Not Simply Love

The Tired Insecurity

Chapter 3

My Coming of realisation party was held on the shower floor. It was aesthetically the perfect place to throw it. Not because the sound of my body giving up on life was masked by the silent deluge pouring above my head But because with the dripping blood, burning v****a and milk squirting out of my sheared n*****s, it was the ideal place to be a complete mess. An ugly crying face, tears and me bent over on the floor with my tattered, torn and completely wrecked body was going to be washed away. During my post-natal depression era which lasted eighteen months, I went through possibly the hardest times of my life, I had genuinely never felt this low in my life, even after loosing my first lover to death, at the volatile age of seventeen, this was still worse than that. If I could explain it to someone without knowingly being judged, I would say, I hated my child. I rigorously wanted to kill her but could not because people would hate me, so in turn, I wanted to kill myself. Hearing her cry, made me so unhappy, it created an absolute panic in my nervous system. If I could, I would run away and never look back. When she would laugh and play, I would become angry, how dare she be happy while I am a complete mess due to her existence. If my husband attended to her, loved her or picked her up, I would watch them together and think to myself, do I not deserve love too. Everyone around me was constantly loving and caring for the child, who was loving and caring for me. Every time I would have a minute alone with my husband, there she would go, crying for attention, taking his care from me. I grew resentment towards this poor baby. And honestly, I blame myself entirely. But it was not my fault. If I could go back. I would change much of how I felt. I would live in the moment. Enjoy every minute of my sweet little angel. I would know that it becomes easier with harder challenges. I would hold myself tightly and tell myself that this hard phase will pass. I would love myself, care for myself and I would assure myself.

My husband tried his best to juggle everything. He would wake up early for work regardless of the disturbed nights. He would show up and come back home to do what he could. But I somehow realised later on, He loved the experience. My post-natal depression ruined it for him. My depression was ultimately inconvenient for him to deal with. He would have been happy had I sucked it up and acted okay while silently dying on the inside. I guess that is what all mothers do. But for me, it was more than that and I simply just could not shut up and take it. I was vocal and seemingly expressive about how miserable I was. I would complain when I could. I would cry every moment I was alone with my husband and I would constantly talk about how I hated being a mother to a newborn. I was very honest about my struggle and mom’s-to-be were afraid for their life after hearing it but still wanting to hear more as they were not used to hearing this version of the truth, just the known truth you tell yourself after having a break down, looking into the mirror to prepare yourself to get out from the bathroom break you’ve stolen for two isolated minutes to take your child back from the other parent who is never and will never be equally responsible for the child as you are. What angered me was that moms would claim that early motherhood is this blissful magical experience, and I was yet to experience that. They looked so happy and so clean, well groomed and put together and I was rescheduling my wax appointment for the third time that month. How was it so fantastic for some yet so horrific for me. Why was I robbed. Or did I rob myself?

The early time of motherhood taught me so much. Looking back at it now after having gone through that, forces me to learn lessons I never believed I would have to know. I always was the ‘my child would never’ parent. But after my experience, it changed to ‘whatever works’. And in that subtlety, it brought me peace. I was so adamant on following a routine, following a rule book I made for myself and my child that one small plan would go off and my entire mood would be ruined. The biggest lesson I learned was that having a child rearranges your life daily. Nothing is set to stone. I learnt that you have to just go with the flow and that was the most difficult part for me because I am not a free flowing person. I am a planner. An organiser. I am to-the-tee functional to every item on my to-do list. Nothing more and nothing less. Growing older in my motherhood changed who I was. I stopped recognising myself as an individual and that made me angry, loosing control of myself. It made me feel like I was loosing my identity. I was not doing things set on my to-do list and I was not functioning as I used to. This made me resent myself which in turn made me resent the reason, which was my little sunshine. Unfortunately.

To this point, I stay unsettled and a new problem has emerged. That being my marriage. In the time of early motherhood, you see the crumbles of the foundation that is breaking but silently pick it up and throw it away. You don’t take notice of yet another mountain falling to the ground. Subsequently three years later, the mountain blocking the view of the mountain of marriage is moved and then you are left confused about how it happened. You are left trying to make a decision of whether you should build up this broken mountain or just clear the left crumbs and have a vacant land so you can clearly see the mountain of childhood, undisturbed. The problem with building the mountain of marriage back up is the requirements of tools, concrete, gravel and other material used to create a mountain that reinforces a proper stable peak.

Sometimes you do not have any material left or not enough to reinforce the mountain of marriage.

Or sometimes you can work hard, acquire what you need and relentlessly work on the mountain until it reaches the peak you deserve. Either way, both are exhausting to complete. You truly have to prioritise which option better works for you.

In my case, I rock-ribbed isolation. I pushed him away, and pushed him out of my space. I wanted him gone from my life. Being a mother to a devil child and a wife to a tyrant man was just spilling off the sides of my well rounded, sturdy plate. I needed to remove bread from my plate. And he was the remnants I was ready to throw out.

“The river that flows has a cycle of ambition

It is not in favour of the seasons condition

Nor impacted by direction of circulation

What does imply is a tactful intent

Tools of imagination that was skillfully dreamt

Brick by brick, layer by layer

Build it up to become the slayer

vanquished hopes and no wonder

You are thereafter painted a betrayer”

-The tired insecurity