SSDD

Published April 15, 2012 by insufficient mums


You know, I’m just kinda over it. Women talk to me about shit. Cos I’m honest. Open. Brave. Possibly because I was born without the ability to moderate my own privacy.
I was taught in recovery that I am only as sick as my secrets. I took this to heart. It worked for me.
But I hear other women’s stories (even from the other side of the world), and they mirror my own.
And it makes me angry.
Cos throughout history, the living experience of women is anywhere from problematic to excrutiating.
Because across the world, women work and love and hurt over the same shit.
I’m open-minded enough to frequently hope that I wrong. Merely biggoted. Overly influenced by my own small experience.
But time and again, as I share and I listen, I’m dismayed.
Goddess, please please let me raise a good son. A good man.
Capable of loving. And of being loved.
How am I supposed to do this, with my own experience of life, and a surprising lack of contrary evidence?
Apart from the occasional annoyed male expressing his irritation to me with blatant misogyny.
FFS, all I want is for one of you to prove me wrong…!!!
Not even necessarily in my own life.
Just let me see you love your partner. Love your kids. Love your family.
Alter my world view.

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2 comments on “SSDD

  • My sweet Sylvie….I hope my story of heartbreak has not caused you this pain. Forgive me. I am weak. But, I am trying. I am going to practice something I am learning in recovery: Fake it to make it. I will fake my happiness. I will not let him see me cry again. I will not let him steal another tear from my eye. I will jab myself with a fork before he sees the power that I have handed over to him. I relinquished my power. I will take it back. Even if I have to fake it for now. I love you my kindred spirit. ❤

    • Thanks Doll. No need to apologise for causing me to feel. Feeling is what fuels my writing.
      Sucking back and swallowing down feelings, pretending reality was an over-reaction, that took me to some dark places for a few decades.
      Nowadays, I feel my feelings, won’t hide them for anybody’s dignity.
      I feel them. I process them. They pass.
      And I write about it 🙂

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