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."

 

 

Saying "No"

Kathleen on Life without Baby wrote about just saying “no” to the infamous “do you have children?” question. She, and a lot of women I have seen, feel the urge to qualify this statement, to justify why they don’t have children, but sometimes they don't quite know why they do this. Some of her blog readers commented that they felt they needed to let people know it wasn’t by choice, and in doing so, felt they honoured their own journey and the loss of their children. Some felt that in doing this, they also modified (in their favour) the responses of the person who asked.

To use Kathleen’s phrase, it got me thinking. I’ve always just said “no,” and I’ve written about this a couple of times (here, and here). But why?

I said no when I was in my 20s, and was putting off any decisions about having children. I said “no” with gusto, because I was indignant that people automatically assumed I might have children just because I was married, and female, because I had no intention of having children in my 20s, and because I didn't feel I needed to justify this to anyone!

I said “no” in my 30s, as I became comfortable in my career but still struggled against sexism, as my international business travel made opportunities to conceive harder to find, as we started to realise we might never conceive, and as I suffered and healed from my first ectopic pregnancy. I said “no” without explanation because it was no-one’s business but my own, and – once we started trying to conceive – we in fact told no-one about it.

I said “no” because I wanted to be treated equally at work to the men (who could, I admit, freely say “yes” without any negative reactions and “no” with fewer negative reactions than for me). I said “no” because I didn’t want to be judged, one way or the other, or to deal with their judgement.

In saying “no,” I found that it can leave an ambiguity in the questioner’s mind – maybe I didn’t want them, or maybe I couldn’t have them. Either way, most people didn’t tend to ask the follow-up, “why not?” So saying “no” was a form of protection of sorts.

I said “no” when I was 40, suffering and healing from my complicated second ectopic pregnancy, when visiting infertility clinics, scheduling and attempting IVF cycles, as I was on holiday after an unsuccessful IVF cycle and before my last attempt, and on a major wedding anniversary. I said “no” for all the same reasons I’d always said “no.” But I also said “no” hoping to avoid pity, condescencion and judgement, and any discussion on the matter, which raised an additional concern that I might break down in tears, and embarrass myself.

I said “no” when I was grieving losses, and grieving the first year or two of my childlessness, and No Kidding life, because I didn’t want to have to explain anything to anyone, for all the above reasons, but with a new and unwanted factor at my lowest time – that of shame.

I still say “no” now for most of the reasons mentioned above. I still feel indignant that people automatically assume I might have children when 20% of women my age do not, and that my worth as a woman is often judged by whether or not I am a mother. I still believe it is no-one’s business but my own, and I still bristle when asked because it is not the first question asked of men.

I no longer say “no” because I am afraid I will break down in tears, or that people will feel pity, or because I feel any shame. I do not. Which is why I say “no” with no explanation, because I do not feel I owe the world an explanation. Any details are my choice, and my choice alone. I am not obligated to answer questions.

I like the power a simple, polite, definite "no" gives me. I get to decide whether anyone deserves to know any details about why I do not have children. My story is deeply personal, my journey is personal, and only deserving people get to know it, or those who may need to know it for their own comfort, so they don’t feel alone. I can decide on a whim, in a split-second. I have no need or obligation to be consistent. It can be simply in the way someone phrases a question, in whether I see if they are open or not, judgemental or not.

The exception to the only-if-you-deserve-to hear-my-story is when I think someone needs to be enlightened (i.e. educated) and I’ve decided that hopefully they are capable of learning. In learning my story (briefly or in full), maybe they will not be so quick with questions or rude follow-ups in the future, when they are dealing with someone more vulnerable than I am.

But you know what? I even bristle when I answer “no” because what I really want to say is, “why do you want to know?”

Finally, acknowledgement for No Kidding women

I'm feeling a bit nervous. Recently, I was interviewed by a major women's magazine here in New Zealand. The writer had found my blog here, and I guess she thought what I had said was interesting, and wanted to interview me for an article she was writing about women without children. I was initially a bit hesitant, especially when I learned that her focus was going to be on women who were childfree by choice. But she was aware of the numbers of women who don't have children, and wanted to see what our lives were like. This wasn't going to be one of those nasty, attack articles about the selfish and frivolous lives of the childfree. So I bit the bullet, and gave her my name, and - it turned out - some quotes for the article.

The magazine arrived in the mail earlier this week. I read the article tentatively. She had written the article as originally envisaged, and I was accurately quoted, making at least one or two points I wanted to make. But there, in a magazine anyone in New Zealand might pick up, this month or for years to come in doctors' waiting rooms or fish and chip shops or Chinese takeaways, is my name, the name of this blog, and some of my history. I have generally kept this blog private. I guess that's blown now, as this magazine is the most widely read magazine in New Zealand (according to its own publicity).

Two things grated a little with me. The first was referring to my ectopic pregnancies as miscarriages. As someone who spent years volunteering for an ectopic pregnancy organisation, ignoring the difference just feeds the ignorance of the population, and this ignorance can, in fact, be very dangerous, even lethal. Still, I guess it was incidental to the topic of the article, so I can live with it.

The second jarring note was seeing my age in black and white. I don't feel that old, and seeing it in print was - laughably, I guess, considering it is no surprise to me -  quite shocking!

I don't have a link to the article yet. I am told that it will become available once the magazine is off the shelves in about a month, and will make it public here. For any kiwis reading this, the magazine is the Australian Women's Weekly (NZ edition). Feel free to read it!I actually think that No Kidding women sit confidently and comfortably next to the inevitable gushing about little Prince George and Princess Charlotte and their mother (who, of course, features on the cover) that is the main fodder of a women's magazine.

The whole point of this post though, is how pleased I am that a major women's magazine has focused on the sheer number of women who don't have children, and highlighted some features of our lives, that others might not have considered. Finally.

Shying away from exposure

Yesterday was Babyloss Awareness Day, and a lot of my friends have posted about it on Fb. I commented and appreciated these posts. But I didn’t post one myself. Which is not to say that I didn’t think about my own two lost pregnancies, or those of my friends and relatives who have lost babies – from young babies to still-births to early miscarriages.  We have all known the grief of losing a life we had such hope for, even if our losses and experiences were very different.  But this isn't something I talk about openly to all my FB friends. Or my family.  Maybe particularly my family.  Hmmm.

Now on the radio that is the soundtrack to my life, they are discussing the Apple/FB egg-freezing policy. They have a panel discussion, and invite comments. I wanted to get my two cents worth in, so I sent a comment. But I did it under a pseudonym. And not Mali either, because I've pretty much come out as Mali. No, believe it or not, my pseudonym has a pseudonym!

The weird thing is that I am perfectly prepared to speak out about infertility and my feelings about it. But on my terms. So I guess that I am still wary of being part of a public discussion. I feel exposed – but I think I might feel that way about any other topic too. New Zealand is a really small place, and the odds are that people I know personally and professionally will see/hear my comments. Well, that’s my excuse, and I'm sticking to it.

Sharing our stories ... or not ...

As I mentioned before, one of the joys of being on holiday is just “being.”  We travel without labels, other than perhaps our nationality and first names.  At the end of our trip, we visited another game reserve.  There were two American couples on our trip, one a young (30-ish) honeymoon couple.  So inevitably the subject of children came up.  The second couple (40-ish) didn’t have children, and talked briefly one lunch-time about how it had never been an issue for them.  They were undeniably childfree.  The woman then turned to me across the lunch table, and joked that “oops, you must have kids.”  I shook my head.  “Nope,” we said.  “But you’re happy, right?” said the childfree,.  I nodded and laughed.  “We’re here, aren’t we?”  And the subject – around us – never came up again.

I didn't share my story.  It wasn't the place for that kind of conversation.  We were all meeting each other for the first time, a communal group of about 14 people at a long table.  And I felt comfortable not sharing.  In fact, I felt more than comfortable.  I felt free.  

I felt free, not having to justify my position to indignant parents.  I felt free, in a majority of people without children.  I felt free, not having to face people’s pity.  I felt free, feeling normal, not deficient in any way.  I felt free, not having to explain what ectopic pregnancies are, or blocked tubes, etc.  I felt free, not having to answer any questions about “why not?” or “did you consider adoption?”   I felt free.

Later, there were conversations we were on the periphery of, with the honeymoon couple.  He wanted to try for kids in the first year, she wanted to wait another year or two.  Our young ranger and his wife (the lodge manager) were expecting their first child, so the subject came up around them too.  One night, as we stood out in the middle of the African Bush, with a drink in hand as darkness feel, and as the giraffes skirted the vehicle, nibbling on the thorn trees, he was asked if they had been trying.  (I rolled my eyes.  This is such an intrusive question!)  “It wasn’t happening,” he said – and in those few words I understood the enormity of what he wasn’t saying, of what she (they) had probably gone through, of their fear, of the shaken confidence in their bodies.  “But,” he said ... and my heart sank.  You guessed it.  His explanation, in summary, was that “we just relaxed and it happened.”  A discussion ensured on the benefits of “just relaxing.”  I couldn’t contribute to this conversation (I was feeling decidedly under the weather from what turned out to be a brief bout of food poisoning).  But I was screaming in my head “you know that’s an old wives’ tale.” 

I left it at that, and we continued to enjoy our safari.  But I did go over the conversation, and questioned myself about whether I should have said anything or not.  Then I got home, and read posts about “passing or not passing,” and whether or not we have an obligation to put our stories out there.

Unquestionably in Africa, I didn’t put the entirety of my story out there.  Maybe I should have.  Maybe it would have helped both the ranger and his wife, and the young honeymoon couple at some stage.  But I didn’t.    I needed the space.  I needed the freedom.  I was still true to myself.  We are happy after all.  And perhaps having that knowledge, seeing our example (and the example of the second American childfree couple) will have helped the ranger and his wife, and the other couple, in some way.  Perhaps seeing a happy relationship that has lasted 20+ years, and learning about fulfilled lives without children, might just make those couples think when they meet others, or even help them through some of their own difficult times.  And I have to say, having the choice about what I wanted to say (or not say) just felt right.

What about the men?

I got a few comments on my Huff Post piece saying “what about the men?”  They ran rather sarcastically along the lines of “men don’t count, only women’s feelings count, everyone forgets the man” etc etc.  And I guess, if you’re coming into either my blog or read that article, you might think that.  I mean, I rarely talk about my husband on-line.  I don’t do it on A Separate Life, I don’t do it on Facebook, and I don’t do it here.  Even when he is mentioned, he’s “my husband” or simply “him/he.”

The thing is, it was my choice to go on-line to talk about my life, not his.  He struggles to even read my blogs.  He’s only on Facebook so he can see photos of relatives, he doesn’t even know what a status update is, and he can’t imagine anything worse than writing for fun!  He’s been selectively private about our infertility.  (He hasn’t discussed it with his family, but he has discussed it with a friend of his who has gone through infertility.)  And of course, his experience with infertility has been different to mine.  He’s watched me go through extremes during our marriage – initially very pro-contraception, right through to the cycle charting, the IVF injecting, and the thoughts of adoption or using donor eggs.  He’s watched me go through physical risk and emotional turmoil, at the same time coping with his own emotions of loss.  That’s his experience of infertility, and whilst I think I understand it somewhat, I know I don’t understand it 100%.   

His experience of infertility, and indeed his experience of living with no kids, is his experience, not mine.  I respect that.  I know that it is his story, not mine.  And I know that his story is not my story to write.  

The answer to that question

THAT question.  Do you have kids?  There are quite a lot of posts around at the moment where the question of what to say to this question is being mentioned.  I know I’ve addressed this before.  But I keep seeing the issue come up - and the common thread is that no-one feels comfortable answering this question.

Some people feel it is rude not to answer.

Others feel they want to be "honest" and provide details.

Others feel they need to justify why they don’t have children.

Others don’t want to answer, but just don’t know what to say.

I remember seeing the film of a psychological experiment where someone, in a public place, simply started giving orders to passers-by.  The innocent passers-by were remarkably obedient, compliant, submissive even.  The conclusion was that obedience – especially to someone who projects authority and the expectation of obedience - is obviously an instinctive response.  I wonder if that explains why why we feel we have to answer a question, any question, when we’re asked?  Even when we don’t want to?  I think this instinct to be obedient, to conform, and not to be rude is especially strong in women.  So we’re really in trouble when we’re asked if we have kids, aren’t we?  It explains perhaps why we feel we’re being dishonest for not giving out full details of the reasons why we don’t have children.

But, you know, I don’t think that choosing to withhold information is in any way dishonest or rude.  Why should we feel that way, especially as sometimes the questions are rude / insensitive /invasive or personal?  I think we are simply exercising our right to privacy.  I don't choose to bring up that topic.  So why should I respond, in any detail or at all?  And a lack of response, or a simple answer, isn’t rudeness or dishonesty.  A rude response might be “mind your own @%$#*&^ business!”  A dishonest response might be a response that simply isn’t true.  But a decision not to answer or give details?  That’s not rude, or dishonest. It is simply the answer we want to give.

I chose to give a one word answer – No.  Depending on who is asking, I may or may not follow up with any details.  But usually, my view is that if they don't know me well enough to know I have children, then they don't know me well enough to know any details!  So I simply say "No."  And when I say it – with a strong tone, with a degree of finality, but always politely – I find I am not asked the inevitable follow-up question “why not?”  (And let’s face it, that’s the one we really don’t want to answer!)  By not offering more information, by strongly implying that that topic of conversation is a dead end, I find that those asking the question – perhaps responding to their own need to be obedient – move on to another topic too.

I feel strongly that as a community we need to claim our right to respond the way we want to.  We shouldn’t feel cowed, or victimised, by questions we don’t want to answer.  I hope that we all will one day  feel strong enough to choose to answer – or not – as we see fit, and without guilt, or fear, or shame.

A shoulder to lean on?

 In infertility circles, there’s always the question.  Who do we tell?  I started spotting (and my temperature dipped) on Christmas Day with my second ectopic when I was with all my family.  I knew things were not going well.  And I remember thinking "I just want to get out of here."  I knew that I wouldn't get the support I needed with my family.  I just wanted to be alone.

This isn’t an indictment on my family.  They’re not selfish or any more insensitive than anyone else (including me!), but they wouldn't know how to react, and that would have been hard for all of us.  I could see myself having to spend all my energy worrying about my mother, for example.  I might be selling her short.  But I wasn’t prepared to test it.  Besides, I was 40.  I stopped relying on my family for emotional support when I was 17.  I wasn’t going to start again at this.  I wouldn't have known how, and neither would they.

As my ectopic dragged on, proving complicated to treat and resolve, as I was in and out of hospital, I got support from my husband and from on-line friends who knew what I was going through, having been through similar times themselves. One of my sisters was concerned, and would ring regularly to show support.  I appreciated that, but I found it hard to talk.  So in the end I asked her to email, not phone.  In the midst of grief, having that control, being able to choose when I spoke (or wrote) to someone, was important.  I didn’t have to pretend I was cheerful, or to sound upbeat.  The words could do it for me if I needed, and I could type with tears streaming down my face. 

So when I tried IVF, I didn't tell anyone in my family.  There were dozens of women on the support group who knew I was injecting myself daily with drug, but only one real life friend.  I knew I couldn’t cope with the expectations, the questions to see how it was going, how I was coping, why I wasn’t feeling optimistic, or getting “over it” etc.  I’d seen others under enormous stress from their friends and family, expecting positive results, and I didn’t want to deal with that.  So I blocked everyone off, and I did that to protect myself.  I needed to be selfish, and concentrate on what I was going through at the time.  It worked for me.  It doesn't work for everyone, I know.  A lot of women would be shocked that I didn’t involve my family.  But it was right for me, and really, that's what was important at the time.  And to be honest, almost eight years later, I don't actually know if my family know.  I can't remember if I told them in the end, and we've moved on.  I guess if they read this, they know now!