Wisdom in an advice column

I have discovered I love Carolyn Hax. She’s an advice columnist at The Washington Post, and I would never have heard of her if it hadn’t been for Mel at Stirrup Queens quoting her from time to time. I now have a subscription for the online Post, and part of the reason is her! She is so unerringly sensible, kind but direct. And sometimes really funny.  

The other day I saw an old question reposted, and in her response she said something that I’ve tried to say here too. Someone was worried that by expressing their true wishes they'd offend a friend. Her answer was a classic: 

“The sooner you learn that “direct” and “mean” are not synonymous, the better for your entire relationship future.”

I’ve often worried that same thing, when I have felt under attack simply for mentioning that my reality is different from another person's. I’ve seen a lot of people (on blogs and in messageboards) over the years worry that by speaking up for themselves they are being rude or unkind. No! We can be tactfully direct, eg by saying “those of us without children might see things differently/have to do things differently,” without ever being rude. Talking about our reality is not rude, or mean. It’s simply being truthful.

I know I’m repeating myself. But the older I get, the more I believe this. Don't get me wrong, I'm someone who hates conflict, and likes to smooth waters. But these days, I no longer feel the need to subjugate my truth and feelings for the mistaken perception that by speaking my truth I might upset someone else.

Other posts in this vein of thought can be found by clicking here and, with a lot of overlap, here. 

I'll repost this image reminding us we can be honest and true to ourselves, and still be a kind person:

 

Being kind to others and yourself

Being kind to others as well as yourself is something I've seen the No Kidding community struggle with for years and years. (I've listed previous posts on this issue at the bottom of this post, just before an admin note.) There's the feeling we can't reply to people the way we want to or stand up for ourselves in case we're considered to be rude. The idea that saying "no" to a question and not explaining ourselves might be rude. The idea that others can trample all over us and we would be rude to point that out, or that by putting a different point of view we are confrontational. The idea that by protecting ourselves we might not be a good friend. I've been quite disturbed by this at times. So I was really pleased to see a meme posted on social media the other day that pointed out all the things you can do and say and still be a kind person.

I've tried to find a credit for it, but can't. So I'm going to write my own No Kidding version. 

You can be a kind person and still:

• Refuse to answer invasive questions
• Set boundaries, protect your heart, and say "no"
• Refuse to be ignored or sidelined simply because you don't have children
• Point out incorrect stereotypes or assumptions
• Be honest about your life
• Forgive yourself and, in time, others
• Defend yourself and your tribe
• Realise that putting yourself and your needs last helps no-one

 

A few relevant previous posts include:

• My existence is not offensive
• All those questions 
• Saying "no

Lastly, some admin: I've been having trouble commenting on any blogger sites - including my own - for some reason. Sometimes I can't comment even though I'm logged into blogger myself. Sometimes I can't comment even with my name and URL.  It comes and goes, and is frustrating. I'm still reading though. Apologies if I've been silent on your blogs, or if - like me - you are having difficulties commenting here.

"

 

The Fraud Syndrome (Part 2)

I frequently have a nagging feeling of discomfort about my blog. I pride myself that it lives up to its No Kidding name, in both senses of the word. But I feel torn between the two aims I have for this blog.

The first is the desire to show that we can, and almost certainly will, have a happy and peaceful life when we don’t get that “take-home baby” after infertility. I talk about how we can get there, what helped me, the gifts I’ve gained through this struggle, and the advantages of getting where I am today.

But I also feel strongly that we should all have permission to talk about what’s tough. Parents move on with their life, and find that their “happily ever after” involves struggles, exhaustion, financial worries, ill or difficult children, or a myriad of other related life stresses. I have long been an advocate of parents after infertility feeling free to talk about the difficulties of their lives, rather than feeling the pressure to pretend that everything is fine and to feel forever grateful. Those of us who couldn’t or don’t have children shouldn’t begrudge them the ability to complain, even when they may have been through so much to have their children. However, those of us without children should be able to do this too.

Healing and “coming to terms” doesn’t mean the feelings simply go away, or though they often do recede or even disappear. I believe that it means we understand them, learn to live with them, don’t fight them or regret them, don’t wish it was otherwise or rant and rave, but see the way the world could help us by being different. I would argue that although some people expect us to have lost those feelings entirely, that is not healing. Banishing feelings without understand them is not healing. Learning to live with them, or to overcome them, is true growth and understanding. Just as parents know they can love their children but not like aspects of parenting, or even aspects of their children’s behaviour, those of us without kids know that we can love our lives, but not like all the consequences of that. After all, life is a compromise, isn’t it? Why should we be any different?

But it is hard – when we see that most of our extended infertility online community are doing everything they can to avoid being in our situation – to be honest about the tough times. We heal, and we move on, and though we never forget, we laugh and love and are happy. I want those coming after us to see that, to feel it, to understand it, and be pleased for us. I want to reduce the fear of those who might follow in my path, as much as I want to help and encourage those who have only just started on this path.

But I don’t want to be a fraud, and I need to be honest about the tough times too. I first posted about this in 2015, when I talked about issues that were causing me stress in my life. That was seven years ago, and since then I’ve been through the deaths of the last three parents/parents-in-law, a huge bill for house maintenance, the inability to secure further work, and of course, a pandemic. Despite all that stress, I continue to talk here about the techniques I’ve used over the years, or still try to use now, to bring consciousness, joy, and peace into my life, to balance any stress or negativity.

Rationally and logically I might be at peace with my life, but it doesn’t mean that I don’t still have ouch moments, feel some of the emotions that we all feel from time to time, or worry about the future without children. It was especially hard when we were going through the years of elder care, knowing we have no-one to do these tasks for us – or not with the same degree of intimacy. It doesn’t mean that the isolation of those of us without kids doesn’t affect me, or that I don’t notice and feel the bias of society towards those with children and away from us. It doesn’t mean I don’t feel a twinge when my rights or interests are given a lower priority, when a thoughtless, excluding comment is made.

Along with that are the very personal moments of enduring loss. These can creep up on us, especially, as anniversaries come and go, as August (which would have brought the due dates of both my ectopic pregnancies), as December and the holiday season beckon, as we lose the generation above us. These anniversaries might lose their searing, breath-taking pain, but still they remind us of what we’ve lost. Sometimes I think the sadness they bring is perhaps more about the reminders, about remembering those tough times, and honouring what my husband and I (and all of you) went through, than it is about the loss itself. I’ve come to terms with the loss, I’m happy with my life, but it doesn’t mean that there aren’t occasional moments of sadness. And when they occur, I find it helpful to talk about them. I know that others reading this will understand, and there is comfort in knowing that others understand, who can provide support, even if I'd rather they didn't know from experience. There's comfort in not being alone. So, I hope that my honesty helps others who are struggling too, who might doubt their resilience, their strength, in facing the difficulties of their situation. Those who might worry that they're not coping as well as they think they should, and who could be reassured knowing that what they feel is normal, and that it will get better.

I think that everyone feels this from time to time, except perhaps for the extremely fortunate, or those who live in denial! It’s certainly not unique to those of us who don’t have children. It’s okay to feel sad, to feel pain, and to admit that. If I didn’t, I’d truly be a fraud. If I couldn’t admit it here, with others who understand, where could I do that? If I didn't admit that here, what damage might I do to our cause and quest for understanding, both within our community, and in wider society? 

Ultimately, therefore, I've concluded that I don’t think there’s any conflict between embracing our No Kidding lives, yet still admitting to occasional moments of sadness over what we’ve lost. I will fight the feelings of being a fraud, and stick to honesty. The hope I offer is that those moments of sadness don’t stay. They come, and they go, and we continue to live and love and enjoy life. I’m not kidding.

 

 

A confession

I've read a lot (though not all) of the books written by fellow bloggers about their infertility journey, or about being childless. Each one is different, in terms of their history, diagnosis or circumstance, approach to family building, and discussion about living a No Kidding life. I've even written one myself, but it sits in my back up drive, and has been there for quite a few years. I need to make a decision about what to do with it. I do think it fills a gap in the literature, but I'm unsure about it for other reasons. Or reason.

You see, I haven't done anything about it before this because I am, inherently, shy. It's a very personal and honest account of how I felt at the time. And that's the thing. So many of us, me included, didn't open up to our friends and family about how we felt. We covered it up, as we cover up so many things. My business colleagues didn't know how I felt, or even that I was going through it at all (with one or two exceptions). My family didn't really know how I felt. One or two friends knew, but not in much detail. I didn't bottle things up though, and I wasn't without support. I had online outlets and friends there, and because we had met each other in grief, grief and support was our shared language. We understood each other, we allowed each other to vent. But in real life? That was another matter. 

And so baring my soul in a book would be difficult. It would be something my friends and acquaintances here might want to read. I'm not sure I'm ready for that, even though I've contributed to articles here and internationally, and write this blog. Because basically, most friends and relatives aren't interested enough to follow me online. And that's fine with me. But a book might be different. And I don't want it (my No Kidding state), and/or my emotions around it, to define me. Especially now, when so much of it is in the past. It might be why I don't talk about it very often on social media, though in person I'll raise it much more often now (when relevant) than when I was going through it.

Yet, I think baring my soul is necessary too. Because if we don't talk honestly, both about how hard it is, how wonderful it can be when we come out the other end, and most importantly, how we got there, then we are not helping those who come after us. And we don't help others understand. This may be why we are so easily dismissed and ignored. Because we don't talk about the hard stuff. In the same way that my friends and family don't generally talk about their hard stuff either. When we do open up, others become uncomfortable. And their discomfort means that we swallow ours, and let them continue to live in ignorance and judgement. Which they may well be doing with us too, about their secret shame or sadness or disappointments. If only we could all be more open with each other, and feel safe in doing so. 

Once again, writing has let me figure out what I'm thinking. And now I know it is time for me to dig out those files, and read what I've written, and maybe even do something with it. And stop kidding around.

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

 

No Kidding 2020 Project: Day 15 - Admit

Admit. It’s a small word. A simple concept. We require admission from others, but often forget to require it ourselves. But after we’ve asked our own questions, it is time to admit the answers, or even just admit the truths of our situation, to ourselves at least. Being honest with ourselves, without debate, without recrimination or self-blame, is an enormous step towards a happy and healthy No Kidding life.

We all have different things to admit to ourselves. Or I do at least. We all have stories we tell ourselves. Sometimes it is worth questioning those, as I pointed out last week, and then admitting the truth. Because admitting the truth helps our acceptance. If we’re not telling ourselves the truth, we’re not finding full acceptance.

What might we need to admit when discovering our No Kidding lives?

Perhaps we need to admit that maybe we’ve been clinging on to hope that things will be different. Perhaps we need to admit that we’ve felt comfort in the grief and the what-ifs, and have stayed there too long. Perhaps we need to admit that looking to the future is scary, and admit that we don’t want to do it.

Perhaps we need to admit that we genuinely didn’t know that it would be so hard to face, that we thought infertility and loss and the uncertainty was the hardest thing. Perhaps we need to admit that the loss of hope, and the need to turn away from that hope, is harder than we could ever have imagined. Perhaps we need to admit that the end has been harder than anything we’ve faced so far. Or perhaps we need to admit that maybe, for us, it has not been.

Perhaps we just need to admit that we feel lost and alone, and that we need help. Perhaps we need to admit that we need to know we’ll be okay. Perhaps we need to admit that we don’t think we will be okay. That we are scared. Or lonely. Or both. Perhaps we need to admit that we need to know someone understands. Perhaps we need to admit that we expect far too much of ourselves.

Or perhaps we need to admit that we are doing okay, and that this isn’t the nightmare scenario we had led ourselves to believe. Perhaps we need to admit that we might feel some relief at the end of the journey. Perhaps we need to admit that we like our lives.

And perhaps we need to admit that we are not infallible. That we can experience and admit all these thoughts and feelings and truths of our lives, and that there will be contradictions. We can admit that it is never all good, but that also means that it is never all bad. That it is okay to slip, have ouch moments and down days. That things will bother us. That our growth will be a gradual process. That sometimes we will feel like we’re taking one step forward and two steps back. Perhaps we can admit all that, but still know we will be okay. Admitting that is a major achievement!

It’s an ongoing process too. Just this morning I admitted something to myself I didn’t really want to know. I’m questioning how true it is, but the admission has been useful. I just need to figure out how to deal with it.

There’s a freedom in admitting the truth to ourselves. Sure, initially it can be painful. But in admitting who we are or who we are not, what works or doesn’t work for us, we learn more about how we can get the best from ourselves, how we can get the best from others, and from whatever it is that the world offers us. It means too that we’re not hiding – at least to ourselves – the truth. That relieves us of a sometimes heavy burden, and gives us time and space and clarity to more freely navigate the future. 

What do you need to admit to yourself?