The Mother of all Confessions

Last week I started a post called Confession time Part 2. I started it with a confession about not having followed up Confession time Part 1 straight away with Confession time part 2. I couldn’t actually remember what the second confession was supposed to be, but had something else to confess; now I can’t remember what I was going to confess last week either. Oh dear.

Then suddenly, before I stood a chance of finishing Confession time Part 2, I realised I am ready to confess something SO BIG, personally speaking, that it can only be done to an anonymous group of online bloggers who don’t know who I am and won’t be remotely shocked.

I have to confess that I am not comfortable being a woman. Okay, so, the disadvantage of confessing to a large group of members of the 21st century public is immediately obvious. This is not rare or surprising nowadays, so barely warrants a gasp. But confessing it is a big deal for me. I’d say that everyone who knows me very well knows I’m a bit iffy when it comes to my gender, but many people who know me quite well would never guess. Then there’s the very close friends and family who are probably pretty sure (hoping) I have got over this by now.

It all started when I became a mother and ‘wife’. Before this, and during many years of it, I wore skirts and dresses in many colours, particularly in purple, red, green, orange and anything multicoloured, patterned and flowery. I had long hair and wore it up, down and around about. I wore necklaces, earrings, rings, bracelets and hair accessories. I thought little about being female, I was and it never caused me a problem. I liked men: somewhat mysterious I suppose but mainly compelling and fascinating. My friends were mainly girls and I was proud of having male friends.

Being a mother was something I took seriously, and intended to be good at. Being a wife was not in my vocabulary: we would be a partnership sharing the raising of children equally, this being the only way to be fair to ourselves and the children and show them that they too could fully participate in family life when they were adults. Didn’t quite happen that way.

My first pregnancy was relatively free from professional interference, though during my second I discovered that I dislike being treated like an idiot. But what really changed things around the birth of our second child was that their Dad got his first full-time job. Before that we were poor students, juggling a beautiful baby and determined to get our qualifications too. Work for him meant home for me, and I have never recovered. I was raised an only child by one parent, so I didn’t understand the concept of self-sacrifice. I barely understood sharing.

Ex and I were very committed, determined to break our family patterns of parental separation. We compromised and worked hard and tried to combine traditional needs like money, food and housing with progressive ideals like men knowing their own kids. Desperate for a life outside the home, I volunteered, did paid work part time, and became more and more critical of the social rules I was cruelly forced to argue with.

Thirteen years on from that birth, I am still angry about my gender. I’m not angry about being born female, nor, in all honesty, about being born into a rich, white, stiff-upper-lipped society with dodgy preconceptions about what men and women should be. Pushed, I could probably think of a hundred worse times and places to be a woman, in ten minutes flat.

My real problem is, as my awareness of the twisted reality of womanhood has grown, so has my empathy for men. Every place I feel empowered to change my life, driven to fight for women’s rights, called upon to challenge prejudice, I see men suffering. Instead of embracing an empowered femininity, I can have nothing to do with it.

Now I wear black a lot, but I mix this with a few colours so as not to draw too much attention to it. I wear black in mourning for the colours that men aren’t supposed to wear. Then sometimes I wear colours, because it seems perverse to neglect the liberties one has because others cannot exercise them. Then I wear black again.