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.

Gifts of Infertility Series - #24 – Self-Discovery

It’s been a long time since I wrote a post on this series, not because I’ve struggled to find a topic to write about, but because I wanted to make the most of the last two items in this series, and before now didn't quite feel I could commit to this.

The 24^th in my list of the Gifts of Infertility is really a summation of many of the other items. It is one of the biggest gifts of the heartbreak that came from infertility and loss. It is self-discovery, and hasn’t just helped me deal with infertility, but has spread into all aspects of my life.

Self-discovery and personal growth often come out of difficult times. Sure, there are plenty of people who go through difficult times and come out of it just as selfish as they were before, just as some people come out feeling much more afraid, less trusting, and more self-focused than they were before this. But after a long time, I certainly recognise the benefits of the personal growth that resulted from of those difficult years.

Self-discovery does not mean that we have all the answers. I think that self-discovery means that we are more open to the realities of who we are, and can face up to both our talents and our flaws.

I have a lot of flaws. I think I’m aware of most of them, as I admit them to myself even if I won’t always admit them to others – just in case they haven’t noticed (yes, I live in hope). What I’ve learned though is that it doesn’t help me if I berate myself over them. I’ve learned to try to change them if I can, to face them – as I faced my shyness when I left on a student exchange when I was 17 – as issues that need to be dealt with or lived with, rather than to judge myself because of these issues.

Self-discovery came to me when I allowed myself to grieve. It came to me when I allowed myself to be vulnerable, to really feel emotions, rather than tamp them down. It came to me when I needed to think about what made me happy, after spending a long time of being very sad. It came to me when I needed to look at what I had, because looking at what I didn’t have wasn’t doing me any good. It came to me when I showed self-compassion, and so could face my flaws without terrible guilt and self-hatred and shame. It came to me when I was as kind to myself as I would be to friends and family, when I stopped beating myself up.

Self-discovery came to me when I saw what worked, and was honest about what didn’t. It came to me when I dropped the judgement, and tried to be productive instead. It came to me when I learned more about others, and that helped me learn more about myself. Self-discovery came to me through hard work and tears. It came to me through love and compassion. It came to me from inside myself, and from learning from other wise women who were walking alongside me and helping me.

Self-discovery is a continuing journey, applicable in all aspects of my life. It is a journey that can still bring disappointment in myself, and could easily be halted by shame. But if I don’t allow the shame to take hold again, if I can commit to the honesty required to get past it, self-discovery can also deliver satisfaction and joy and confidence and growth. The best thing about it is that it can banish a lot of fear, and that results in self-imposed burdens tumble from my shoulders. That freedom has allowed me to embrace the future, whatever it might bring. Self-discovery truly is one of the ongoing gifts of infertility.

Practising self-compassion

I saw the light this morning in bed. Actually, I didn’t see the light,not literally, because the curtains were still closed, but you know what I mean. I was having a lazy Saturday morning lying in bed, reading blogs and books and articles on my iPad, with a nice cup of tea delivered by my husband. (Some of the joys of not having kids!) Two things came together for me.

The first was a paragraph written by Brené Brown. You probably know I love her work on shame, as I think it relates very accurately to the experience of infertility. (See my post on Infertility and shame here.) As I read her, it explains time and time again why I’ve felt a particular way, and why something I’ve done or thought has worked for me, allowed me to feel better about myself after infertility.

She wrote about self-compassion in one of her earlier books (The Gifts of Imperfection - which I’m finally reading), and noted that in learning self-compassion, we need to set boundaries. In having compassion for ourselves, we can’t let people walk all over us, we can’t allow ourselves to be pushed around, or belittled.

The first step is to stop belittling ourselves, telling ourselves that we are lesser women (or men) because we can’t have children, that our lives aren’t worth as much, or that we have no future. If we tell ourselves this, and let ourselves repeat these beliefs and accusations over and over again, we’re just beating ourselves up. We’re creating victims, and we’re not being truthful. I understand how painful it can be – I’m an expert at berating myself for particular activities, and I can be very good at worrying about imagining that other people think the worst about me. But these days, I am better at stopping that train of thought when I recognise it. I’m better at realising that I think these things, but it doesn’t mean other people think these things about me. And I’m better at remembering that ultimately, we are all self-centred, and so other people probably aren’t thinking these negative things about me at all, because they’re busy at thinking them about themselves!

The next step is to stop letting others belittle us. I’ve done this in two steps. The first was to realise that so many of our attitudes, and therefore society’s attitudes, towards the childless is a massive stereotype, rarely thought through, and just not logical. We’re not selfish, we do know what love is, and we do leave a legacy.

The second step is more personal, and it is to stop putting other people’s opinions and feelings before our own. Sure, there are times this is appropriate. But not all the time. And that’s often the problem – that we are constantly putting others before ourselves. Believe me, I was taught this from a young age. This morning, I saw a post from Kathleen on Life Without Baby, talking about the responses from people when they received her wedding invitations. “I received several variations of “Didn’t know you were pregnant – har har!” She felt it would have been rude to point out that this was not possible any more, and that she was sad about that.

I was shocked, I will admit. Why would it have been rude to respond with her suggested, very polite response? Her feelings matter. When people make jokes and they hurt, why should we feel we have to take it, and not respond? (Yes, I know that sometimes it’s not worth it – but that’s a different question than whether it is rude.) It’s the same as those who wonder how to respond when we are asked if we have children, and why not? I don’t think it is rude to simply say no, to refuse to share why we don’t have children, or to tell them everything and point out that we are sad about the fact we don’t have children. And if, by telling them or not telling them, they learn the lesson that we don’t appreciate jokes about being pregnant, then that’s okay. It’s certainly not rude. It is my story, it is my truth, it is my pain, and I have a right to share that, or not share it, with whomever I choose. It is okay to point out that I am not selfish, that I know what love is, and that I do leave a legacy if I feel someone is perpetuating stereotypes that hurt me, and others. If I set boundaries that protect me, that are respectful of my situation and history, and enforce them gently and tactfully, it doesn’t hurt anyone else. (Indeed, it might educate them). But not setting boundaries undoubtedly will hurt me, and in turn, it hurts my relationship with others, whether on a large scale (society) or in an intimate one-on-one relationship.

And this was Dr Brown’s conclusion. If we let others ride roughshod over our feelings, then we will feel anger, resentment, and bitterness towards them, and towards ourselves. It makes it harder for us to be kind and compassionate back to them, to tend to the relationships, to be open and honest. Once we practice self-compassion and exercise boundaries, it is easier to bring others into our lives and hearts, to be kind and considerate, and compassionate to all. And ultimately, find it easier to love and accept ourselves as we are.

#MicroblogMondays: Pity

Over eleven years ago, three months after I’d learned we’d never have children, my husband and I were asked that question, and when I gave the inevitable answer, were told simply “I’m sorry.”

I remember bristling at this pity, because this person didn't know if we’d wanted children or not (unless my face or voice showed the sadness that was still so close to the surface), and I resented the assumption that not having children should make me the object of pity. I’ve always felt confused by my reaction to what essentially was a kind reaction, and by my distaste for any suggestion of pity from anyone, whilst at the same time fervently wishing people could be more sensitive, and try to understand what it is like for us in this child-focused world.

Recently, on a comment on another post, IrisD articulated why I felt this way, saying

“ … it is as though they are telling me I can’t be happy.” 

She hit the nail on the head – thanks Iris! I want to be happy, and unhappy, to feel the way I feel, to be heard, and acknowledged. That’s empathy. Empathy listens; pity does not. It assumes, and in doing so, isolates, condescends, and shames.

Sharing about sharing

Telling, not telling, opening ourselves up to criticism, judgement and support; is it being vulnerable, or ensuring we have a wider support group?  Is it setting ourselves up for hurt, or for having  people with us  who know what we are going through, and can help us?  This is one of the issues we all face when we are facing infertility, or down-stream when we have come through the other side, and are either living our lives with or without children.

The need to tell, to connect with others who understand, is of course why so many of us have come to blogging, both writing blogs, and writing comments on other peoples' blogs.  But even here, we have the same issues.  Do we open up and say everything, or edit our thoughts and our opinions?   When we're blogging, of course, we are also vulnerable to accusations of over-sharing.  

I've talked about it before, and my conclusion has always been that we are all different, and we should all do what is right for us at the time.  And what is right for us when we are going through the difficult times might not be how we choose to handle "life after infertility."   I was one of those who chose not to make it public knowledge, though my immediate family and close friends knew bits (not all) of the story.  They knew about the losses, but not generally about the IVF. 

Yes, I hear you.  Here I go again.  1, 2, 3, Roll your eyes!  But the reason I'm addressing this is two-fold.  First, I keep seeing the issue come up, whether it is a question about Facebook sharing, a post written and removed (but it still makes its way to my feed) about reactions to a pregnancy, or discussions of our responsibility to speak out, to spread awareness of our situations.  To tell or not to tell is a real question for us all.

So I was interested to see what Brene Brown would say about sharing and over-sharing, in her book Daring Greatly.   We share to connect, that's clear.  But when we share with someone, anyone, everyone, where there is no existing connection, then we are perhaps "over-sharing."  The response of the those on the receiving end might be, as she suggest, simply to wince, feel awkward, or  (and this is my addition), as many of us have found here on the internet, to be on the receiving end of judgements, nasty comments, and even abuse.  If we are at a stage where we are very vulnerable, hurting, sad and alone, then over-sharing is both a reflection of our pain, reaching out desperately for understanding, but also - if we don't receive the support we want - yet another disappointment, another example of where we don't "measure up."

However, this doesn't mean we shouldn't share.  Because Brene Brown believes that receiving empathy when we are vulnerable is absolutely important.  She believes it banishes shame, and it restores that part of us that feels good about ourselves.  Her advice is advice I love: 

"We share our stories with people who have earned the right to hear them."

That sentence articulates completely why I don't explain to strangers why I don't have children, or why I didn't adopt, or why I waited so long to have children.  (Well, except on this blog or the Huff Post!)  These days, I'm feeling a lot less vulnerable about having no kids, and so I will talk about it relatively freely. I'm a pretty good judge of who I can tell, and who will respond supportively or with interest, and who will be embarrassed, or judgemental.  But I am still cautious.  I retain the right to choose whether or not to share, and I never feel obliged to share.  And even if, these days, I don't believe the basis of any negative comments I might receive, it doesn't mean they won't hurt, even as I tell myself to brush off the comments.  Ultimately, it's my pain, my truth, and I get to choose who sees that. 

So who do we share with?  Brene Brown's advice is to share with "people with whom we have ... relationships that can bear the weight of our story."

I love this too.  How often have we shared things with people and discovered they never talked to us again, or that friends and acquaintances stepped away, because they couldn't cope with our pain?  Or we were offered platitudes and advice to "get over it?"  Those relationships invariably suffered.  Or they were never strong enough to cope with the weight of our story.  And the people who stuck through this with us, who responded with empathy and not judgement?  Those are the connections we will keep and cherish for a long time; those are the connections that will grow.  And many of those connections are ones we have made here, or on other blogs.  Sharing when you receive empathy is the best medicine.  


Sharing.  I'm sure there's more to say.  I'll try to give it a break for a while!

Do as I say, not as I do

As a consultant, I've designed and taught several courses about marketing, in particular, about marketing your services.  After all, there's not much more personal in sales than selling yourself, your thoughts and abilities and personality and style.  It's not easy.  You may be a brilliant consultant because you understand your clients, they trust you, you develop insight, and you tailor your approach to each individual client and their specific needs.  You may be a brilliant consultant because you are an expert at what you do - leading your city, country, or even the world.  But unless you're able to

a) explain your value in terms your client understands and values, or
b) actually put yourself out there in front of potential clients, put yourself out to be seen (and yes, judged),

then you won't get the work.

I'm terrible at the above.  Well, no, let me qualify that.  I am skilled at knowing how to do it, but point b) gets me every time.  Call it fear, call it a lack of self-belief, call me shy, or call me a coward.  I wish I was better at self-promotion, at acknowledging what I'm good at (and I'm very good at that), and at convincing others.  Heck, forget about convincing, saying it (or believing it) in the first place would be a good idea.

I think this blog is the same. I know what I need to do, and how to do it, to live a good life, to embrace my future.  And I think I'm more succesful with this than I am at my own self-promotion.  But just because I think I have some of the answers, or sound as if I might know what I'm talking about, doesn't mean it is always easy.  It doesn't mean I always manage to embrace my life, to shrug off negative comments as if I'm coated in teflon, or to always be happy.  I can't.  And that's okay.  And I think I need to acknowledge it here, that I have moments or even days of sadness, that I often take a step back before I can step forward again, that I don't always follow my own advice.

Coming to terms with our life-style will be a life-long issue.  But our lifestyles - whatever they might be - are a life-long issue - whether it's coming to terms with not having children, or a partner, or the career we wanted (or not being able to figure out what career we wanted), or not having the health, the friendships, the body, the partner, or the money etc we wanted.  All these things are our issues.  And too often we focus on what we don't have, rather than what we do have.  That's natural and normal.  But sometimes, if we focus to an excess on what we don't have, it is neither natural or normal.  But unfortunately, too often, it is encouraged by the societies in which we live.

And in this focus on what we don't have, we open the door to feelings of disconnection* and we invite in shame.  I think that that stops us reflecting on what we do have.  And so often, and certainly in my life, a lot of what we do have, the good things in my life, are a direct result of not having something we wanted.  And you know, that's not a bad thing.

Yes, I'm referencing Brene Brown and her thoughts on shame again.

More shame

Since I wrote this post, I have been thinking and reading a lot more about shame and infertility.  I do have more to say, or more to share at least, from the reading I’ve been doing.  But I'm not ready yet.  Thoughts are swirling and need to settle into some logical patterns first, before I put finger to keyboard.  Still, I realised today, as I searched for the aforementioned shame post (yes, too lazy to scroll through and find it) that it has been an issue that I have touched on quite a lot.  I have in fact mentioned shame  and ashamed  a total of 39 times since I began this blog.  A lot of my comments mention that I am not ashamed, but when I delve a bit deeper, I see that this statement in fact should have the qualification “I am not ashamed anymore.”  Clearly, I did feel shame with my infertility at the outset.  I struggled with it in fact, and it affected the way I lived.  And I will come back to that soon, I am sure. 

In the meantime however, I thought it might be interesting to see a few examples of how or why I mentioned shame.

1. OK, my first example was in fact an “unashamed” promotion of my A Separate Life blog.  Showing that simply by the use of the word, perhaps I was a little worried I’d be judged by promoting it.
    
2. In My Negative Voice, I talked about believing the shame I felt.  And that’s a real minefield, when we start believing that we are shameful and somehow bad.
    
3. And in You can achieve anything, yeah right, I addressed the issue that we often feel – both in wider society, and here in the ALI community – that we “gave up” and that was a bad thing.  The judgement we feel, and that loss of connection, leads us to feel this, whereas I believe that “Giving up is scary, and hard.  A level of courage is required.  And that is admirable, not shameful.”
4. Then there’s the whole vexed issue of telling, or not telling, and why.  Does the choice not to tell mean we feel shame?  Yes, would be the view of some advocates of telling everybody.  But I don’t think so, and I have some further thoughts on this.
5. Blogging as a remedy for shame comes up a number of times, I realise now, and I think is a logical progression from the telling/not telling question, and the issue of connection.  I wrote on Don't Dwell “the protection in the semi-anonymous internet from feelings of shame, and pity, that I didn’t want following me in my real life.”

As I say, watch this space!

Infertility and shame

Shame is a feeling familiar to many of us who go through infertility and loss.  Those who go on to have children, or to parent, may (I imagine/I deduce) feel somewhat vindicated (or feel shame for other reasons), but I know particularly that those of us who can’t have children often feel shame. 

But why is this?  It is not our fault.  It is not a moral failing.  It is not a failing of intellect, personality, motivation.  I would like even to argue that it is not a failing at all, except that so many of us do feel that it is a failing of our bodies.  We all have bodily failings – the older we are, the more we will be aware of these.  But the judgements that are made about our inability to conceive or carry to term seem more accusatory, and touch us more deeply, right in the heart of who we think we are, or we are supposed to be.  My mother-in-law accusingly asked me what was wrong with me.  (She’s always seen bodily failings as moral/personality failings – but don’t get me started!)  Another friend had to suffer a male friend/acquaintance telling her “my wife’s a real woman.  She’s a mother.”  Men “jokingly” tell other men to “show you’re a man.  Get her pregnant.”  As if you’re not a man until you have done so.  The expectations of who and what we’re supposed to be make us feel inadequate, unworthy, less than.

And so we, infertile men and women, feel shame.  When I was coming to terms with first infertility, and then not having children, I remember dreading the prospect of running into a woman I knew.  She had a very clear view of who and what a woman was supposed to be, and “mother” was right up there at number one.  And so I felt embarrassed, a lower species in her eyes, and I knew that I was feeling shame, even though intellectually I knew I there was no reason for this.  

The idea that I feel or have felt shame for my infertility has always made me uncomfortable though.  After all, it’s not as if, to quote the OED,  my “painful feelings of humiliation or distress” were “caused by the consciousness of wrong or foolish behaviour.”  So why feel shameful?  Then recently, I saw a lecture (posted by Amel) where the speaker, Brené Brown, offered the idea that shame is essentially the fear of disconnection.  As she says, we are wired for connection.  So we feel shame when we are different from others, when we are not connected, when we can’t do what is considered to be normal.  

Suddenly, the emotions around infertility made complete sense.  That simple definition – the fear of disconnection - explained why we all feel shame.  It explained why the shame comes even though intellectually we know we have no reason to feel shame.  It explained why we felt so isolated, so lonely, so embarrassed.  It explained why there are so few women who are prepared to speak up about infertility.  It explained why I didn’t want anyone to know about my pregnancy losses and infertility.  It explained why I felt so exposed simply walking into the building with the fertility clinic.  It explained why many women who, parenting after infertility, might try to ignore their infertile past.  It explained why celebrities don’t admit they have had difficulties conceiving, needed IVF, or used donor eggs.  Human beings are tribal.  We like to belong.  And most of us don’t want to be the black sheep.  Even those who thrive on being non-conformist connect with other non-conformists.  It explains Stockholm Syndrome, and patriotism, and even bullying or enmity towards others.

So it makes complete and utter sense that we want to feel as if we belong, to connect to other people.  It also explains why we blog.  Because we want to speak to other people in our situation, we want to feel normal, and we want to help others feel normal.  It explains why, within the ALI community, there are different subgroups.  The drive to connect is so powerful.  The drive to avoid isolation, the fear of disconnection, means inevitably we seek out like-minded people.  And that’s not a bad thing.  Brené Brown says you need three things to feed shame:  secrecy, silence, and judgement.  Well, I certainly feed the secrecy and silence myself.  I still do in some ways.  And I know also that too often, we are on the other end of judgements, and so often we are the ones offering the judgements, with those insidious inner voices we have.

Is there a magic wand to help us shed our shame?  Perhaps it helps just knowing that by feeling shame, by fearing disconnection and isolation, we are connected with almost every other human being on the planet.  It helps knowing that our feelings of isolation and despair and humiliation are not unusual.  Knowing that we connect, both with others who are infertile, and others who feel shame for all sorts of reasons, might help us feel less alone.  Empathy, the empathy that I see around this ALI community and amongst those who read my other blogs, amongst friends and family, makes me feel I belong.  I may not be the best or brightest blogger.  But it helps.

Connection and empathy were integral to my healing after two ectopic losses and the end to my quest for a family.  Being (on-line) with a group of women who had been through the same things as I had, who understood what I was facing, or who were simply prepared to listen and say “I’m so sorry,” made me feel understood.  Connected.  There was no reason for shame then.  And as much as I was on the receiving end of empathy, I was also able to give it.  That was another very important part to my recovery.  I connected largely on another website, but I see it at work here in the blogosphere.  And so now, as acute as my shame was at one time, I don’t feel it that much any more.  Because I feel connected.  And so, as time passes, I speak more openly about infertility, about not having children.  I tell strangers.  I write a blog.  I’ve had a piece in the media.  I’m looking at doing more. 

I am encouraged by the possibilities emerging from this definition of shame.  I hope that that impetus to connect will also drive our own efforts to reach out to the wider community and encourage them to connect with the infertile, to connect with those of us who don’t have children, who follow the road less travelled.  And if they connect, if they start to see, and hear, and understand, and most importantly accept our stories, perhaps that is what will banish our shame, our fear of disconnection, in the end.  

* Thanks Amel for the link.  I have so many thoughts swirling around you’ll see at least one more post planned on Brené Brown’s research and thoughts and how I relate to them.