Notes to Self

by Emilie Pine

The things we are afraid to say, the things we are ashamed of, or embarrassed by, these are not, after all, the things that isolate us. These are the things that connect us. And this realization leads me to another: In writing my life, I thought I was writing about pain. But I have also, accidentally, written about love.

I only want to be a mother. Why is that so easy for some people and so hard for others?

And when it comes to announcing to R that today is the top day for implantation, I find out that what I’ve read is true: waving a recently-peed-on ovulation test stick at a man as an invitation to sex is not, actually, sexy.

walk past a row of huddled, smoking women, heavily pregnant, their bellies barely covered by their dressing gowns. How is that fair? I silently demand. I would be a better mother. I deserve it more. I try to push these terrible thoughts away, but a visceral jealousy courses through me.

My sister, V, is nearly nine months pregnant. She told me in May. We stood in my kitchen, as I made tea, and she was nervous and I reacted badly. I should have thrown my arms around her in celebration, but I only managed a forced “congratulations.” I am ashamed of this reaction, embarrassed that I could not, for one moment, shed my narcissism. I felt cheated.

Though I am a long way from the difficulties of my childhood, I still dwell on the stories of those years, hoping that they might explain the troubling residues of so many feelings and thoughts and actions.

I have gritted my teeth and borne it because I believe that’s what other women do, that’s what women are expected to do. Because, as a woman, my body is supposed to be a site of pain. And pain is something women are meant to be silent about, from the pain of bleeding to the pain of waxing to the pain of not measuring up. Our pain is not important. Our bodies are not important. Pain is the real tax we pay, and poor health is the dividend we reap.

knew this young woman was being quiet for a very particular reason: she is a girl and girls are taught to be quiet, taught that they are not good enough to be heard. The exceptional ones who risk saying something—anything—also risk being perceived as brash or arrogant. They were not born with these fears. They were not born feeling inferior. They were taught it. I know this because I was also taught it.