The holiday season is fully upon us. There’s less than one week before Christmas and I am super excited. Christmas is a family favorite. Obviously, the children love it because… GIFTS. I’ve tried to provide the giving is better than receiving narrative and they think that’s great and all, but they’re children. So yeah… YAY GIFTS!!! Hahaha!
I grew up in a house where Christmas was a big deal. I mean, multiple Christmas trees, decorations everywhere, gifts galore and the joy of the season in abundance. My mother orchestrated the production of Christmas and injected it into everyone around her. So, it still stands. The tradition is firmly planted.
Imma be honest though. Christmas stresses me out. We have four children. That’s a lot of seasonal “joy” to spread around. And it’s not even all the money. Trust— there’s a lot of it being spent. It’s the doing of it all. And I’m conflicted; right? Because I love the outcome of the doing. I even actually love the act of doing, but it is also wearing me out.
When people see you, you look good. People love you, you laugh a lot… by societies standards you’re successful, you have friends and you’re gorgeous. You don’t see what they see.
Depression distorts the lens of your life.
You don’t see whole reflections. Your view is produced by a dirty, broken mirror.
The first thing you hear when you wake up, the last thing you hear before you go to bed and in every single free space in between, your mind hears that sad song and those demeaning words together, infinitely looped… convincing you that this world and you would be better served without your existence.
I am so happy to be writing today. Describing the last almost three months as difficult would be a major understatement . I have wanted to write— to tell you what my family and I have been facing. I have wanted to write about the truth of walking my child through a traumatic experience. I have wanted to share the intimate details of a helpless mother… the heartache of watching the best parts of you become the darkest part of you.
But this is my safe space… my joy.
This is a blog read by many people and yet it still feels so intimate to me. I didn’t want to tarnish it by discussing an experience I haven’t healed from. I didn’t want to transfer these negative emotions. I’ve been so angry and sad and angry and enraged.
I thought she just needed to warm up to the new school year. We were in a new grade, in a new building. Transitions can be challenging. I reasoned that anyone might need a few days to settle in. Then, things quickly escalated. She didn’t want to go to school. The final straw was when I had to go pick her up 2 days in a row because the office called me with her bawling in the background.
Up until that point I thought she was having a little separation anxiety. Which would have been standard. But, it wasn’t that she was crying. It was the way she was crying. The desperation and fear. The way she clung to me let me know that something was very wrong. This was more than separation anxiety. My girl… my effervescent star was losing her shine.
I’m leaning into transparency and vulnerability today.
I want to apologize.
Life is hard. I don’t look at the world through rose colored lenses. I don’t think anyone should. I think you should work towards the life you want until you see the life you want. While I believe you can choose to be happy; I know it’s more nuanced than just deciding. For my friends and readers who are living with depression and anxiety. I see you. I am you.
Growing up Black is a be seen and not heard kind of existence. In my experience, to find a Black child with the authority to fully BE, in the presence of adults is the exception; not the rule. Control, rules, excellence and respectability are major components of the Black child rearing experience. Black children need to grow up with their shit together. This didn’t happen in a vacuum. It’s a direct result of slavery, Jim Crow, the Civil Rights Era and a post racial America *side eye*. The privilege of speaking about anything at anytime was snatched from us and whipped out of us on slave ships, auction blocks, in the fields and in the big house.
Saying the “wrong” thing or being at the “wrong” place at that time could get an adult or even a child, literally killed— It still can. We have too many examples. Being seen and not heard is not a simplified way to parent; it’s a safety mechanism. Part of the Black experience is simply trying to keep your children alive in a way that it isn’t true for other races. The same is true of how we are steered towards career choices. Careers that are perceived as frivolous, i.e. dancer, artist or musician are not routinely supported.
Revealing my struggles felt like weakness. Until recently, I prided myself on being the strong one. So, I refused to disclose the fullness of my pain. But people love me. Without fail, they all wanted to comfort me. They all wanted to fill in the places I could not. A few wanted to know everything. Others wanted to get by with as little information as possible. And I get it. I think people understand the complexities of choosing to have a hysterectomy.
After all, 40 it is relatively young to remove reproductive organs. In this day and age many women, at 40, are just embarking on their first pregnancy. Women are choosing to a party, travel and pursue their careers as priorities over marriage and children. I, of course, think this is wonderful. It means that more women are choosing to invest in the desires of their own hearts rather than the desires of their circle of influence or the insistence of the world that marriage and motherhood define womanhood.
I was pretty rough and tumble as a child. I played with my brother and his friends all the time and wore my tomboy title like a badge of honor. I even earned a few bumps and bruises along the way. So, the scab didn’t concern me at all. I'm not a free range parent, but I'm also miles away from helicopter parenting. I mostly let children being children. They run, they play, they fall. The end.
My boy was up in his Nana's lap when she noticed the atrocity on his knee."What happened to my baby’s knee!?!” If your children have a Nana like my children; you know she acted like the boy had staples in his knee. She was appalled. So, I quickly told her what happened according to his father who was his caretaker at the time in question *snicker. At the end of my explanation, I gratuitously added, “And he didn’t even cry.” *insert my proud face
I know the heart wrenching impact of suicide and the extreme, desperate heart and mind space one has to be in to make that choice. I also have friends who suffer from depression, anxiety, bipolar disorder and perhaps other mental illnesses I know nothing about. I worry about them. I worry when they get to quiet and when they stay away too long. I wonder if my phone is gonna ring with the grief of a parent or sibling telling me they’ve chosen their own final act on the stage of life— I am sometimes terrified by the knowing… the knowing that no matter how beautiful, intelligent, witty and resourceful I find you— that if you don’t see it in yourself what I think doesn’t matter.
I thought I had somehow been cheated. I’m supposed to be in charge of everybody for the purpose of making life perfect. My thinking was unreasonable, unattainable and unfair to everyone, especially me. If you say you want to be happy, but can’t seem get happy and stay in that space; it’s probably because you are pursuing something other than happiness. For me, it was the ideals of marriage and motherhood; not the reality. I, with all my intellectual prowess, managed to confuse perfection with happiness. Too many make the same mistake.
Motherhood is a part of you; not the wholeness of you.
-Stephanie D. Pearson-Davis
I love you. I love you. I really do, but you gotta stop the madness. We all know that in this forum you get the whole truth and nothing but the truth. It’s what you signed up for; remember? If you didn’t sign up for this head back to the home page of my website, enter your name and email address so we can be legit.
Anyway, the truth… You want it. I got it. Martyr Mom sounds like a lot of fun; right? She sounds noble. Running from school to school, dropping off lunches, being class mom, doing homework, giving baths, cleaning ears and asses. The real key to being a martyr mom though--No matter what she NEVER E V E R finds time for herself. How else would the world see your value if you don’t show them the work you do as a mother is so laborious that you don’t even have time to give a shit about yourself?
Discover & share this Funny GIF with everyone you know. GIPHY is how you search, share, discover, and create GIFs.
Who's that man? Oh... he represents everyone's inner face while you talk about all your sacrifices as a mother and run around like a crazy person. And listen. Y'all know I don't give a lot of weight to what other people think, but this Martyr Mom Mania speaks volumes about what you think about you. Let's see if I can help. I wonder if one post will do. I have a feeling we'll have to come back together for another round or two before we can knock this thing out.
You were not born a mother... Nor were you born to be a mother.
I don't care. I don't care. I said it. I mean it. The ownership that humankind has taken over the female body is astounding. The world has said, "You are female. You have a uterus. You must have a baby. Go forth!" We push baby dolls in the arms of our daughters and call them "Mommy" to those babies. I wonder what would happen if we overwhelmingly bought them stethoscopes and called them doctor or placed airplanes in their arms and called them First Officer. Hmmm...
I digress. And to be clear I do not identify as a feminist #NoShade. It's just... I find it sad that a woman could wake up every day and see motherhood as the only thing providing purpose in her life. First, there a many, many women who have chosen not to be mothers. That number is growing every day. Their personal choice to have a child free life does not minimize them any more than it maximizes you. There is so much more to you than your biological capabilities. So, yeah... I'm a mother. It is one of the greatest joys of my life. Still, it is not my life. I refuse to be defined by my role as a mother. You should too. Find out who you are at the very core. I promise you you won't find a mother in that space.
REFLECTION IS THE KEY TO ALL UNDERSTANDING
I wish I could solve this Martyr Mom Mania in one blog post, but it ain't gonna happen. Frankly, it deserves more time and space. Discussing this phenomenon will be illuminating for us all. We need a cure. What drives women to give up themselves in the name of motherhood? Why is that lauded? Where do we learn this behavior? How can we unlearn it? How do we compartmentalize the many pieces and layers that make us who we are without dishonoring our true selves? How have you sacrificed yourself for the sake of motherhood? What effect did you experience as a result? Take some time to reflect on these questions. Pick one or two and journal about them. I wonder what you'll find out about you. Hey... love y'all. This is us on our journey to #ChooseYou. Until next time.
I’m not here because I’m an expert. I’m here because I have experiences -Stephanie
