido has almost entirely disappeared. And so on. My life is just not my own any more, and working out what to do for fun is difficult indeed.
3) Finally, and I reckon this may actually be the crux of it, I am absolutely terrified of being a parent. My appalled reaction to the issues of discomfort and dependence has lent itself to a suspicion that actually, I am too selfish to be a parent. My own mother faced similar soul-searching questions when I and then my brother were born, and was not always successful in negotiating the balance between her needs and ours. I grew up with the notion that children are a lot of hard and at times unrewarding work, and that they are a drain on one's professional and social opportunities. Not suprisingly, this resulted in my a) feeling somewhat in the way, and b) feeling that I wouldn't be having any children of my own, thankyou very much. Meeting Simon dissolved my conviction about the latter, and it has only been pregnancy that has reminded me of the former, in vivid terms. I do not want my children to feel like they are a burden or a drain on me; and yet, that is how I have experienced this pregnancy, as something to be endured until it is all over.
As a result of all of these things, self-doubt has taken over my mind and functioned to dilute my excitement about the prospect of having a child, to the point of its being almost non-existent. Sometimes I can hear my inner voice saying, 'I don't want this child'; at this point, weeping is common and apocalyptic predictions are rife. ('What if I am not cut out for this and have to leave the baby with Simon and run away, like that woman does in The Riders?') Which is terrible - what has this child done wrong? Come to that, what has Simon done wrong? (Answer: absolutely nothing.) The baby may be oblivious (though I suspect my depression must impact on it in some way) but Simon is not; he is living it all with me, the lack of enthusiasm, the fear, the pessimism. He is as shocked and possibly more bruised than I am. This is not how it was meant to be.
And of course, the vicious circle that is depression makes escape difficult, much more so than one can understand, I sometimes think, from the outside. I often fall into the trap of presuming that the power of positive thinking must help me. So when I am unable to do this, unable to convince myself through repetition or just blind determination, that I will be happy and it will all be fine, then I blame myself again, for being weak, or disorganised, or ill-disciplined. Which in turn brings on further self-hatred and despair, in the face of a looming deadline (only 23 weeks to go!) when I really do have to pull myself together and take responsibility for another little human.
Having said all this, I do not wish to leave you with a completely bleak outlook. I am actively engaging with the things I can do to help myself and help Simon, according to all the prevailing wisdom. I am swimming at one of the hotel pools and doing antenatal yoga for exercise; I am eating reasonably well; I cooked dinner last night and experienced the gratification of a job well done; and I am having counselling. We are also in negotiations to buy a house in Castlemaine, which may lead us to finally move to a place we can settle down. Simon and I, though frustrated and experiencing some hard times emotionally, seem to be getting through it ok by keeping lines of communication open, and being as honest and as gentle as we can be with each other. And although I avoided my friends for a long time so as to not have to admit to being ungrateful or unappreciative of my good fortune in being pregnant with a wonderful man, I have now started to make contact again.
Indeed, if you are reading this and have recently been aware of a certain lack of communicatory zeal from me... please forgive me. I need you all, even if it doesn't look like it from where you are. I certainly haven't forgotten you. I've just been fighting these inner demons that have crept up on me and made me feel overwhelmed, trapped and unworthy.
May none of you experience such darkness at what is, rationally speaking, an exciting time in life. And may I be able to return at some point in the not-too-distant future and report that I have recovered, been emancipated, and am back to where I expected to be, happy and planning for a bright if complex future of parenthood and responsibility.
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