The year I birthed myself

Today marks the anniversary of one of the most significant challenges I have ever faced. It also marks the anniversary of the series of events, fortunate and otherwise, that built the intensity of what was to come. As I look back on the year, I see the 3rd of March 2017 as the day a new life was conceived. It took nine months for this new life to take shape and as the year draws to an end, a new birth is ready to create an eventful entry.

This journey is mine – my conception to my birth – my rebirth.

It wasn’t an easy year – by any standard it was the toughest. I saw physical injury, mental torment and emotional upheaval. I saw betrayal and relationships withering down to nothingness and human dignity stomped upon in an effort to prove power, control and authority. I saw a man take pride in holding a whiplash and I saw women stand aside allowing for the que sera, sera. I saw my worldview of relationships, social structure and reasoning crumble and witnessed myself questioning the sanctity, the plausibility even, of marriage, and if such an institution justified its existence at all!

This past year tore through my concept and belief in faith and trust and instead, held me in a vice of mistrust. Friendship, love and loyalty were questioned and I realized that to some, blood was thicker than water after all. I saw people I loved struggle with integrity and values – and saw my heart break, little by little in great big chunks, when these people chose safety and loyalty over standing up for someone who needed a hand up.

In this past year, I was abused – categorically, mentally, financially, emotionally, verbally and materially. I was violated of my dignity and shamelessly stripped of my legal entitlements. I was manipulated till I was almost twisted out of life itself – squeezed to see how much more I could take – till those beads of sweat probably oozed a little of blood (not literally) – and yet, I saw bystanders – standing by watching the drama unfold – justifying with a “Sigh! What can we do?“

And that was when life showed me the single blue line.

I was pregnant this past year – passing through every phase of pregnancy while I nurtured and prepared for my own imminent rebirth.

By early April 2017, I was sensitive enough to experience the nausea and discomfort of morning sickness early on – that intuitive sense that something unusual was happening. Those  visual and energetic clues of pulsating discomfort when you know something was about to happen, yet you couldn’t put your finger on it. By the end of the month, I was in the throes of emotional morning sickness. Of course, laying in bed nursing a broken leg also immobilizes you to large degree, so along with the pregnancy of myself, I embarked on another exploration and creation – creating works of art and craft – things of color and beauty.

By June, I had no doubts of this pregnancy and with the morning sickness settled down, I was at the prime and glow of helping the new me get stronger with each passing day. The previous three pregnancies didn’t really help – the challenges of birthing yourself were unique – an experience so taxing yet intimately personal, the reward just as special and beyond words. Over the two months, I was filled with the knowing that my pregnancy and birth (or rebirth) was entirely in my hands – how I shaped this new me was going to be my own story – and a path that I was going to tread alone.

I was super sensitive to elements that amplified my growth and systematically detoxified where needed – letting go of people, things and relationships that, although much loved, were just not serving any good. I choose to believe that as they stopped serving my growth, me getting out of their way probably helped them too – win-win!

By the end of this trimester, I was clearly ‘expecting’ myself and the aches and pains of this energetic pregnancy were akin to the backaches, acidity and reflux. Life provided me with ample pain points and triggers to serve the purpose – relationships began to fail miserably, situations cramped up and resources started dwindling – all in the name of power-struggles. I coped, I struggled, I carried on.

By September, I began the last mile of this pregnancy, the outcome palpable. I was excited – but at the same time, the fear of the impending process was dreadfully nauseating. I was tired of carrying myself, my body physically sore from exertion, but I was also aware that I had no choice but to follow through. I found myself being intuitive to future needs – preparing for a time when current resources would be spitefully snatched away. As if acting on a premonition, I found myself planning for otherwise unforeseen eventualities – but instinctively preempting them. I was aware of hostility and knew when the air was getting rarer.

By October, I started ‘nesting’ – that phase when you clear, declutter and prepare the space for the newcomer. I started looking for midwives and doulas and amazed at how and from where these people arrived – these women! My mother, my sister, my friends, dear ones who helped with organizing a baby shower of sorts. My own circle of women.

I started cleaning up – and letting go some more. This new me needed a whole new space – a whole new room – a whole new environment.

November marked the end of 12 weeks of my third trimester – and just like that, I was primed for labour – that last stretch – the home run.

When my oldest was born, I laboured for 71 hours. When my leg broke, I calmly organised everyone around me. When my hip dislocated, I took myself to the doctor and recuperated over the next two weeks. When I was down with dengue, I didn’t wait to see what it was, I just took myself to the ER and demanded blood tests.

An average birth canal is about 3 to 4 inches long and it takes about 20 minutes to an hour for an infant to pass through it unassisted and naturally.

We’re talking about a grown woman who has to pass through the metaphoric birth canal, unassisted, without pain relief and no scope of a C-section! And this birth canal allows for the ebb and flow of the contractions – knowing fully well that birth was inevitable!

So, I knew this labour was going to be one helluva ride – and trust me, it was… it is.

So I keep pushing – because the contractions are getting stronger – unbearably stronger on some days and then some more on others. The breathing space between contractions getting shorter and shorter – the urgency to push and bear down significant in the here and in the now.

A pregnancy technically lasts for 40 weeks – and newer babies of this generation naturally are staying in utero for longer. I’m turning 40 this month. A few more pushes. A few more breaths – panting, holding time, supported by the circle of doulas and midwives who are surrounding me with salves and potions, warm towels, chants, hymns and love….

I am the phoenix – watch me rise!

Deep breath… PUSH!!!

I realize that what I am about to step into is nothing less than the final push in the process of childbirth. I’ve been there thrice and every time, I am left with, at the end of it all, a miracle waiting to blossom right there in my arms!

Was it easy? No!

Was it exhausting? Yes!

Was it frustrating, nerve-wracking and scary? YES!!

But was it worth it? Abso-f-ing-lutely!

So, my analogy here is all geared towards this great big resolve that New Year’s Eve is supposed to crystallize. And I was pretty much done and dusted with the traditional resolutions. To be honest, I think I kept up most of the ones I made last year that were simple and ended up pushing the more important and pressing changes to the back burner (but.. that’s for another day, another time…)

Because this time round, I’m gearing up for a resolute leap of faith.

As I look back on the past few months of inner work, I witnessed an unravelling of patterns, old stories, beliefs and misplaced judgments that seem to unlike the ME I thought I knew. The me I was familiar with, or the me I created as I went along.

Let me not be too harsh, the me I am is pretty awesome, but I am also curious, now, to discover how much more there is that has been buried deep in the layers of doubt, deprivation and discredit, how much of the potential brilliance of untapped reserve and talent and gift have I left interred… all because of fear.

And the fear was real. It is.. It would be naive to say, it was just a figment of my imagination. It was and is as real as the air we breathe and the shit we expel in the toilet.

So, fear is real.

It is also a constant – not in the sense that fear is something to experience every moment of living, no! Instead, fear is a natural feeling that allows us to respond, or react, to a (potential) threat.

But fear has been the been the bane of my existence – the Trojan horse that determined my choices for the past many, many years – in the name of the greater good! Here’s what it did:

• Clouded my vision
• Shut out practicality / reality
• Kept me safe within my comfort zone!

And guess what? This whole ‘comfort zone‘ is nothing but a shell I created for myself – a space where I could zone out of instead of disturbing the pseudo-calm and having to face the onslaught of uncertainties and probable unpleasantries that stepping out might welcome. In other words, the fear of stepping out of my comfort zone, that in itself was created due to fear.

And in the process, while I did some pretty amazing things, because living in this comfort zone comes with it’s own set of accessories and blinders that fraud you into thinking you’re at your ultimate, your pinnacle of performance and all that, there was always that little muffled voice deep within that relentlessly tried to surface and pushed through the SOS whispering urgently, “Fear isn’t allowing you to grow!“

Gosh! What a mess! And what a waste of sheer genius!

Deep breath

So…

I looked at fear – eye to eye – the way, I had learned to over the years because of it. And I steeled myself as I noticed the moment, pulsating like an abscess ripe and ready to burst with all that accumulated pus and purulence – all those restraints within me just ripe and ready to explode…

And in the aftermath, the building tension is released. After the wound is cleaned and dressed, the healing begins.

And that is what I am going to take on this in this new year.

I resolve to take on fear.

I resolve to accept and acknowledge that while fear is real, the value and worth of hacking through it to embrace the power of rebuilding myself through the uncertainties and endless possibilities with single steps of the greater journey is real-er.

This year, I choose to allow myself to thrive in freedom and take off the vicious band that held me back. And as I leap in faith, I can only trust the Universe to conspire in my favor and have my back!

So here’s to that one last deep breath before I push and birth myself into the newness of everything I am going to step in to.

The Need to be Strong – for whom?

There were these repeated episodes that were bringing me to my story of strength. And as it usually happens, the episodes were getting to be increasingly intense – and that can be quite frightening, I must admit.

So here’s where my eyes were finally opened to what was happening. As I’m typing this here, I get a faint memory of actually feeling good and liberated about this whole description of being ‘strong’ some years ago. I think it was quite liberating to know that you can do some unpredictably impossible things – more liberating and pride-worthy when you actually do them. And in the process, take responsibility to do more and more… but I’m starting to think BE lesser and lesser still.

And because of this mismatch in the doing and the being, I wasn’t able to quite relate to what the big deal was when people would tell me, “Luvena, you’re an inspiration! You are such a strong person! I have no idea how you do it! I wouldn’t be able to do any of that! How do you manage??”

My answer would almost always be, “I have no idea how I do it, but it just happens.”

Fast track to earlier this year when I broke my leg. Nasty, nasty break. Even I was surprised at my resilience and capacity to endure the pain. I didn’t cry once and I truly believe that I had my best ever recovery period. But it was during that recovery period that I looked deeper into what I had just experienced and took my first step to acknowledging what almost everyone I had met had told me. It was my own acknowledgement of my strength and resilience – my perseverance, endurance and optimism that allowed me to keep the faith.

And I thought my journey was done in that aspect and that moving onwards would be a light-hearted exploration of life and it’s many wondrous opportunities.

Wrong again.

It just got tougher.

Like mounting labour pains, the contractions were agonising. Unlike mounting labour pains, I didn’t know if there was a baby to birth after all!

After 3 children, birthing was not the issue, hahaaa, but the ripping apart, the pain, that feeling of exhaustion from frantic kicking to surface when someone is trying to drag you down, drown you, smother your voice, snuff your life out… that is so exhausting that I had to actually take a deep breath to calm myself during the last few words.

And all this felt in vain because, simply put, I just wanted to make some sense out of the madness. This whole inconsequential labour was maddening. Until one conversation, just one unbiased, neutral conversation happened…

Until I blurted, with much feeling, “I know I’m strong. By now, I know it really well.. I am.. and I acknowledge it… But, enough already! How much more do I have to endure and to prove to whom??”

Just like that, a statement was placed in front of me.

“You know, sometimes being strong is not about the physical strength, or the resilience. Sometimes it may just be our individual definition of strength.”

A pause followed.

A long pause…

But the silence was deafening because something in my mind started shifting and rearranging itself – like little lego blocks arranging themselves in some automatic pattern – a pattern that I couldn’t recognize as the blocks were placing themselves… but in the chaos, and through that mayhem, I started to feel a sense of clarity.

I wasn’t being tested by anyone for my strength. The only one testing me and pushing me further was myself! Because my definition of strength was the ability to tolerate (all sorts of crap!) and if I ever said, “Enough!” then it would be a blow to my own preconceived and ill-fitting definition – and would probably lead me to label myself as a weak loser who couldn’t take this… and allow the abuser to win, perhaps?

OMG! That’s quite a string of beliefs to just hold on to when you think of the consequences of holding them on. The consequences of constantly fighting a battle that I chose to set up for myself. No, this is not denying or condoning the abuse – that happened, it really did. But the breakthrough also happened!

The breakthrough of recognizing that my ‘why‘ for perpetuating the madness and the excuses to justify staying in hell had little to do with hell itself, but for reclaiming my power to say, “Enough!” and to know that there is absolutely, absofuckinglutely nothing wrong in recognizing abuse, calling it out and standing in my full power, my strength because there is no one to prove anything to.

Behind Closed Doors

In case I hadn’t mentioned it earlier, I love reading – I simply love my books and my reads. Since I didn’t focus on a specific genre, I usually read a variety of literature – from Sci-fi, to Chicklit (usually Irish female authored), Courtroom fiction, some non-fiction, biographies, young adult adventure thriller & young adult fantasy too (Harry Potter being a favorite) etc. As part of an online book club, I came across a broader list of books that constantly kept me reading.

Goodreads buddies sharing their current reads and favorites, brought a recent psychological thriller to my attention.  ‘Behind Closed Doors’ by BA Paris. The blurb said very little and I hadn’t read psychological thrillers before, so I wasn’t really in the know of what I was getting into, but thought it might have been a bit of mystery or relationship-based drama.

What I was presented with, was nothing I was prepared for. My review went as follows, and the more I think of it, the deeper it sinks…

Ok.. so my review sounds more like a diary entry, but this was the only way I could process this book.. My apologies for going off-track, but perhaps this is my record of my own cathartic journey…

Honestly, I don’t quite know where to begin with the review – so maybe, it’s just that this was more frightening and scary to come face to face with the senseless evil residing in a psychopath.. But who am I kidding? It got personal – I could tell the story from the start, the tell-tales signs, the indicators, the insanity and naivete that one can only tell from experience (to some extent). So the first few chapters, for me, were particularly painful and gut-wrenching. It was eerie the way the experience was expressed because it stopped being fiction to me immediately and hovered on real-life narrative instead.

The book is disturbing – for someone dipping into a psychological thriller for the first time as well as for others who maybe revisiting an experience (personal or relative) – it disturbed me as I processed the events as I read them and how the main characters Grace & Jack related to each other. The story reeked of fear and what went on behind the doors where fear was used as a tool to control, manipulate and demonstrate psychopathic sadism *shivers*.

Towards the second half of the book, however, I think I had processed the text, regrouped my emotions and experienced a personal closure or catharsis of sorts and was able to appreciate how far I have come in resurfacing and not just surviving, but thriving. So, by then, the book brought to fore a sense of strength – the strength Grace demonstrates to fight against sheer monstrosity for someone she loves. I cried – because I could relate once again – when Grace’s sister with DS, who she was primarily seeking to protect, came up with the plan that would help her older sister out eventually. I cried just at the memory of how our limited appreciation for the skills and intuition of people with disabilities – where they may lack our ‘normal’ aptitude, but have an innate sense of intuition too.

At other times, especially in the second half – because there was nothing new to discover about Jack. He had made his intentions clear right at the beginning – I did wonder why Grace couldn’t come out with it at one of her dinners. I can imagine Jack, being Jack, would possibly have covered all tracks before the dinner, but it was an option to just come out with it when she had the opportunity to, but I also understand that fear and shame may play crazy roles in sane and clear thinking. I’m glad for Esther and the ending, really… I would have liked to know more about what clues she had picked up and the signs she had noticed to bring her up to play the role she did.. So it leaves me thinking..

Over the years, if there is one thing I have really learnt, then it has to be the power of experience. The only other thing that can supersede it, is using that experience to lift someone else out of a similar experience. Abuse comes in so many different shades, it confuses people, usually the victims. And if their personality is generally timid, then the inner strength needs to be coaxed and encouraged to shine.

Thankfully, my personality is far from timid, but I did break – I did reach sub-zero levels of self-esteem , I did… and it took me a long, very long time to really OWN my strength – I didn’t even realise that I was resilient, strong and brave – I assumed it was what everyone did – I assumed that I was the weak one for experiencing nonsense & allowing myself to. It is not easy – approaching someone for help and telling them your frantic story, only for them to patronizingly say that perhaps you’re overreacting, ‘because we all know he loves you!! At the end of the day, it’s between you & him, not your family – leave them out of it and sort your lives out’

It is not easy, at an emotional low time, to be constantly threatened harm (emotional or psychological) on your family/ dear ones, it is not easy to move in day-to-day fully dependent on someone else for basic needs, to account for minimal money offered or to have to choose between a sibling with a disability and a spouse especially since it is such an irrational choice… neither is it easy to be torn between having to stay in a relationship v/s making the giant leap of breaking traditional norms & thinking of going back to your parents (who live in another country and you legally cannot just jump back on a whim)… Pfft… yes, these experiences are true & they happen to countless people, but it helps to take it, own it & wear it like a medal – If I’ve gotten through that, then I’m certain there is a larger role for me that reaches out to others.

Behind Closed Doors is an emotional roller coaster – it took me through suspicion, disbelief, anger, fury, resentment, hatred, grief, disgust, shock, apathy, fear, doubt, self-doubt, loathing, abhorrence and many others. I slept poorly the 2 days I took to read this. Last night, I slept fitfully and dreamt of certain people who had the tendency to derive pleasure from presenting themselves unannounced to the extreme discomfort of others. I double-checked my doors and then sat down this morning to fully own that I had surfaced.

You can find the book on Amazon here