i recently interviewed someone who told me that apparently there are only 36 stories which humans tell, and that we tell them over and over again. it makes sense. there’s only so many things us humans can experience.
i feel like i have the same habit of telling you the same thing over and over again. sometimes i cry at night thinking that i will run out of things to say, or rather, that i will never feel inspired again. it’s hard to tell a new story when everything internally feels the same. so much has changed externally since i was a little girl, yet inside i feel exactly like her.
my body changes every so often. i’ve recently become even more attached to the idea that my body is exactly representative of who i am. our bodies signal so much. they are the first thing that the other sees before we open our mouths, and before they can enter our minds. as women, we are often reminded that we are not our bodies. this message is plastered on billboards that feature emaciated models, posing in underwear that fails to serve a functional purpose. we too, if we buy this product, will be part of a collective of other women who are more than just their bodies. there is almost always a contradiction between the image and the supposed messaging.
i enjoy packaged feminism. i think we all do. it’s a way that we can convince ourselves that our weird eating habits are part of a greater purpose. that we are all starving ourselves and watching our weight in order to join the collective. i must correct myself: “watching what we put into our bodies, because our bodies are temples.” our bodies are temples, none of that processed crap.
of course, this doesn’t apply to me.
we live our lives in hypotheticals, never truly being honest about what it is we’re experiencing or the common stories between us.
-
i spend my life on trains. sometimes i eagerly observe others, pondering about their lives. often i use the time to self reflect. being on a train means i have an opportunity to be in my head. i wonder where everyone is going. sometimes, i just sleep. train journeys are me time.
when we go past the stations with names like “market harborough”, i am reminded how vast our little island is. all these big and little towns, all bursting with life, all with hundreds of stories to tell. yet, unless i visit them, will remain contained within my imagination.
as we passed market harborough, virginie despentes told me, whilst speaking from the realms of the ugly, that “motherhood has become the most venerated aspect of the female condition. in the west, it is also the sphere in which a woman’s power has increased.”1 about a month ago, my body dripping wet, about to step out of the bath, i stopped myself. maybe i do want children? huh? this thought wasn’t something i had considered. i’ve been known to vehemently dismiss any notion of motherhood. “it’s just not for me.” when i think of myself as a mother, fulfilment is the last word that comes to mind. motherhood seems to exist outside of me, in every aspect of my life. but now, i was suddenly confronted with the possibility of wanting to be a mother.
although alone, i felt incredibly exposed. not because i was naked, but rather because perhaps i had admitted something that i was hiding from myself. unfortunately, dearest reader, a month has passed and i still lean towards being childless. it’s nice to know that despite my stubbornness, i remain open minded.
you’re right, i told virginie, although she can’t hear me. in the modern sense, motherhood is seen as the only avenue which western women can gain respect from the traditional man. this year, i live with housemates who are adamant in reminding me that as a woman, it is my duty to be a mother. to them, their message is more than just a religious or philosophical doctrine, but a biological truth. “men are meant to work and women are meant to be at home.” they fear the direction the world is going in. “men and women’s roles are getting all mixed up.” “the modern woman is too concerned with working which won’t fulfil her.” “men are depressed because they aren’t allowed to be men.” “women were much happier in the past than they are now.”
oh really? did she tell you that?
it’s not only men who think this. online, tradwives have taken over, telling women how joyful their lives are since they stopped working, had children, and committed themselves to their husbands and the home. they tell us in detail how excited they are to name the child they’re expecting, “honey-bunny-rumpelstiltskin-sugar-plum-smith” and all the comments are filled with women proclaiming how they would “kill to live her life!” of course, hidden within these videos are various religious texts which are neatly showcased next to a colourful-looking journal or diary planner, situated centimetres away from a fruit bowl, or perhaps a bouquet of flowers. on display, yet unassuming, is the variety of treasures which they “recently bought at the farmer’s market.” in other videos they’ll cut up their farmer’s market apples, sprinkle them with cinnamon, and proclaim what a sweet life they have.
in many ways, they represent the perfect woman. young, beautiful, slim, softly-spoken, dedicated, and most importantly, a mother. they effortlessly balance motherhood and their relationships to their husbands, showing how their unwavering servitude has freed them from the chains of the depressing life of the modern, western woman.
-
i closed the book and stopped listening to virginie. as the train rattled along, i thought about how many times in the last month i had listened to friends speak in earnest about wanting nothing more from their lives than being a housewife. they express their disappointment with capitalism, living from pay check to pay check, feeling unfulfilled, and stressed because of it. online, there’s a growing sentiment that previous waves of feminism didn’t acknowledge a woman’s choice to be subservient, and now, more modern types of feminism are giving women back their power to make their own choice.
i’m unsure where i stand. on the one hand, i want myself and my friends to be happy. i want people to wake up every day and not feel as though the weight of the world is on their shoulders. i want to visit people in the countryside. i want to frolic in fields and bask in the sun, and eat meals made out of food that i grew myself or bought at the farmer’s market.
-
this section of the essay mentions rape.
i was sat in a pub, opposite a guy who i hadn’t seen in over two years. it was nice to catch up with an old friend. we spoke about what we had done since the last time we saw each other. his stories were riveting and i was hooked. at one point i interrupted to tell him that everything he was telling me, and this very interaction, i could see as a film. life imitates art: My Dinner with Andre (1981).
during our conversation we spoke about growing up. one day you’re seventeen and on the cusp of adulthood and the next you’re twenty-one, wondering when the fuck you stopped being a teenager. i told him that in hindsight, up until last july, i had been going through life with the mentality of a child. i told him that i was raped. i gave him the whole story, jokes, suspense, drama, and all. by this point, i had told this story a few times. i even wrote about it and shared it on this very platform the same day it happened. the essay takes the form of a sweet treat.
during our conversation, he affirmed me. we googled the guy, and my old friend assured me that i had nothing to worry about. “he doesn’t look like he’s doing that well for himself,” i was reassured. i sometimes look like i’m doing well, when i’m not. i gulped down my cider to wash away the thought.
although i spoke confidently about my rape, existential dread had taken over me by the time i had gotten home. sitting outside in the garden on our freezing cold, hard, wooden bench, i smoked a cigarette. not only was i significantly more drunk than i thought i was, i was also more devastated at the event that had now made me more/less woman2. It angered me that i even had to talk about rape. most of all, i felt shame. though i spoke confidently, i was raped. no amount of confidence will get me past this matter of fact.
a week later, sitting on a train to london, embarrassment engulfed me. what’s worse than being raped? perhaps it is telling and admitting to another man that it happened.
-
after i left the pub that night, i crossed the busy street, passed all the students who were in various stages of their own ‘nights out’, and ran all the way home. the street lights became less bright and more distant as i ran towards the little close where i reside. i texted a friend to tell her i felt sad. once again, i had drank too much and eaten too little. my sadness felt profound.
-
for me, one of the most horrible feelings in life is when i feel i’ve let other women down. if i speak honestly about my critique of tradwife culture, i am told that i am simply jealous and that my frustration is misdirected. if i suggest perhaps the reason why more women believe being a housewife and having children is the most viable path to a fruitful life, is because we are in the abyss of late-stage capitalism, so we benefit, and are rewarded (both societally and financially) by subscribing to it, i am simply branded a cynic. on top of this, i am single. the second worst crime a woman can commit (the first is childlessness). to speak critically, to speak against patriarchy and it’s subtleties in culture, especially as a single woman, is to be reminded that i “simply don’t get it.” an unloved hag speaking from the sour depths of bitterness.
-
i keep falling asleep on trains. luckily, the last stop is my stop so i never have to worry about missing it. i’m never fully asleep anyway. for the last two years i have used the sound of white noise to help me fall asleep. at first, it was because the window of my first year flat faced the entrance gate to my accommodation. almost every night, in intervals starting from as early as 7pm to as late as 6am, there would be students screaming, shouting, talking loudly, in varying states of inebriation. i discovered very quickly that the only way for me to get a good night’s sleep was to completely block out the noise. if only we could block out the noise of everything. i have often found myself trying to do this.
when i wake up again, i am usually greeted by my reflection in the window adjacent to my seat. i stretch awkwardly, scramble to collect my bags and the unnecessary luggage i always carry with me (no one wants to be the last off the train), and head out the carriage. maybe in my head i will write an essay in the time it takes me to leave the station and get back home.
~ this essay is very personal to me, a little entry into the current state of my mind. if this resonated, share with a friend. i write to feel less alone, and i hope reading my words makes you feel less lonely too. subscribe to get my next essay or post straight into your inbox.
Virginie Despentes, King Kong Theory (2006)
ibid concept taken from Despentes
you are an incredible writer, Maxine
thank you for sharing, your words sit and stay with me