This afternoon the book by http://www.ruudlinssen.nl about voluntary suffering got launched. A while ago he invited me to speak about voluntary suffering of motherhood. During our phone call the first thing I visualized was a self-portrait (as usual); I cannot help being used to body language. The 441 words I've written have been spoken this afternoon in The Bunker, The Hague.
The in blood printed book is available at http://www.underware.nl
Voluntary suffering
The umbilical cord. The nine month alliance with my child, our everlasting entanglement. Cutting the cord doesn’t hurt, because that cut isn’t real. We will stay connected forever.
The scent of a newly-born child. I draw breath deeply. Want to smell and taste the child’s flavour. Want to lick it clean, want to save the essence in all my senses. I’ve given life and want to quench my thirst with it. A vicious circle.
Gasping jaws around my nipple, sucking love and life from me, because I am the source. The child owns me and not vice versa.
Little arms around my legs, little hands pulling my skirt, stopping me by each and every step I take. I look down and smile.
A couple of years later. Mother and father have grown apart. Finally mother and father go seperate ways. ‘Mum’ suddenly sounds like ‘mud’. Mum needs to get dragged in the mud. Mud has to be thrown at mother because she is mud. I want to defend myself, I want to flee, I just want to go away, but that’s impossible. I have to take care of my kid, it needs me.
Labour pains are forgotten. My ripped coxa no longer deserves respect. The mud pool I am trying to escape sucks and pulls. Mud rises to my lips. I hold my tongue and just swallow.
Recently I’ve met a man. I’ve laid him before my conclusion it seems as if mothers want to do more for their kids than usually fathers do. Especially after a divorce. He shrugged his shoulders and replied: ‘It happens by nature, animals act just the same way.’
Is it that simple? Who gets them is allowed to keep them? Is that male logic?
A kiss on my cheek. ‘I am leaving, mummy.’ The child is going out into the wide world. My flesh and blood I’ve devoted passionately all my life. I am waving goodbye cheerfully and optimistically: ‘Now go, you can do it, you can stand on your own legs.’ At the same time I feel torn to pieces from the inside. Letting them go is good, though hurts. Is it possible to let loose ones child? My door always will be open.
Looking in the mirror I ask myself: ‘Where have they gone, those other women inside of me? The career woman, the ladylove, the lively butterfly, the slut, the whore? Solid motherhood prevails. Mother is a title of honor. But is it everything I am? Motherhood demands courage. There are risks attached. I’ve granted my child its life, but I’ve also given mý life.
I got lost in motherhood.
