Needed or needy?
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Posted:Jan 25, 2013 2:34 pm
Last Updated:Jan 28, 2013 9:36 am
5539 Views
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I tried to prevent my struggles from affecting people around me. From exposing people in my life to the emotional turmoil that I was experiencing. I tried to save them from what I was struggling against, struggling with.
I realize now that it is through those struggles that the opportunity for a deeper level of bonding can be found. Not dependancy that would come from saving one another or from being saved but bonding. The difference is that bonding is a choice. Rather, bonding is the result of a choice to allow others to see our vulnerability and trust that we will be accepted.
I have been craving the bond and have wasted efforts creating dependancy. I think I felt that if there was a dependancy then It was more likely that my friend/partner/other person would stay because they 'needed' me.
Writing this now makes me feel very foolish. Foolish for not seeing how I was engaging in a form of emotional high jacking. I don't want to do that ever again.
I want to feel needed. But not because I have created false boundaries. I want to feel needed because I meet a need on a deep emotional level and not a shallow imposed level.
Is it just me? Does anyone else go through these mental and emotional struggles?
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Getting deeper...
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Posted:Jan 25, 2013 8:29 am
Last Updated:Jan 28, 2013 3:58 am
5862 Views
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I'm shallow. I'm shallow and I'm not ok with that. I judge based on the exterior. I determine beauty in a moment and attraction in a heart beat.
I know at least one of you immediately thought "shallow? So is my cervix, big deal". The big deal is that I have fallen for women that I judged negatively in a heart beat, in a moment. Women that I knew I wasn't physically attracted to who blossomed (in my mind) as I got to know them. Women who began to display attributes beyond the physical that stirred emotions deeper in me than I usually allow myself to feel. Emotions that few, if any of the "favorably judged" women had been able to evoke.
The women that I had physically dismissed weren't ugly (in fact some were quit beautiful) they just weren't...something. The "spark" wasn't there. The immediate desire, lust, need, electricity...it wasn't there. And I wanted it to be.
I wonder if seeing these women as less desirable allowed me to let down some walls and be myself to a greater degree with them? I have a tendency to play a role in relationships (not a fun role where I'm wearing latex and doing exactly what she says) because, at heart, I have some insecurities that I've only recently learned to shut down. With women I don't see as relationship material I am relaxed, I don't have to pose or bluff or bluster; I don't have to be the peacock seeking a peahen. I can just be me.
Once I realize how comfortable I am with an Undateable, I consider dating them. Consider but don't because there is always the memory of the THING that turned me off, that made them Undateable in the first place.
I'm shallow. I'm shallow and I'm not ok with that. I hope that this bit of rambling idiocy helps me get past my self imposed limitations. I've written these words and words have power.
I'm shallow but I think I'm getting deeper.
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Daddy's Silent Trauma
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Posted:Jan 25, 2013 12:08 am
Last Updated:Aug 19, 2013 12:33 pm
5450 Views
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(Although I'm divorced, writing this "in the moment" felt better)
The other day I was looking through the art work of an acquaintance. Ryk Weston is a somewhat twisted guy who manages to create disturbing yet humorous pieces of art. When I saw his untitled piece (Prolapse the Clown maybe) memories of the birth of my first washed over me. I understand that you may not expect adjectives like “twisted” or “disturbing” to be appropriate for the miracle of childbirth but that would be because society has not confronted the reality of the birthing experience from the male viewpoint.
There are numerous books and websites available for prospective mothers or parents. I’m quite certain that my wife bought all of them and gave me instructions to pay particular attention to the dog-eared pages. I read some of the book. (Ok, I skimmed through the books until I got to the sections about sex during pregnancy.) I have to admit, I had trouble reading the sections talking about the minute growth of the cells, the development of eyelids, which vegetables were best for stimulating intellectual growth. It was boring and I wanted something exciting.
You see, none of the books really talk about how horrific and disgusting the scene is in real life. We had gone to a childbirth and parenting class. We watch through half-shut eyes as they played a movie of a birth. I don’t know how many takes they used to sanitize it the way they did but it certainly wasn’t anything like the reality I was facing. Even the “must have” pregnancy book, What To Expect When You're Expecting, didn’t discuss the horror other than a very short comment about how “the blood, sweat and tears” would be offset by an “amnesia [that] sets in pretty quickly once that little baby finally arrives.” What isn’t in the book, and should be, is a paternal disclaimer. Attention Would-Be Fathers: you will not get amnesia and will remember every twisted and disturbing detail.
Listen, I understand that mothers do have the difficult task. They carry all of the risk. The weeks and months leading up to the delivery were a never ending series of heartstopping information sessions. Was this going to be in the 2% of pregnancies that was ectopic? Would my wife be in the 18 percent of women that develop gestational diabetes? Would she be one of the 5.5 in 100,000 women that died during childbirth? Would she be one of the 6% of women that suffered emotionally as a result of birth trauma? Would she kill me and become part of the 5% of women that are pregnant when they get arrested?
When I wasn’t worrying about my wife, I worried about my unborn . The threats that loomed before our unborn were equally frightening. I began worrying more about the fetal heart rate than I did my own heart rate. I would hold my hand on my wife’s stomach to feel for movement. She thought it was a loving bonding gesture, it wasn’t. I wanted to make sure that all was well. I wasn’t imparting loving thoughts, I was assuaging my own fears. Were fingers and toes, heart and lungs, eyes and ears all developing as they should? Was there some infection attacking even as we slept? Were the pickles and cheese slices giving her heartburn? After getting past the threat of these issues in utero, the poor then had to face actually coming into the world. According to medscape.com, 2% of stillbirths are caused by the trauma and 8 in a thousand babies suffered injuries during childbirth. Bruises, broken bones, hematomas, and burst blood vessels were all things that are absolutely expected in a normal “healthy” delivery.
All of those numbers, illnesses, and issues vanished from my mind when the moment of birth was upon us. I had heard stories about the beauty of childbirth, about how I would cry when I first beheld the new life that I had helped create. My mom had called me just this morning and told me how she still remembered my birth and I could hear her voice catch as she related the tale.
I remember looking down at my loving wife – she on the cusp of delivering our – and feeling emotion well up in my throat. No. Not emotion, bile. Definitely bile. I was going to be sick. Her body was transforming into something alien. In fact, her body was becoming something from the movie Alien. If you haven’t seen childbirth, you can experience the disgust like this: download Aliens with Sigourney Weaver, watch the scene where the alien explodes from the guy's chest. Add realistic screams. Make the guy the woman that you love. And THEN make the alien come out of her vagina.
At this point I think I need to make one thing clear…I love my wife. Dearly. Completely. Totally. But if I had to pick a favorite body part of hers, I would not choose her gut. And, yes, I realize that there is more to her than a vagina but right at that moment, it is all I can think of. I wanted to look away, to preserve the image of my wife that I had carried so fondly until now.
A million thoughts raced through my mind. None of them were appropriate to my role as the strong, supportive “birth partner.” I wanted to call my mom and ask her what sort of drugs she had been on during and since my delivery to remember it with anything other than horror and revulsion. With the number of stories I had heard about the beauty of the moment, the sight of my being pushed into the world had me wondering if I had fallen asleep and was merely having a nightmare.
My wife’s body was…wrong; completely, totally wrong. And, horror of horrors, what was wrong about my wife’s body was wrong in exactly my favorite place. It was stretching out. (By the way, this was the image that Ryk’s art had reminded me of.) The body part that I loved precisely because it was an innie was becoming an outie. And it was a huge outie. How could I ever fool myself into thinking that I could re-enter her and have a hope of pleasing her? Was there a hope of her even noticing me in her?
I went back to the pregnancy books to see if there was any information about the trauma I was feeling. There wasn’t anything to be found. Apparently, the anguish of the father is not just secondary to the mother and but it is so insignificant that it isn’t even mentioned.
An internet search for help only found one source of information. An article published in The Journal of Men’s Studies showed that men do suffer trauma when present during childbirth but they went on to say that the trauma was generally the result of a lack of preparation. This information was useless to me now.
What I did find that proved helpful were accounts of police officers and soldiers who keep reliving the trauma of battle and are unable to shake the images that they lived through. These brave men and women are often diagnosed with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD). According to the Brain & Behavior Research Foundation, people suffering from PTSD are said to have flashbacks, nightmares, and anxiety or frightening thoughts about the event. Check. The information indicated that those suffering from PTSD often engage in avoidance behavior so as to not experience the traumatic memories. Check.
The question at the end of this is this: What do I do? I can’t raise this issue with anyone in person. That might result in physical, rather than emotional, trauma. I don’t want to go to a psychologist and detail my affliction. That just doesn’t sound comforting. The other dads in the play groups don’t say anything, but I know they are suffering too. Whenever the talk turns to the birth, they get a distant look in their eye and nod at the right times, say the right words but they aren’t fooling me. I know they are suffering exactly as I am: quietly, shamefully.
Personally, I will continue my silence. I saw what my wife went through, I know how strong she is. There is no way I’m going to chance upsetting a woman that could go through that. Suffering emotional trauma is bad enough without risking physical trauma by speaking of it.
Postscript
In order to ensure planned pregnancies still occur I should let you fathers-to-be know something: there is nothing more magical than the power of the vagina to regain it’s shape after childbirth. I have no idea why millions of dollars are being spent to develop anti-aging compounds. The vagina holds the secret. I'm positive that ground vaginal tissue mixed into a cream would eliminate wrinkles after only a few applications. In fact, my respect for the regenerative powers of the vagina goes so far that I’m looking into technology that would allow me to have the front end of my car wrapped in vaginal tissue. I’m positive that this would allow me to cut down on repair bills after my frequent car accidents.
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The Bridge
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Posted:Jan 24, 2013 1:12 pm
Last Updated:Jan 26, 2013 11:26 am
4445 Views
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I’m driving with her sitting across the cab from me.
Brilliant glowing sunlight cut by the sharp shadows cast by the supports of the bridge we are driving across. Over the last decade all of our holidays had been driving holidays - we had always found peace in the sanctuary of a vehicle – but this drive was different. The counseling session had been our last and we both knew it. Right now, she is still my wife and the fact that I know we are going to be separating doesn’t change the fact that she is the love of my life and has been for most of my adulthood.
We haven’t said anything aloud so for now we are still a couple. I look across the vehicle and see her face - now haloed by sunlight, now cast in shadow – peaceful and calm. Life had shown me how fleeting memories can be and I want to capture this image of her: peaceful look, hint of a smile, curl of hair that flipped out from where she tucked it behind her ear. That curl of hair annoys her like crazy but it always makes me smile, makes me reach over and tuck it back in place. I want to tell her that I still love her but I can’t break the silence and end the moment.
The traffic is crawling, we are sitting in the middle of the bridge. I look around at the other vehicles and wonder if their lives are in a state of turmoil too. I am feeling fairly calm and probably don’t look like my world is changing. Nobody looking at us could tell. I hear her sigh and feel the seat move as she leans back.
Last night we’d had one of our first honest conversations in a long time. We had been laying in bed beside each other, not touching. The ceiling fan was ineffectively trying to blow away the oppressively hot evening air. “I think we can be good roommates after this.” “I agree. I really think we could be.” “I don’t want a roommate.”
Our hands meet in the middle of the cab. The CDs scattered on the seat feel cold and foreign against the back of my hand as the radio plays some nameless forgettable song. I wanted to grasp our relationship the same way I was grasping her hand but most of me knew it was not going to change the path. I knew that she didn’t want the loveless marriage that her parents had, that my parents had. I didn’t want that either. We had just finished detailing that with the counselor. We both knew. Neither of us liked the truth.
“I’m going to miss you. I still…”
“Don’t! Don’t you dare say anything. Can you just shut up and let me have this last drive with you?”
“Yes.” I didn’t mean to whisper, to choke over the word. “Yes,” I say louder, more firmly.
The rest of the ride home is quiet. The moment, the marriage, and the memories are behind us now. The bridge was long but we’ve crossed it.
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