Lonely pillows in the Abyss
I started this whole blog thing as an experiment — and my first thought (honestly) was that I wasn’t going to tell anyone about it. That lasted maybe two days. It became absolutely clear to me that I was trying to talk to someone, since, if I wanted to keep a journal, I would do it in longhand and keep in next to the bed. So if I were writing something on the internet, or more accurately I suppose publishing something, it must be intended to be public.
This is in itself interesting: that what in one medium would be private diary entries were in another medium public discourse. This blurring of the line between public and private has almost voyeuristic overtones, like having sex in a window. That the private act is on display creates or at least augments the desire for the private act.
And yet, when yesterday an anonymous passer-by left a comment (a polite, nicely written one even) I felt — almost exposed. And yet it is I who chose to expose myself, to welcome public scrutiny. But not just scrutiny — connection, to friends who might choose to read this but also to the random commenter. I am still wondering why, but I have at least a piece of an answer.
Motherhood has made me fiercely aware of the necessity for connection. To connect with other parents in our activities but also in our stories. Sharing our stories makes this whole process believeable, manageable, navigatible (is that a word?). Like sailors trying to round the cape of some hope or other, we tell tales of our adventures (or misadventures) with the storms and sea monsters and maybe thus help the next poor bastard have a slightly easier time of it. Or if not an easier time, at least let him know he is not alone.
I needed to know that, still need to know that. I am navigating this sea. I am not alone.
I am nervous about the day I get my first comment from a stranger. It does feel very exposed. But then, I clearly want to be exposed, or I wouldn’t be doing this, too. On and on it goes.
Not being alone is the key. It is so lonely and the only people who truly understand appear to be other women in the same position. This skews the world as we used to know it. You end up in a position where you appear to have a truer and more empathetic connection (in an understanding of your domestic lives (aka my current career) with other women rather than your partner, which is all rather disconcerting. It is akin to how previous generations of men must have felt in having a better relationship with one’s male working companions than with one’s spouse.