When the fractal is the definition.
When a label holds such weight and assumption, how do I break free? Do I want to break free of it?
I was reading an interview recently in which the writer was surprised that most people thought of them, and referred to them, as ‘xyz advocate’ or ‘xyz commentator’ or even worse- ‘xyz influencer’. None of those labels had ever crossed the writer’s mind; to the writer, she was simply- writer. It wasn’t but a day or two later and another author I follow mentioned a similar conundrum.
They both said something to the effect of: “I think deeply about these things- and then I share my thoughts through writing- inviting the reader to join me in following the path of intellectual wandering to see where we end up. I’ve never set out to ‘advocate’ or ‘comment’ or ‘influence’. So it’s strange to me to be described this way. It is disembodying in a way- as if I am only seen for part of what I am.”
Oddly, what stood out to me from this was how often I have felt this way as a mother- wrongly placed, wrongly categorized, disembodied from my whole self. Often seen only as I reflect others, and not often seen for myself- and who I am. Maybe it is more complicated by the fact that I do happen to be a creative- I both write and paint. I can’t not create- whether anyone is watching or listening doesn’t really factor into my creating. It’s a drive within me. A drive I long denied- especially my more artistic bent.
I was pretty sure by the time I was 12 or 13 I was going to be a writer. My whole academic career, I pursued that goal, eventually graduating with a double BA in English and History. I was official. I finally arrived.
But so had three children.
The writing got put in a literal box on a literal shelf (how cliché), tucked away for a better time.
I never imagined it would be a solid decade and a half before I really pulled the box back off the shelf. Nor could I imagine that in the intervening time, I would finally embrace the call to just paint- a call that had been present in my head probably even earlier than my desire to be a writer, but that I had completely written off as impossible. I was a first born daughter- and let me tell you- the horrible generational curse of perfectionism that is visited on many first born daughters is a very real thing. Ask any first born daughter. It takes a lifetime to unlearn, I fear. I am farther down the path now, and I am grateful that my own firstborn daughter has not had to bear that similar curse due to much, much hard work.
But honestly, the disembodied feeling has a lot less to do with my concept of myself as artist or writer, and a lot more to do with my concept of myself as mother. It never ceases to amaze me how much assumption is foisted upon me in a given situation. When I was young and had young children- now that I am in my early forties and have graduated four kids from homeschooling and only have two left at home in high school. (When did that happen?) As a mom of an autistic child. As a mom of two kids with rare diseases. As a mom of a child with severe mental illness and suicidal ideation. As a mom of adults. As a mom of teenagers. As a mom of tweenagers. As a mom who sits in hospitals far more than she ever wanted.
Yet- in just about every social situation, real life or online- I am abstracted to a word that, depending on the context, either offends or delights. Mother.
In most of my real life interactions, socially, I am unconsciously put into the ‘almost a grandma’ category more often than not. As much as I pray that the Lord bless my children someday with children of their own, that someday is probably a decade away. I’m only forty three. None of my children are even married or have even found a love interest yet. My entire mothering career is completely wiped away in those conversations. I’m supposed to sit and smile and hold the babies. Which I do, because babies. Who can resist such squishy joy? But I’m so much more than just the ‘almost grandma’. I still exist in the mothering space, and I’m still scared and freaked out and not quite sure what I’m doing some days.
Moreso even than that- I am a mother who holds heavy, heavy grief.
It is a grief that, save this space of writing, I’m not particularly allowed to give voice to. It scares people, grief. They rapidly change the subject.
True story- of the many parish members of my church- there is only one- ONE- parish friend (out of many members, including leadership) that consistently asks about my child who has left us for a time- the one with autism, severe mental illness, and suicidal ideation- the only person in the intervening four years who says that kid’s name out loud to me. If I try to bring that child up in what should be a safe place- hey, I’m worried about them, can you pray? I’m sad that I haven’t seen them or heard from them in a while, I hope they are ok…the speed with which that conversation is so rapidly glossed over and the subject changed will make your head spin. The child isn’t even dead, but it feels that way. Completely erased. Un-named. That’s in a Christian space. Given that reception, it is any wonder I hardly reveal it outside of that space?
With my voice shaking, I am being honest about “I am a mother to someone who has…” here for the first time.
That is just one facet of who I am as mother.
I’ve just spent the last three months, basically- late February to late April, with another child-in and out of the hospital, extremely ill. We just received a plethora of news regarding that child from recent testing that basically meant that everything we’ve ever done to help treat this child is just completely out the window at this point. A whole new medication regimen is in place now, but it’s throwing us for a loop. So much to get used to and remember, all over again. Timers set on phones and giant boxes of medical equipment arriving again- a season that we thought we had mostly put behind us. There’s a grief in that too, besides just the kid being ill. It’s watching a left turn and a dive when you thought that just maybe you were making a right turn and taking an easier path, that things were finally healing. There are so many aspects of being mother to a rare-disease child that I can’t talk about with anyone except maybe those mothers who are also in the trenches with me.
How many times has there been a comment-string like- At least it’s not cancer (or whatever illness they perceive as worse). God is in control. Have you prayed about it? You just need to trust. At least your child is here and hasn’t died from (insert illness). Have you prayed about it? Repeated, again and again. (Code for: somehow this kid being sick is because you are lacking in faith and/or you haven’t prayed hard enough for healing.)
He (or she) doesn’t look sick.
I can’t even unpack how painful this is to experience both as a human being with a soul and as a mother. The entire reality of the life we live daily, just poof, wiped away. It doesn’t fit in a tidy little box. Therefore it doesn’t exist, and talking about it in any real way? No. What are you talking about? The whataboutism that people can engage with while completely ignoring the reality of the very real human being hurting in front of them would stun an ox. It is so dehumanizing.
Contemplating all these facets, I find myself saying in an echo of those two authors:
“I never set out to be a MOTHER. I am just walking this journey. I am trying to mama my children to the best of my ability by the grace of God. I have no idea how this is going to end up. I’m kind of scared somedays, and most of the time, I’m pretty exhausted. I’m not the mother, epithet. I’m not the mother, saint. I’m not the mother, martyr. I’m not the mother, hero….or whatever assumption or definition you are foisting on me in your head. Please see me. Please see my children. Fully embodied, fully human.”
And yet, I admit- how often do I look at you, fellow mama, fellow human being- and do all of these things? OUCH.
I’ve been working on a long form piece that will mostly likely be in four parts. It’s a discussion multiple people have asked me to write about, but I’ve never really been in a position or season in which I could work on it. I have no idea where it will end up. The more I write, the more that comes out on the page. I really hope that I can get the first part up soon. It’s a fragile thing, and I wanted to have some feedback before I shared it with the wider world. Now that it has been received by those I trust, a bit of copy editing needs to be done and then hopefully, it will make it here in due time. I hope you’ll join in the conversation when it comes out.