Naive, but also "MY boobs. No touching without consent, regardless what colour you are"

I know I have been leading a so-called privileged white life, although I am being discriminated for other issues than the colour of my skin, and in far less violent ways - being in the margins of society but still receiving monthly disability checks, for instance. So I am not familiar with the blunt, arrogant, massively violent ways in which people of other ethnicities are attacked and humiliated, robbed of their humanity. 

The last week Twitter and Instagram, and likely Facebook too (but I don't have an account there), have exploded in messages and reports on the horrible deaths of people who should still be living their lives right now: A white supremacist belief has taken over common sense, killing Black people, fighting Black people, wrecking Black people, all because, yes, these people are Black. That is their crime, the colour of their skin.

I knew to some extent racism still rules profoundly in every country but I never knew. Now I am reading in on the topic, as I realised here, in Belgium, too there is a viciousness at work that needs to be stopped - politics playing racist cards and far right parties gaining voters every day. A young woman being offered a prestigious function at the liberal party is bashed because she has Iraqi roots - what the fuck? I mean, NO! People, this is 2020 - we are supposed to be the highest evolved species in human history, we are supposed to understand - and practice - the value of respect, acceptance, cooperation and complementing each other. We are supposed to be able to maximize our capacity to empathize and be kind ...

"That, I know, is a very naive take on the world, but it is a view I love to hold on to, a view I keep passing on to my son"

 

Am I naive? Yes. I think so. I am naive in thinking everyone should be mature enough to see each other's worth, beyond the colour of skin. We are all people with hearts that beat in the same rhythm of life, souls yearning for kindness, and a capability of limitless loving. We are capable of helping and sustaining each other, of supporting and cheering on one another. Religion and origins should never be the reason not to. 
That, I know, is a very naive take on the world, but it is a view I love to hold on to, a view I keep passing on to my son and whoever his friends are.

Where is the racist in me?

I am following Layla F. Saad on Instagram and I have to admit, I both admire and fear the fierceness of this lady. Unaware yet of her personal story, but knowing she had more than her share of white shit, I can only imagine her own anger and fear. I am to read her novel as soon as my funds allow. 
But yes, I fear her fierceness, because her words invoke some sort of accountability, as if I am part of the problem. So I tried looking at me - ways in which I allow racism to exist. 

After I went to a public elementary school, where I shared my classroom with poor white, olive, brown and black kids, I moved to a moody, capricious neighbourhood, known for its delinquency and rare serious crimes, where a big part of the city's Turkish community lived. It was not safe for a woman, let alone a girl, walk out there alone after dark - and even daytime was tricky, as I found out. Many times I was addressed by Turkish men in unmistakable sexist ways, varying from "lovely knees" to pricking my chest to check if my boobs were real - this happened while on the tram and with people surrounding me but no one intervened. As I was being abused by my narcissistic mother ever since I was a little girl, I had no idea of what to do, so I just did a turtle escape - I huddled in myself and pretended it did not happen.

One time, a black man came up to me, asking me if I could translate a letter for him since he only spoke English, and Flemish was too hard for him. He seemed in real distress so I did go with him, eager to help him. It was a bit weird, I have to admit, as he led me to this strange door in an even stranger building - it was a part of my neighbourhood I usually skipped. I cannot remember what the letter was about: I only recall the frenzy of my mother when she found out. I was called stupid and idiot and naive and all things ugly for trusting a black man, who had a sincere question for help.

Later I would have many encounters with Moroccan, Algerian, Turkish and Black young men; I learned a lot, but at that time, there was still so much I did not understand. The way they saw themselves as outcasts, for instance. The communities they were homed in, the outskirts of town, like ghettos.

I know now my attraction was a rebellious act against my parents, my mother in particular, who still is embarrassingly racist and would often comment viciously on Muslim women and the physically and/or mentally disabled. My mother is of Indonesian descent herself, her parents were both Dutch-Indonesian and fled Indonesia after my grandfather was released from a Japanese work camp. They went to Holland where they built a family they abused and destroyed, struggling to fit in and coping miserably with the consequences of WWII.

Standing up for yourself is not racism

Just now, at dinner, I had an interesting talk with my ten-year-old son, about how to be a good person, accepting each other's differences in skin, upbringing and gender. I told him how proud I am of him for not relying on colour of skin to decide who would be his friend. And when I explained to him that sexist discrimination still existing here, in a country that so proudly shows its gender friendliness, he was adamant in stating he would never be such a man who thinks less of a woman.

All this is me looking into myself in order to find the racist in me. I think it is fair to say there have been times I was scared of the Turkish and Moroccan young men, grouping together and mustering every girl that passed them. Even me. I always thought myself an ugly girl - something my mother encouraged, by making me wear ugly glasses and forcing baggy clothes in dull tones on me, remember, she is a narcissistic-manipulative person and she raised me to never feel good about myself - but somehow the boys of Turkish and Moroccan descent seemed to think I was worth calling to, though I often felt like cattle being scrutinized. It always left me confused and wondering if I was racist for wanting them to stop calling to me. It seemed that any form of criticism to someone with non-white roots was bombarded as racist.

The "lovely knees" sticks with me to this day, and I remember myself smiling dryly and saying in a rather mocking tone "thank you", leaving the boy rather speechless. I would never call them names or curse them, I just tried my sarcasm, as it helped me dealing with my mother and brother too.

 

Later, at University, there were considerable few students who were not white. I had different encounters there, white boys grouping the way the non-white boys in the area where I lived, ill-tempered and bad-mannered, and scrutinizing girls in equally foul ways. They spread a high sense of fear, and a waft of beer and marijuana that made me sick. 

But would I call myself racist?

No.

Would I now stand up for myself if one grabbed my boobs as this man did when I was 17?

Hell yeah.

Would THAT be racist?

No, why? I am setting a boundary there, it is MY body, MY boobs. No touching without consent, regardless what colour you are.

"because when at one time I expressed my sadness and, yes, frustration about this, my son said, 'I believe she [the Romanian mother] really likes to talk to you but she may feel kind of embarrassed, perhaps she's afraid of making mistakes'"

Since then, I have had many nice encounters with women of another ethnicity than me. I never actually think "Oh, let's have a talk with my neighbour of Brazilian descent" or "I am going to try talk to this Romanian mother now". I do not see them that way - they are women who are also mothers and who I happen to meet in the street or at the school or whatever. I want to talk to them to connect, to share some joy and kindness. Trouble is, these women feel very secluded and lonely, being immigrants - that in itself is creating an invisible boundary which will take courage and kindness to cross. Most of these women do not speak Flemish very well, and English is troubling too, so communication is limited. I am encouraged to keep trying though, because when at one time I expressed my sadness and, yes, frustration about this, my son said, "I believe she [the Romanian mother] really likes to talk to you but she may feel kind of embarrassed, perhaps she's afraid of making mistakes". That hit home profoundly, coming from him - even though the thought had crossed my mind earlier. 

So, recalling Layla F. Saad's fierceness, yes, I think there may be a fear in me, from what I experienced in the past, but no fear of ethnicity. No fear of different colour of skin. I do not consider myself a racist. If I am anything, then I am curious and willing to learn. I will read Saad's Me and White Supremacy and I will read the works of Ibram X. Kendi; if only because here in Belgium we are very ill-informed on these issues in the USA. This is not about me being "lovingly kind to other cultures", this is me wanting to know, to learn and to practice in real life. The best way I can. And this is through getting the knowledge and passing it on to my son, and those who are willing to listen. 

But I will still take a wide berth though when seeing my path blocked by a group of young men, whatever colour their skin is.  

The ongoing struggle of healing

It was naive of me to think I finally had reached that part of my journey when I could lay my head and rest for a while. No, it's nothing dramatic going on, just a minor setback in my mind. It's something I need to get out, as part of the ongoing healing. But I am tired and a migraine now has taken over the normal fibromyalgia pain, and thinking is taking a tremendous effort. 

I'm not sure what caused this mental setback. It could have started when we got back from the pet store to buy supplies for the cats and birthday presents for Little Spottedleaf - she turns 1 on June 19. We both were very tired on the drive home; my boy suffering from a massive hay fever episode, and me from just using up too many spoons in too short a time. Back home I received a phone call that the water butt which I had ordered early March, had finally arrived. By then, the migraine was happily settling and I had difficulty concentrating and thinking, besides the total lack of energy, so no way I was going to crawl behind the wheel again. I asked my ex, since he lives close to the store keeping the water butt. When he arrived at my door, he was joyfully telling me about the virtual drink he would be attending when he got home. Normally he and his colleagues do this every Thursday in real life, but you know, corona. Instead of wishing him a happy time, I answered in a resentful tone, That's the joy of being able to work, right, get-togethers with co-workers; something that people forget about being chronically ill, I don't have that - and I added, silently to myself, I feel so very isolated. And useless, as a person, as a member of society. And then I felt guilty too, because I could not mute the resentment and be more friendly towards my ex, who, after all, had been so kind to get me that water butt.

It also could have started yesterday, on seeing a post of a magnificent artist I follow on Instagram. She only recently started experimenting with watercolour, and I was in awe of those wonderful pieces she created. I felt a pang of sadness, realising I would never be as good as she is. I am too amateuristic, too clumsy and trial&error still - and while I was thinking that, I knew I was being too hard on myself. Later that evening, I did Tara Brach's newly added meditation, Light RAIN in difficult times, and I cried the entire 9.5 minutes - because my difficult time was, yet again, me feeling inadequate and insufficient, falling short on so many aspects of being and accomplishing that I was drowning in quicksand again. 

And I was doing so well, I thought in-between my sadness and the nurturing part of the RAIN technique. I was doing so well, feeling light and capable, and managing boundaries and feeling proud of me. Yet, here I was, huddling in Peach's blanket, sniffling at the hot tears on my trembling hands, trying with an air of desperation to comfort the little girl inside me, mumbling that, YES, she was good enough and that I knew she tried the best she could - but the words felt hollow and I almost saw them fall around me, like fallen leaves in Autumn. 

It also might have started already last week, secretly, on realising that once again I would not be able to handle this month's finances. The ever-present frustration about my financial situation has been a heavy mental and emotional burden ever since I lost my job, so many years ago, but in the beginning it was buffered by my now ex's paycheck and the burden definitely less heavy than it is now. The divorce three years ago put me in much more delicate position, as I left with debts and even though my disability benefits have increased, my tax assessment did too, almost five times as much as I used to pay - or almost 1.5 month's worth of my benefits. Since I was not aware of that, I have been like driftwood on the sea of bills, debts and taxes ever since. If it weren't for the kindness and huge generosity of many people on Instagram, and one lovely woman in particular, I would have been with Social Services ages ago, and they would have managed all my money affairs and taken away my independency and perhaps also my cats and maybe the care of my child. For at that particular time, I even wasn't able to buy bread. I cannot express how deep the shame runs in me, of not being able to take care of my wallet, my bank account - to an outsider it may well seem money is leaking through my fingers, or to put it in my ex father-in-law: That I am a bottomless hole. Yes, I like to buy art supplies, and I did pay for some apps that give me pleasure. I do like to buy bird food if I can, to sustain the wild birds in my garden. And I do buy (expensive, for me) supplements to support my cats' health, as I know they work; and I do the same for myself since medication in itself is not enough - I have spent countless euros on supplements that I hoped would help, most of which did not but now I finally seem to have found the good ones.

But I have lived two years without buying anything for myself - no books, clothes, shoes. I mean, I really AM NOT leaking money through my fingers. Only this year I was able to buy some books for myself, and new bedding, thanks to the generous birthday gifts I received from two of my dearest friends. And thanks to some donations I got from my artwork I finally could buy birthday presents of my own for several other friends. I haven't been able to do so in ... like forever.

I know healing is a journey. I know it takes time, especially because of the severity and intensity of the trauma I endured as a child and long after in adulthood. I know. 

I know the stigma my mother engraved in my bones won't fully disappear. But I hate to hear her voice in my head once more - you are not worthy; you are unfit to deal with reality; you are unlovable; we never expected you to become a mother; you fail as a mother; you are too dumb to even dance before the devil; you have accomplished nothing worthwhile in your entire life; the books you wrote are stupid fairytales, nothing to be proud of; you should stop drawing those idiot sketches, stupid faeries, you live in a fantasy world; you are too sensitive, and weak; yes, I think you are pretty but I have to, because I am your mother. 

I try so hard not to listen. 

But I fear I fail at that too.

The magic of books

I forget how often I already listened to the audio version of The Song of Achilles, written by Madeline Miller, narrated by Frazer Douglas. Just as I like to re-read certain novels, this audiobook is so far the only one I can listen to, again and again. Rarely have I read, and listened to, a novel as exquisite and touching as this one. Via Audible I got this novel from a friend and I am forever grateful to her for it.


I read Warrior Cats to my son, currently the second book of the second series and that story etches itself into my being in a delicate way. I have to work hard though, to read through the many, many, often awful mistakes in translation, spelling and grammar. As a writer and editor myself I get really worked up about those. The apparitions of Spottedleaf as a guiding spirit get me so emotional, though, that my boy can hear it in my voice - the way I experience our own cats, is intensely relatable. It may also help that I too am spiritually moved, with a love for stars and moon, making moon water and cleansing rituals with sage and salt bowls.

It moves me tremendously to see how my boy loves reading himself. When his mind has enough of Minecraft, he turns to his own books, the very beginning of the Warrior Cats Saga - The Sun Trail - and Holly Webb's Lost in the Snow. He has this thing with reading two or three books at the same time. It gives him structure, it seems.

The wonders of stories translate themselves so often in our everyday lives; the slightest event or word in the newspaper can trigger our imaginations and all too soon we lose ourselves in stories of our own, mostly ridiculous ones, woven with sarcasm and giddiness. And he throws about him words that are beyond his age, many-layered words which he uses in the correct context, the right situation. As he makes his schoolwork, however, he keeps his vocabulary basic, as if embarrassed by the fact that he knows what he knows.

I hope one day he is proud instead of held back by it.

And all of a sudden it's just me and the cats again

Co-parenting is a weird construction. Not weird in the logical, legal way, but in an emotional, human way. Despite knowing - and experiencing - the pros and cons, it always leaves me bereft and sad when the boy has gone in his father's car. And while he is no longer crying and his face is no longer a pale mask of utter forlornness, he still has that gleam of sorrow in his eyes where his smile to me does not reach. 

During these corona times, his father and I eventually decided to adjust the co-parenting schedule from 10 days here and 4 there, to a 7 by 7 days period. It took me some convincing, because his father is not the kind of man to give up his newly achieved freedom for the capriciousness of a ten-year-old; but I persisted, because corona forced a hold to all ongoing therapies, and my body has been flaring up really badly due to Fibromyalgia. On top of that, the boy had trouble getting into the schoolwork mood, so the revisions he initially had to do, were a labour to say the least. I simply could not keep up with his overflowing highly sensitive mind and his mood swings at the time. When the notion of pre-teaching was first launched two weeks ago, I repeated my suggestion to the 7x7 deal, focusing on the balance of schoolwork instead of my failing body, and there we are now. This week started off with the first day of pre teaching here; the rest of the week the boy is at his dad's.

Leaving me to the cats again.

Used as I am to being alone, it now seems to hit me more than before. I mean, before the "lockdown light" as some like to call the Belgian time of covid-19 quarantine. Society does not seem to worry too much about the chronically ill people who have been home-bound for years and years; they ask a former astronaut for comparison to the current corona lifestyles. Working from home back then was impossible or not even contemplated; now employers bend over backwards to make it happen. The focus on fragile people consists of elderly, pregnant women and mentally disabled people. Not a word on chronically ill or how they experience these covid-19 restrictions and fears. Society worries about the complications of anxiety, depression, despair ... of the lockdown on people - the healthy people that is, the ones who work and are needed for the economy. When I was sacked, on my 30th birthday, due to Fibromyalgia and too many absences, I had just started my career as a children's therapist; I had spent three years looking for that job. And it turned out to be very easy to discard me. I lost whatever frail respect my family still had for me, and I lost a lot of social contacts, as well as financial freedom. And now, in the midst of this pandemic, the chronically ill are discarded once again.

That written, I have to admit I am happy to be here, now, on my own, after the divorce - because my marriage turned nasty and frightening, and I dare not think what could have happened if corona struck back then. That bonding was a very different kind of loneliness, the feeling lost in a relationship that should be filled with love and understanding and compassion, coming to an unexpected end as soon as a child is born and the role of the woman is done. That was another form of being discarded altogether; I often found solace with the cats, especially my Patches who is very sensitive to energies.

However, these quarantine times are similar to my normal of the past 14 years, except that now I even see fewer people, as I refrain from going anywhere except to the vet for my cats, and maybe the mailbox to post some snail mail. My ex does my grocery shopping, a friend buys bread for me. And when my boy is here, we enjoy every minute of spending time together, we talk and we laugh, we share a similar sense of humour, and as we both are highly sensitive people, we tend to 'feel' each other in more than one way.

But now he's gone, and all of a sudden it's just me and the cats again, amidst the invisible corona lockdown walls.

Discoveries during Quarantine, on pain, on mind and on HS parenting

As I am delegating my grocery shopping and doing even more online pharmaceutical purchases to avoid exposure to people who might be infected, I find myself not only missing those rare social encounters that used to lift me up a bit before Covid-19 struck, but I also am missing - on a more urgent and deeply level - the professional physiotherapy and the trauma therapy. 

What to do when the body starts failing even more despite daily yoga routines, and the mind will not be silenced by soothing meditations? I am trying to stay positive but I can tell you: this is not an easy task. It takes up a lot of the energy I need to get through the day pain-wise. My collection of spoons is very low by the start of any given day, but lately I need almost 20 minutes to even try and get out of bed. It takes up to an hour to be able to walk decently, instead of like a grandmother robbed of her rollator. The hot shower, right after giving Tiger his medicine and NHV, followed by the Patches NHV ordeal, and the general cat breakfast, has become a necessity instead of a luxury - without it, my lower back, pelvic girdle, hips and neck cannot loosen properly. The yoga session, following the shower, is a very, very painful one. Acute headaches, growing into monstrous migraines, as well as nauseous spells are unwelcome guests to that party.
My days now are spent in isolation with my cats. Used as they are to me being around, they ignore me quite a lot of the time, unless they need filled bellies or bring a mouse, or swat bees. I get up in the morning with many plans to do, but after the painful yoga, and the using up of over 7 spoons, I can only carefully sit down on the couch, heat pad in my back, and read the latest news on my phone. I get restless of doing nothing worthwhile. I feel bad and guilty for not creating any art. On Instagram there are several posts on how to flow in the moment, to cut yourself some slack. But I have been cutting myself slack for over a month now, and the pain is only increasing, embedding itself in the core of my system. I worry. I worry a lot about the future. In the midst of the past quarantine, I got a letter from my Health Benefits Office: Are you still entitled to being disabled from work?

I am trying to grin through all that, whilst finding ways to lighten the fog and overload in my mind. One of my (new) friends on Instagram recently posted a picture of the audiobook she was listening to, The Highly Sensitive Child, by Elaine N. Aron. As both my son and I belong to the Highly Sensitive People group, I got intrigued: I often doubt the way I am handling my child, having my intuition guiding me, searching for ways that would help me battle through the sensory overload, the pressure of shoulds and have tos. Before he left to stay with his father, he told me in a warm, gentle and actually little surprised voice, how happy he is that we are so often on the same page, sensing each other's feelings and moods and even thoughts, finishing each other's sentences. And we have the same sense of humour too, a huge asset in these quarantine times. Sadly, my Audible does not have that book in their library, BUT I found another by Elaine N. Aron, The Highly Sensitive Parent. And that book, my friends, is such an eye-opener in many ways. It has left me with quite some AHA-moments, as well as some good cries - as I finally start to understand that what I believed about me to be true, is just me being highly sensitive, to my own deeper self, but also to others, to moods and tones of voice, to worry and doubting, to weigh each possible choice and nearly drown in the chaos of possibilities. It explains why in a bookshop, back in the day, I will grab every copy I like, then start contemplating "should I?", followed by putting them back one after one. It explains why when buying online, I will often empty my cart, only to return a few days later, having given the purchase many hours of thought (and guilt and headaches) and deeming myself allowed to buy them.

On parenting level, this book supports me in my parenting style. I have often discussed parenting trouble with non HSP's and been told I need to be firm and not give s much freedom as I tend to do. Things is, with my boy, now 10, one is able to negotiate. he is both blessed and cursed with a high intelligence, a high and deep sensing of others' moods and expectations. It makes things hard, in that he will reply with answers he thinks you desire of him, and it makes things easy when I sense he worries and he finally gives in and talks to me, because he knows I only want him to be happy. In that way, my parenting seems to be of an emphatic kind, understanding, yet with boundaries (which often proves the hardest still, as I look beyond the wants and desires, I look at needs, I look at his full head, and decide then to loosen a boundary or not). And I follow my intuition a lot: I mean, a LOT. Seems to be an HSP thing. And it means also that I am not weak, or fragile, or living in an imaginary world, or dominant, or arrogant. It means, like so many others, I am just trying to be me, in a world that forces me to be someone else, even now, in quarantine times.

Stay safe. Hang in there. Read. Listen. Get to know yourself better.