mindful living (Page 42)

My friend won’t let me kill my baby. Or, to be much more accurate, she wants politicians and laws to decide when or if it’s okay to kill my baby. I’m 23 weeks pregnant and I’ve had a human life in me since the day I got the first positive pregnancy test. Now, we’ve named her, she’s a she (as far as we know), she wiggles like crazy, she’s about a pound and a half with almost all fully functioning organs (just her lungs need serious continued growth). She’s been “viable” since 2 weeks ago. Still, she’s inside of me. My body. Not someone else’s. If I wanted to kill her, that’s my right.
The language I’m using is provocative. If anti-choice and pro-choice believers want to come to any sort of agreement on the issue of personal choice in abortion we need to be willing to speak or at least hear each other’s language. I’ve written my description in horrifying terms: killing a baby. It makes my skin crawl just reading the title of this essay. But I realize that’s how my friend would see it. And, in my own case — for me — that’s how I see it, too.
Since I can remember, I’ve known in my heart I couldn’t have an abortion. Of course we can’t ever know what the future holds, but I went to extraordinary measures to avoid pregnancy. I didn’t have intercourse until I knew I would be able to care for a child. Then I always used birth control. No matter how wasted I got (those were some challenging times, the 90s) I never had sex without birth control. Because, as I’ve said, as soon as I know I’m pregnant, logic or science aside, I feel I’m carrying my child inside me. Immediately I begin the relationship that will last for both of our lives where I will care for that child forever.
My position as a pro-choice woman is just as strong, however, as my personal choice not to have abortions. There are several facets to this position. The first, and the least digestible for the anti-choice movement, is that I believe knowing when life begins is a personal and spiritual decision. I have friends who believe life begins with the quickening (feeling movement of the fetus). I have friends who have had multiple abortions who still aren’t sure when life begins. I also have friends who believe life starts at conception, but have had abortions. This aspect of the pro-choice movement is typically pointless as we debate with the anti-choice believers. To most of them, abortion is always murder.
Carrying a fetus, a baby, inside our bodies is an ability only for people who have a uterus. It is this fact alone that makes abortion different than all other laws governing our bodies. We have laws that say we can not physically beat each other up. We obviously have laws against murder. We have laws that try (in vain) to prevent self- or other-harm through drug use or acts like drinking and driving. And, as soon as an infant is outside of its mother, we have laws protecting that child. Thankfully, infanticide is illegal in our country. There is no comparable situation, however, where cis-gender men or boys have a life growing inside of them.
When we begin legislating medical decisions for one group of people and not for any other, we say that group has fewer rights than the others. Therefore, no matter how difficult it is for some people to accept, no laws should govern what happens to someone’s pregnancy. Until my baby is born, what happens to her is entirely my decision. And I will fight for the right for anyone with a uterus to control their body however they see fit as fiercely as I will fight to keep my own baby safe and healthy.

When [name redacted] beat me up in ninth grade, there was almost a reason for it. In that case, I actually did something inconsiderate (asked her boyfriend if it was true she was a slut (I wasn’t one myself, yet, and I was sincerely and naively curious about a rumor I’d heard)).

[Redacted] stalked me for about a week. Stood outside my classes, glaring through the tiny windows on each door. The day finally came. After homeroom, [redacted], [redacted], and another girl started grabbing me, pulling me into the bathroom. All I could say was, “what about my books?” (The big pile of books in my arms, where to put them down.)

Once she had me in the stall (yes, I tried to stop them dragging me there) most of it is a blur. I remember ducking the punches. I remember the loud echos. I remember using all my strength (successfully) to stop her from flushing my head in the toilet. But, I mostly remember the ridiculously civil, even therapeutic (for her), conversation we had.

Me: “Why are you doing this, [redacted]?”

Her: “You called me a slut!”

Me: “I’m really sorry about that. I asked John about what I’d heard. I am really sorry!”

(Thud. Thud. Whack. Some punches grazing off my face, some landing on the stall wall behind me.)

Me: “But we were friends last year! What is so wrong that you’re doing this to me now?”

The little chat (Thud. Whack. Thud!) actually moved into how unhappy she was, how she hated me for being “so perfect,” and how it wasn’t fair that I got my life and she got hers. I felt sorry for her as she tried to beat the shit out of me (successfully).

The other girls, the door-watchers, participated in some parts of the conversation — I was sure the unnamed girl’s sister couldn’t be pregnant if she had her period, the unnamed girl was sure her sister was pregnant.

Surreal? Yes.

The only time this sort of insanity happened in my life? Nope.

The next major time I recall was [redacted] someone spitting… no, [redacted] spitting in my face at a dance. For this exchange I have no recollection what I might have done to spur the sputum. Perhaps I again said something stupid or naive.

Or, perhaps I did nothing.

No one has physically beaten my up in a lot of years. But, I’m still a magnet for people hating me. Really, seethingly hating me. Almost every time it sneaks up on me. Almost every time it hurts my feelings at first. Almost every time I do some crazy dances to try to fix whatever’s wrong.

Then I remember the pattern.

It happens.

Over the years I’ve gotten used to it. Not in any sort of “oh poor me” martyr kind of way, but, just a sort of an “it’s the cost of doing business” kind of way.

When I’m in a group setting, an advisory board, for example, my style bugs a lot of people. I don’t like to dabble with what-ifs. I like to decide and do. I like concrete achievable tasks, not theories and considerations.

The best groups generally have another strong-personality/leader type to balance me out. Someone who recognizes the value of detailed planning and consideration before taking action. Almost always, though, I ruffle feathers. It’s okay. I also get things done, and that’s more important to me than being liked.

The last time I was in one of these messes, hooo-boy, did she hate me. Seriously hated me. I’m talking piercing stare-downs with the strength of lasers. All I could do was giggle with nerves, it was so insane. Emails like, “Did you enjoy your vacation? I sure did.” It was brutal. The worst was, though, how she sucked me into insanity. She accused me of theft, of power-plays, of dishonesty, and all sorts of almost-criminal acts. I prayed like a crazy person, as I had become nuts wondering what I’d done to make her hate me so. Crying over it one night, I asked Coparent why these people latch on to me. “You’re outgoing, you don’t hold back.” That’s really what it is most of the time.

A wise soul explained that particular situation this way. Some people take on leadership. Others see those leaders with bull’s eyes on their chests. Just looking for that best shot. Take ’em down is their call.

My style and personality aside, there are people out there looking for targets. I can’t try to become someone these sick people don’t notice. It doesn’t work that way.

My best spiritual guides have always told me to pray that the people who drive me most crazy, who hurt me most, that I should pray they get everything I want in my life. Simple. I pray they find peace. Remarkable what praying for them does. I usually move directly into forgiveness.

When I’m most healthy, I treat these people with respect. I consider what my role in the relationship is. I find what my part of it is, if there are things I’ve done that need amending. Then, I promptly ignore almost anything they say. I pray for them. I feel sorry for them. And I move on to the next thing.

It’s my natural tendency to isolate. Part of why isolation soothes me so is I don’t have to deal with the Haters. But I do like to make things move, so I don’t stay alone for long.

Last night I was honored to speak to a large group of people about issues near and dear to me. As the words came out of my mouth I knew my positions were strongly held. I knew it was likely I was really, really pissing off some people. I also knew there would be others who would just as passionately value my message.

Dancing around trying to make people happy is one of the most miserable ways to live. I know. I used to do it all the time. Being my authentic self, my considerate and caring authentic self, I can only hold fast to the knowledge that I am well-intentioned and well-meaning. When those crazy Haters come at me, I say, “hey, what’s up? I’ll duck your slugs today, but go ahead and throw them if it makes you feel better.”

I’m no punching bag, but, if I took everyone’s opinion of me more seriously than my own self-assessment, I’d be in quite a bit of misery. Here’s to doing enough good in the world, being courageous and strong enough, that I keep pissing people off.

“i can be changed by what happens to me. but i refuse to be reduced by it.” — Baby1 Angelou

“Keep away from people who try to belittle your ambitions. Small people always do that, but the really great make you feel that you, too, can become great.” — Mark Twain

It’s dark and wet. Full of steam and tears and desperation. Sometimes my fingers lose all sensation as I fumble for the keg tap. I’m fourteen, fifteen. I’m sixteen, seventeen. I’m on a field, in someone’s basement, in an old mansion with the parents away, or in the woods of someone’s farm. I’m staring off into another room, knowing he is watching me.
There is a simple science to being beautiful and young. Attracting one only requires convincing him he doesn’t exist to me. Inside, I am a hummingbird of awareness. All he sees is my face, my body, my smile, and my slow strong confidence. I know I’m lovely. I know I’m good at it. I am all powerful.
What strange paths of dark memory. Keeping my feet grounded in the now where authentic confidence and love connect and support all things. I’m out of practice. Visiting those places from before, I haven’t done this more than ten years. The raging pain, loneliness, confusion, and trauma are all mixed in together with normal teen angst and anxiety. Today, I begin clearing out the clutter. Sort through the typical and file it away. Uncover the damage, clean the wounds that still fester, hold tight to the now where all is safe.
Who are these people now? What do they remember?
Only scraps of the most humiliating, flagrant, and rank behaviors of mine are resurfacing. Were there good times? Were there any real connections?
Hovering over the well, staring full force down in to the darkness, knowing it goes to the center of the earth. I’m diving in. I’m falling down. I am immersing myself to reclaim and know. I will scrape away the lingering filth.
What will be left when this is over? I have all I need, now. There are no visions of retribution. There is no blame.
I begin recalling smells, sights, sensations. Pick up a can. Check for carbonation, be sure there are no ashes. Good enough to drink? The haze and tunnel vision, the crowd as a blur, hearing voices, knowing they are talking, but I’m not able to move. Smiling to show I don’t care. Oh, how not caring was the ultimate goal. I see it in young kids these days. I don’t care. You don’t affect me. I am going to show you so clearly that I am unimpressed by you. Perhaps, and likely, I was just as transparent.

The late-night drive-through attendant passed me two cheeseburgers without judgment. Her emotionless (empathetic?) gaze was better than therapy. Finding myself camped out in the middle of the king-sized bed, computer on my lap, remote in one hand, 3 Musketeers in the other–it took two hours of dazed terror before I realized I’d been there before.

This time, I was in a hotel without my husband or daughter. That time, over ten years ago, I was alone heading toward the worst of my drunk and stoned life. This time, life was mostly full of joy, balance, and serenity. That time, chaos and loneliness led me in endless dark mazes.

I had no idea being away from my daughter overnight for the first time would be so brutal. It kicked my ass for those two hours. When I recognized where I had arrived (desperation, lack of clarity, obscured reality) it was an easy shift into pleasure. Ah ha! Look what’s happened! And, immediately: a bubble bath; guilty-pleasure television with the volume up; doing what I wanted, when I wanted, how I wanted. And, most of all, sleeping harder and deeper than I had in years.

It’s as if life is a continuous set of spirals, lines flowing up and around, higher and higher until the coil is too tight. With each forward movement–it’s always moving forward–the next unspringing is more gentle. Ten years ago every lesson devastated me, as I believed in perfection and an impossible ideal. These days, I usually recognize the signs of an impending challenge or lesson and I just hold on and breathe.

Four and a half years ago our daughter came into our lives through a gash in my abdomen. She wanted to come out feet first. There was no convincing her to turn. On that first night, she lay among my IV tubes of antibiotics for the post-op infection and Pitocin to stop the hemorrhaging. She nursed enthusiastically. She slept with us then and has ever since.

Sleeping in our grand king-sized bed is full of reconnecting, snuggling, giggling, and love. Sure, she’ll sleep in her own room someday but, for now, we all love our arrangement.

So, for all of her sweet little life, any time she’s needed me at night, I’ve been there. I am breathing with her, laying with her, and always within reach.

As we work on less dependence on me and more acceptance of comfort from her Daddy, we realized the best thing for us was me spending a night away. I was desperate for a good night’s sleep (being needed throughout the night had finally caught up to me), and we were both desperate for Coparent’s chance to be “the one” she needed. My physical presence, because of the patterns and habits we’ve set over the years, was problematic. Baby1 didn’t believe she would be okay without me. What a terrible lesson to teach a child: you’ll fall apart if I’m not there. So, it was with some anxiety but mostly excitement and confidence that I packed my bag for this overnight.

A massive burlap sack filled with wet sand smashing me across the room was how I felt when I first left our house. I actually thought I might vomit because I was “leaving Baby1.” My perception of my importance, and ultimately Coparent’s ability as a father, was skewed. Twisted. Distorted. Reality was again obscured.

Thankfully, it just took that bit of time for me to recognize just how fucked up it all was. As if Baby1 would fall apart without me. Intellectually, I was sure I didn’t believe that. But those two desperate hours were close cousins to the last few months of my darkest drugging and boozing. This time, I had solutions at my disposal. Easy tools to use to fix this mess. I simply said, “Oh, hey, god? Shit, I’m totally fucked up again. I think I’m way too important and I think I’m a piece of shit. Would you fix all this?” And POP up I sprang from the bed to run the bubble bath.

Clarity. Clearness.

It’s all so simple if I don’t make it complicated. And, holy crap, did I sleep well that night.

Would you get your hands off my child, please? How would you like me to poke you in the belly? Want me to try and tickle you? Maybe I’ll insist you hug me and not take no for an answer? I’m sure we both think not.
Even the most well-intentioned adults around me lately have let me down. Sure, our daughter is off-the-charts-cute. Not just in the parents-always-think-their-kid-is-cute kind of way, she’s simply gorgeous by most objective standards. She’s also very small for her age with a huge head and huge eyes. Just calls out to the mother in most every person (male and female) she meets.
Why is it, though, so few adults on this earth seem to have a clue that children are people?
I heard the beginning of a great This American Life on the subject of “talking to children.” It began with interviews with children about what annoyed them most about adults talking to them. The children were obviously older than Baby1 (she’s 4 and a half), but they are still putting up with some of the same shit.
Adults seem to flail around wanting to say the right thing, thinking there’s some kind of code language children speak. The adults get goo-goo gah-gah when talking to them. Really sing-songy. Trying to connect, they instead treat the child as some kind of stuffed fluffy toy who might enjoy being bent this way or that.
Baby1 even has a defensive “cutsie wootsie” mode she goes into where she swings herself all around, hanging on to my legs, looking up in an almost flirting coy sort of way that shocked the hell out of me the first time she did it. I asked her after why she was behaving that way (didn’t say it was wrong, but was surprised) and she told me that when people talk to her in baby talk, she just wants to do that. The goo-goo-gaa-gaa talking tone that grownups often take with her sometimes slips past me until she begins her little “I’m just cute” dance behind my legs.
Some advice to those of you who really, truly would like to communicate with that little person in the shopping cart in front of you at the market? You are looking at a small person. An individual. A human being.
They like smiles, but feel weird if you stare at them too much. Sure, if they’re very small infants (not holding themselves up, yet), they might like a little peek-a-boo. For any child, though, your best bet is to just imagine children are just small adults.
Speak in your regular voice. Bring up something you might bring up to an adult if you were going to be so outgoing and bold as to talk to a stranger at the market. Perhaps you might comment on the pretty flowers nearby, or compliment an article of clothing the person is wearing. Maybe you, too, enjoy sweets, so you could empathize with the experience of enjoying a lollipop (that surely some bank teller thrust into the child’s hand without regard to her parents’ wishes).
Think of how odd you’d feel if someone came up to you and started cooing, “Oh, you are so beeeeeautiful!” Sure, you might feel flattered. If you were available, you might hope to get lucky later that night. But, under most circumstances you might feel pretty freaked out.
Yesterday at Target I decided I needed to help out my little girl. I said, “When someone says something like that (a woman had just said over and over and over, “you are so beautiful! adorable! so cuuuuuuuute!”), they would love to hear you say, ‘thank you.’ What that means is you are telling them you appreciate they are trying to be kind. You don’t have to say anything, but a ‘thank you’ is probably what they are hoping for.”
Baby1, like any normal human being, tends to freeze up in shock when these strangers begin gawgling all over here. And, no, she’s not “shy,” she just thinks you’re being really strange and it makes her a little confused and uncomfortable.
And, no, I’m not going to make her give you a hug even if you are a relative. I’m not going to expect her to kiss you or even accept a hug from you. I understand she’s so cute you want to gobble her up, but even her Father and I check in before we slobber all over her (most of the time).
Thankfully, my closest family dwells in the realm of respect. I think they may sometimes wish they could force the issue (LET GRAMPA HOLD YOU we all sometimes want to say). But they see clearly that Baby1 gives her affection and receives her affection on her terms (she loves being held by Grampa when she’s in the mood). Knowing her body is hers, that she decides who touches it, how, and when, may be one of her greatest (thus far, well-learned) lessons.
We’ll continue giving her tools for responding to adults who mean well but don’t have a clue. We’ll continue not forcing her to interact with strangers, and we’ll continue not expecting her to give hugs or kisses to anyone when she doesn’t want to. Without apology.
Once again, let me encourage you. The next time you are interacting with a child, try to imagine the roles reversed. Whatever you do or say to that child, what if someone did or said that to you? Would you be comfortable? How would you respond?
Because, seriously, the next time someone tries to tickle my child or tries to get her to say something to them (“come on, tell me about your little doggy-woggy-woo”) I might just haul off and slug them. Now that’s not a lesson I want to teach my cute as a button sweet as a plum little angel girl.