The Girl Who Read Too Much

As I type this I'm aware of the potential irony. I'm going to say it nonetheless. 

When you go from month to month, wondering if this time you have created a little seed of life, there is little comfort for your impatient anxieties. The overactive mind has a field day - "are my breasts that little bit more tender?" "did I sleep longer than I usually would?" - all in the attempt to predict a pregnancy in the making. Frustratingly, there's not much you can do to validate your hunches, and so...we wander online.

A girl could be forgiven for thinking that a quick five minute peak on google would be informative and hopefully reassuring. But beware naive-wishing-to-be-pregnant-lady, you are about to sell your soul to the crazy baby land. 

It's a minefield out there. 

Just one handful of words typed into that trusty google search bar opens up a can of self instructed medical diagnoses, confronting personal disclosures and alarmingly inaccurate 'facts'. With the accessibility of the internet thousands of women are online, interacting in forums and 'helping' each other through their experiences.

One thing I have learnt throughout my journey is that it is an entirely personal and individual experience. No two women's bodies are the same, and thus, no two pregnancies will be the same. However it surprised (and a little bit traumatised) me to see that many women have no filter when it comes to processing their experiences in the online arena. 

As one vulnerable women posts a question, looking for some guidance and reassurance, many flock to retell their story, regardless of it's relevance or indeed the appropriateness of it's content. We're talking really graphic stories and people relaying advice they believe is fact, but is often nothing more than a badly retold half-truth that they heard from their sister. Frighteningly, it only gets worse once you're actually pregnant. Go on there with a twinge, pain or a strange symptom and sure enough you'll find yourself immersed in a horror story from some woman in Nevada who is clearly not yet over her experience. 

Maybe it's fine and it's an enter at your own risk type space where you know that you're going to be exposed to all kinds of information, but my feeling is that if you're already a little anxious, a little unsure or feeling like something isn't quite right - online baby forums are not the space for you. Call your doctor, or at least seek out a reputable web page. 

I am certainly one girl who has learnt her lesson. Like in Year 7 when my best friend made me watch horror movies with her and I had nightmares for weeks, I realised pretty quick to say no or to dive for the romantic comedy before she could get to the VCR. 

From now on, I will ask my inner advisor before I go foolishly wandering into the forum forest. 

Pity Party

It's the only party that should never be thrown. The Pity Party.

It's the point at which we tip from feeling our pain into becoming our pain. When we shift from honouring our heart to celebrating pain and hardship as if it's an accomplishment.

I was reminded of this when I consulted some Goddess Oracle cards recently. In asking what I needed to move forward, I drew out the Victim card telling me that it's time to let go of the Victim archetype and release the pattern by empowering myself. Too true goddesses, too true. 

You see, it's really easy to get stuck in the pain cycle because like anything in life, it comes with it's benefits. No, you say? Well I'll prove it.

How many times when something terrible happens to you, does someone come up to you and offer their condolences, show their love, do something to make you feel good? Plenty of times, right? Or your partner does something extra romantic to try and make you feel better which allows you to feel super special?

And so they should, because they understand that you've been through something tough and they want to show you that they care. It's when you become accustomed to that support or recognition for something you've experienced that things can get a bit murky. You can start to identify with the part of you that holds the negative experience and forget about all the other parts of you that are fine and that want to get on with life. 

Oh, and there's another pay off that can come with the pain of a negative experience that's a lot more addictive and wants to hang around full time. It's the effect from trauma that shunts you into a space where you gain a fresh perspective, you prioritise your life and you figure out what really matters to you. You know what I'm talking about. You'll hear yourself say things like "All that other crap just pales in comparison to this", or, "This has made me realise all the things/people/parts of me that I neglect in my life because I'm 'too busy'."

The tricky thing with this one is that it's not a short term reaction. This is born from that relinquishment of control that happens when we experience trauma, the lapse in concentration that allows the true voice of our soul to creep in and say what it needs to say. But because we experienced it as a part of our crisis we make the assumption that they are linked. With the victim comes the permission to slow down/be gentle/not meet the demands of others - whatever it may be for you.

So we become quite attached to the victim because they bring us many wonderful things - we have to experience the pain anyway, so we might as well get some pay off. Problem is the victim keeps us really stuck. It renders us into a state of passive powerlessness where we feel like we need the trauma in order to justify the new behaviours. 

Happily for us this is not the case! The victim can't actually give you permission for anything, only you can do that. So what's the difference of living with newly found perspective without the 'story'? Nothing! Just you and your beliefs. Take the learning and leave the victim at the bus stop. 

And next time you pick up the pen to start writing invites to the pity party of your pain remember that there are much better parties to have.  

The Dolls.

After reading my blog one of my friends came to visit me...with a tea towel wrapped package of mystery. "Here," she said, "these are mine, and I've loaned them to friends before. They're powerful and they work. If you'd like them, I'd like to loan them to you."

It didn't take more than one peeled corner of fabric for me to know what was inside. I'd seen these familiar faces before. They were African fertility dolls.

The irony of these little faces couldn't have hit me harder. When I was in my twenties and studying at uni I worked part-time at a store that imported artefacts and jewellery from Asia and Africa. One of my clearest memories of that place involved presumably the cousins and friends of these little guys fresh off the boat from Africa. I remember walking through the store with my arms stretching out around five or six of these little carved people, laughing and remarking to one of my work mates "I better put these down quick smart or I'm going to be in real trouble - the last thing I want is a baby!!"

I was always fascinated by them. Their heads are huge, ridiculously out of proportion; but some researching taught me that their shape is no mistake. The large head, straight body and outstretched arms create a shape that is symbolic of the Ankh - the Egyptian symbol for life. Of course. You see I also have an affinity with the Ankh. The first piece of jewellery I ever bought myself at that very same store was a simple, sterling silver pendant of the Ankh. Before I even knew what it represented.

That's the beauty of symbols - they cross language barriers and cultures. They speak to us on an unconscious level. Something in our soul, or our heart, has the conversation with them. We're just a lucky bystander in it all.

So as my friend reads my page, talking about our often extreme avoidance of pregnancy in our twenties, little did she know that I was referring to the very dolls she was about to gift to me. The circle completes itself I suppose.

The girl who laughed and wanted to rid herself of those mysterious little bodies now has them placed with reverence beside her bed.