A Kind of Lonely

My phone is full of contacts and my calendar fills up with coffee dates and lunches. My family are on the end of the line whenever I need them. My husband looks concerned every time I stand up and wince. I am enveloped by an army of loved ones, ready to mobilise at a moment’s notice. This baby and me, we are set. We are surrounded by a community ready to catch us and take care of us.

Bloody lucky, that’s what we are.

This does not change the fact that I am alone. Even though my body hasn’t been my own for almost nine months, it’s still me in control of the choices I make for me and my precious cargo. For the last four to five months, I’ve been beautifully aware of the acrobat inside of me. My body is shared but our decisions are all mine, only mine.

And thank goodness. Too many women still have to fight to make independent choices about their body. And thank goodness I have a support network.

It’s just it’s lonely sometimes.

When you wake up at 2 am and your brain starts whirling, you realise that only you can decide what drugs you’ll accept when the time comes. It’s just that, when the doctor says you might want to consider a C-Section because your baby is quite big, only you can decide if that’s the right decision. It’s just that, when you aren’t sure if that discomfort, that trickle, or that twinge is something normal or something more, only you can decide if you go to the doctor and check.

It’s lonely and the ultimate responsibility does not and can not lie with anyone else.

Sharing these concerns with a partner, a friend, your mama army, or your own mum certainly helps. Of course it does. It’s just they can not decide for you. They can only share their anecdotes, their experiences, their opinion. Each woman and baby has their own story and you can’t write yours based on someone else’s.

Hence, it’s lonely.

There’s a narrative that the world is getting smaller. We’ve got social media, blogs, and information at our finger tips. Some of us still even gather in real life to chat and to swap stories. This is all great, truly. However, it sometimes just isn’t enough. Supportive messages are lovely, sharing anecdotes and stories can relieve tension, the Internet has even been known to provide factual information on occasion. Still, at 2 am when your brain starts whirling, you know that there are decisions that will remain yours and yours alone.

That responsibility, that requirement weighs heavy sometimes. Other people help lighten the load, but they can never carry it for you.

Assemble Your Avengers

When I was first a new mum, and I mean really new, just weeks into the job, I was constantly looking for connections. My husband had gone back to work, most of my friends worked, and I was lonely.  I was tired, too. Really, really, bone-achingly tired. (Although little did I know, I was going to get a lot more tired before I got less tired.)

Fortunately, I am not a particularly shy person. I would go along to parent groups, feeding circles, baby sing times, whatever was on offer, and chat to people. I’ll chat to anyone, actually. I like other humans. I am, however, an anxious person. That might seem like a contradiction, but it needn’t be. I like being amongst people. I love meeting new people. It’s just that sometimes I come away from social situations feeling anxious, agonising over what people thought of me or feeling foolish for saying the wrong thing. The idea of being with people appeals to me a lot. The reality usually does. It’s just sometimes I get a hangover from it.

So, I went along. I was a joiner.

And it was awful.

Awful.

Not because I met awful people. The opposite, generally. I met nice people, almost exclusively new mums. We were all in the same boat, looking like seasoned sailors – and now, when I think back – presumably all feeling like the captain of a sinking ship. And yet the loneliness persisted.

I’d arrive at the parent meet up, roll out my blanket, watch O. kick around for twenty minutes and feel sick with discomfort. I feel sick writing now, remembering the room that always felt too hot, and the gentle hum of women talking and babies gargling that irritated me so.

Afterwards, I’d agree to go along for coffee, feeling like I needed a driving license for the pushchair, grinning inanely through the suspicion that my kid was the loudest and the most unsettled. Sipping the one cup of caffeine I allowed myself then, back when I was overly paranoid that my milk turned directly into everything I consumed, I would sit and listen as we talked feeding, napping, burping, nappies, and dummies, and want to be anywhere else.

Then, I’d come home, feeling deflated. I’d tell my husband that O. and me were failing mums’ group. We were always a bit late, always the most likely to have forgotten something, and always the most likely to cry (either of us). In the end, I just stopped going.

Of course, I see it differently now. I see that probably a good half of the people there felt the same. I see that I was tired and sensitive, and, given I was working in a second language, would misconstrue questions for judgement, advice for reprimand.

But I also see that other people weren’t the antidote I needed to loneliness.  What I needed was the right people. I got on well enough with the women I met. They were all nice, thinking back. They were all friendly. However, the only thing we ever knew for sure we had in common was motherhood. And it wasn’t enough.  We never, ever got to know each other as people, just as parents. We defined each other as X’s mama or Y’s mum. That is just a recipe for losing your sense of self completely. I am Helen, a mother. Not a mother, Helen.

So, what changed? Initially, nothing. I had some tough old months. But, I started to feel better, and that’s when I found my team. I met, though a mutual friend, a group of other parents. And yes, we talked feeding, napping, burping, nappies, and dummies, too. However, we had an initial connection, a mutual friend. We have stuff in common, as well: we are all from different countries, our kids are growing up away from grandparents, we knew when we were introduced a bit about each others jobs and backgrounds, so could talk about that too. For whatever reason, this group of people clicked.

And it turned things around.

I learned an important lesson when my son was born. People aren’t the necessary answer to feeling alone. Back then, I needed to be around people with whom I could feel vulnerable. Complete strangers were not the answer. At different points in your life, you need your avengers, the people with whom you can be yourself, an individual, but know that the people around you have got your back. (You know, to fight those space alien things that don’t keep regular hours and spit toxic goop at you.)

Sometimes I see people that I met when my son was very young, and I feel embarrassed. I just stopped going to any of the meet ups or answering messages. I couldn’t explain that while everyone seemed nice, I wasn’t able to hang out with strangers when feeling so tired, so down all the time.

Luckily, by leaning heavily on my husband and a couple of close friends, I did okay until the time when I found the gang that worked for me. You can also learn to feel okay with being alone; that’s something I learned, too.

Our little team is just one little team. Everyone needs to find theirs. Because, yeah, the talking nappies and naps, day care and tooth care may seem boring and cliched and – at times – down right disgusting, but it helps. It helps no end. It just also helps if you can do all that and still get to be yourself, too.

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

Coffee And Strangers

When you’ve got worries, all the noise and the hurry
Seems to help, I know
Downtown

Petula Clark

The rattling of trays and the clinking of coffee cups. The indistinguishable chatter, voices gradually getting louder, each conversation competing with that to its left and its right. Not loud, just noise-some. Not overbearing, simply loud enough, so that no single voice dominates. Each tête-à-tête easily heard by those who need to hear yet lost on nosey, prickling ears. The sound of friends together, sipping their tea or colleagues grabbing a bite in a hurried lunch hour.

There are things to see in every direction. The couple with their heads together, plotting, perhaps romancing. The mother, worn with the day by noon, ignoring her bundle of joy as he bangs the spoon more and more ferociously on the china cup. The businessman, all suited and booted, who tries to ignore the banging. The young, the old, and the inbetweeners all in one place. The coffee lovers and tea drinkers all sharing air space. Everyone different, with their own baggage and dreams. Everyone interesting in their own, private way.

Then there’s me in my spot on the comfy red and grey sofa. A cup of milky coffee sits next to a plate of crumbs, the remnants of today’s quick bite or daily treat. The little guy lies on his blanket, cooing at the white ceiling like it’s a miracle. Ageing ladies peer over and smile fondly. Nearby caffeine junkies look on nervously, perhaps afraid we’re going to disturb their peace.

And I am happy. There’s no need to talk to anyone; occasional eye contact and the odd smile is enough. I am alone with my thoughts but never lonely, watching the world go about its business. I sit hearing but not listening to the voices of folk I don’t know. Baby and I are delighted to be out, and happy in the company of strangers.