No Kidding: Coming out as Childless - Part 2

Elaine made an excellent comment on my post last week, asking how others deal with keeping blogs (or social media or interviews etc) anonymous, and therefore separate from their families. She wonders about how that feels, because such a significant part of our lives is kept separate from them. She spoke out in an interview, and that was really brave. She did it under a pseudonym, but that was still really brave! But her family don't even know. This is a really good point worth talking about. I'd love to hear your views too.

I started my blog about seven years after ending our fertility efforts. So I was less vulnerable at the time when I was gradually quoted in newspapers, or wrote for the Huffington Post, and I decided I could do it under my own name. Likewise, my blog never had those raw emotions from those early days - those were all well hidden in pregnancy loss messageboards from years earlier. So I never had to face the prospect of these being discovered. And there was enormous comfort in that anonymity, and privacy, that helped me work through those very difficult times. Maybe I never would have "come out" from being Mali at No Kidding in NZ if my blog had filled that role. Or if I had, perhaps I would have protected my blog - or the writings from those early days - from being linked to my name. Though I know that my writings here call on all my memories of the emotions of those hard days. The difference is that I no longer feel them with the same intensity.

My parents died before Otherhood came out. My father died before I made any of it really public. I hope he would have been proud of me. I wonder if he would have been a little embarrassed by it. He came from a family and generation that did not talk about these things! But hearing my name on the radio (even if I wasn't personally interviewed! lol) and seeing it in print would have been a thrill for him, as it would have been for my mother, a lifetime listener to our National Radio programmes. She knew I had blogged, and that I'd been interviewed in the past. But blogging was not something a late 70s-early 80s woman could really understand, and she wasn't able to track me down on the internet, unlike parents/grandparents today. My in-laws never discussed it with me, even though we pointed out articles that quoted me. However, more importantly, an uncle-in-law (also childless) thanked me for speaking out on behalf of the childless in an article. I tear up at the thought that I might have been the first person he had ever heard speak about how isolating Christmas can be for those who don't have children. And it was someone he knew. So for that reason alone, I'm glad I came out.

My friends know I blog. One is a regular reader, and we chat about the issues quite openly. She's a parent and grandparent, but was there for me through my pregnancy losses, has always been keen to learn and understand, and has, most importantly, listened to me when I've needed to talk, even if I've ranted about other parents and their pronatalism. Another friend has bought Otherhood and acknowledged how personal it can all be. Other friends and my sisters or sisters-in-law or nieces may or may not read. One sister reads occasionally, but I doubt the other does. If so, she's never said. I don't really mind if family or friends find me here anymore. I occasionally talk about conversations with friends or family, but try to keep them both anonymous, and balanced. I don't mind if people read about my thoughts on a particular issue or comment they might have made. They might get upset with me. But if so, they need to wonder why they would be upset. Maybe it's a teaching moment. Maybe it's just me getting something off my chest. I find it better not to know. And ... so far ... amongst people in my real, offline life, I've never had a bad reaction. I know I'm lucky!

So I suppose I do have a part of my life that is quite separate from many of my family and friends. But then, that's not new to me. I was an exchange student in Thailand at 17, and the only people in my life who can understand or relate to me about that were my fellow exchange students. We form a group on social media. The same with my ectopic pregnancies, and volunteer work. There's a group from my messageboards and volunteering colleagues who keep in touch on social media. We're the only ones who truly know what we have each been through. I have "book" friends, friends who only talk about travel, old school friends, etc. My work has often been overseas, so even my workmates haven't shared the same experiences. And of course, I have all of you - my No Kidding blog friends. I don't find it necessary that all my family and friends should know everything about me. We all share different parts of each others' lives, so it is fine that other parts of my life are relatively separate.

I guess the difference is that none of these experiences are hidden. My childlessness is obvious, given the absence of children. That can never be hidden. That's not news. My blogging is known by friends and family in principle, but I suspect few have actually ventured over to read No Kidding in NZ. I know that occasionally former colleagues have found my blog. When they needed it, I'm happy about that. If they didn't, then I don't need to have an opinion. They either liked it, or found it irrelevant. Cool.

But what if we don't want to share our support groups, our thoughts, feelings, confessions, etc? That's okay too. It's certainly not selfish. It is self-protection, comfort, and provides us with a rare safe space. Speaking out can be done in many ways. We can do it, like Elaine, anonymously, low-key like myself, or as a full frontal assault, like Jody Day and actively promote their blogs and books in their own names. Or we can choose to keep it all private. It's simply a choice. I have often said that people have to earn the right to hear my story, and only when and how I want to tell it. That works for intrusive questions, and also with our blogs. I consider who we wrote for." Ourselves? Our family and friends to understand what we were going through? People experiencing the same things some years later?  Maybe all three, or a combination. We're all different after all! And time changes us too. Whilst thoughts today might quite freely be shared with family and friends, our feelings when we first learned we'd never have kids might be intensely private, intimate, shared only due to our anonymity. If we feel we need to keep those private, for our own sake, then we can and should feel free to do so.

So, to state the obvious, the question of when, or if, to "come out" is a tricky one, and individual to each person. I've written about this before, when I wrote No Kidding: Coming Out as Childless, When Telling Our Stories Takes a Toll, and Privacy, Shame and Childlessness. Whatever you choose, if it feels right, then it is right for you. Ultimately, though, I find that time has helped enormously. Not just months, but years, even decades!

As I said in "When Telling our Stories Takes a Toll":

"As time and distance heals, though, I am pleased to know that telling our stories takes a smaller and smaller toll. In fact, I think that at some stage, it changes, and the greater toll is when we don’t tell our stories, when we don’t acknowledge our reality, when we stay in the shadows. Maybe some of that is because people aren’t ready to hear our stories. But that, I have decided, is their problem, not mine."

 

 

Privacy, shame, and childlessness

 Last week, Sue at Childless by Marriage, wrote a post asking if her readers needed to read her blog in secret. It took me back to my very first forays into the internet world looking at pregnancy loss and ectopic loss. I was lucky. I found a home at the Ectopic Pregnancy Trust messageboards relatively quickly. Well, let's say I found the site quickly. I lurked through my first ectopic, but read it avidly and got to know some people who are still friends almost 20 years later. Then about six months later, I started reading and posting on their Trying to Conceive boards. I learned all about cycle monitoring, ovulation tracking etc. It took me a long time to confess (because that's what it felt like) to my husband that I was doing this. 

By the time I had my second ectopic a year later, he knew that I was well into this online community, but he never had any urge (as far as I know) to see what I was reading or saying. He knew it helped me, and that was enough for him.

So I remember the feeling of wanting to hide what I was reading and what my thoughts were. Perhaps it was because I was trying to figure out what it was I was thinking and feeling before I discussed it with him, or anyone? Perhaps it was shame? Perhaps it was nervousness that he (or others) wouldn't understand, or would mock it? It took longer for me to open up about that to friends or family. A lot longer. Even now, I don't tell many people about this blog unless it is relevant to our conversation.

Of course, I know full well that anyone could search my real name and they'd find this blog. I bumped into a woman I worked with 34 years ago at the supermarket doing pre-Easter shopping. We had a lovely long chat and catch-up, and she noted that she had read something I'd written (directed to it by an article in a women's magazine where I had been quoted) and had liked it. I will admit, I write here as if I am still anonymous! The head-in-the-sand attitude helped when I first "came out" publicly. I was worried about people being mean, judgemental, mocking. But now, I just shrug. I am confident in what I write and who I am. But it has taken time.

And I can understand that anyone first dipping their toes into the No Kidding/childless world of writing here or elsewhere around the internet might want to stay anonymous, or lurk for a while, or always use a pseudonym. Because it takes us time to discover what we think, where we belong, and who we are. It takes time to figure that out and feel free to mention it to even those who are closest, let alone in more casual relationships or with more distant acquaintances. Protecting yourself, your privacy, and feeling safe as you're going through some major life adjustments is not wrong, and it's not shameful. It can give you the freedom to be who you are, as you figure that out. And that's pretty wonderful.

Time makes it a lot easier. Then one day, you'll find that privacy doesn't matter quite so much any more. You might feel your shoulders relax, hold your head higher, and puff out your chest, proud of who you are, and how far you've come.

 

No Kidding: Coming Out as Childless

Back in World Childless Week, I reposted about Being Worthy. Since then, Sue posted about feeling worthy and talked about the issue of coming out as childless. Recently, Loribeth has written two posts about coming out  (here and here) too.

In Sue’s post, she said, “Don’t those who matter already know, and as for the rest, it’s none of their business?"

I loved this. It is exactly how I feel. I don’t hide the fact that I don’t have children. But what I do hide, a little, are the emotions around it. Well, except here! But then, I generally hide emotions around a lot of things. They’re mine, they’re personal, and I don’t want to share them! So I don’t talk about personal issues or opinions very openly. Correction. I discuss these things with people I trust, or people I think will try to understand. I’ve said frequently that I tell my story only when I choose to do so. That goes for any personal issue, not just childlessness. And childlessness and infertility is awfully personal. It involves our bodies, our reproductive systems and sex lives, our personalities and character, and – perhaps most importantly – grief. These are very personal issues, intimate issues, that some people feel comfortable sharing, and others don’t. Each of us is different. And as I've written before, coming out takes a toll.

I’m kind of in the middle about sharing. I don't hide my childlessness, and I don’t deliberately hide my feelings about it. However, I do agree that it is important to talk about the issue if we’re ever going to see people change their behaviour towards and their judgement about those of us who don’t have children. But I don’t go out to proselytise either. (There are others who do this brilliantly through blogs and groups and websites, and I thank them for their voices and their courage.) My blog here has two purposes. The first is for me to make sense of my situation, and figure out what I think and what is important to me. The second and most important purpose is to try and help those who have been through similar things or those who want to learn about what it is like to go through these things. My focus here is the No Kidding, not the rest of the world.

There is, however, no doubt though that I am “out.” I've been interviewed in a national magazine and newspapers. These were opportunities for me to spread the word. I was nervous, because doing this meant I put my pain and my otherness out on public display, and it meant that I didn’t have a chance to respond or deal with judgements that might have come up as such. It was very scary. I probably prefer the individual interactions I have with people to help them understand, or just – hopefully – make them think, just for a moment, about the No Kidding who walk amongst them.

If I want to say something to an individual or a group, I do speak up. I’ll casually mention in conversation that I don’t have children if it is relevant and then just move on. If someone has made a glaring judgement about people without children, or deliberately overlooked my situation because it isn’t the norm, I’ll point it out. As I have said, I’m not going to be dismissed or ignored! If I am asked about it, I choose how I want to respond – it ranges from saying simply "no, I don't have children" to willingly sharing more deeply, depending on the context and the person asking. I hold strongly to that right to choose how or if I respond. It gives me the power, and the confidence, in a situation where I might otherwise feel vulnerable.

But mostly, I have to say that it just isn't top of my mind to share (unnecessary) details of my story. It goes against my nature. But also, and most importantly, because being childless is really only a small part of who I am. At one stage of my life it felt like it was 100% of who I was. But no longer. It’s part of me, but only a small part now. I am not kidding.

 

From WCW 2018

 

When telling our stories takes a toll

Going public about infertility or the fact our No Kidding status was not our choice – even if we love it now – is often not easy. Some people are happy to speak openly, even when they are going through it, but many of us find it takes time, and some never actually open up about our losses or difficulties.

I began thinking about this issue (again) when I read Lori’s post noting that she didn’t want to be outed when going through it. Neither did I. At the time, I didn’t tell anyone at work about my first ectopic – I had a week off before Christmas, and by the time we all came back after New Year everyone was swapping summer holiday stories, and had forgotten I had been away. I told family (because travel plans had to be changed) and a few close friends. But then, the infertility began. I say began, because by then we realised we might need help, I started charting my cycle, learning things about my body that I wished I’d learned as a teenager, and reading message boards online. After my second ectopic and cancer scare, I was a little more open, and was very open with a group of people I met on message boards. But I still didn’t want to share in real life, and it took me a while to be able to do so.

But why not?

Because telling our stories takes a toll. When we are already vulnerable and feel like a failure, it opens us up to judgement, condescension, and isolation from "otherness." That can be tough to deal with, especially with people we know. Some people can breeze through this, but so many of us can’t. I can’t always. My husband often tells me not to care  what people think. It’s easier said than done, though I’m better than I once was. And back then, when I was vulnerable, when infertility and loss had already taken such a huge toll, when I was still adjusting to my life, I couldn’t risk further spirit-crushing judgement. It was already hard enough to deal with my own internal dialogue of failure, misconceptions, and negative stereotypes.

As we grow and develop into acceptance of our No Kidding lives, it becomes easier. But we still have to brace ourselves against the reaction of the person who is hearing our story. And it is hard to maintain that level of awareness, of preparedness, steeling ourselves against the possibilities of being misunderstood. Last year, Infertile Phoenix wrote about how exhausting that is in an excellent post here.

As time and distance heals, though, I am pleased to know that telling our stories takes a smaller and smaller toll. In fact, I think that at some stage, it changes, and the greater toll is when we don’t tell our stories, when we don’t acknowledge our reality, when we stay in the shadows. Maybe some of that is because people aren’t ready to hear our stories. But that, I have decided, is their problem, not mine.