And the Hidden (The Curse of the Strong Woman)

Have you ever been through something so heartbreakingly tough, awful, painful and/or depressing but not been able to talk about it? Or just thought that because you were so used to being the rock everyone counts on that you didn’t want to let anyone down? Going through life being strong, picking yourself up, facing every adversity full on as some kind of challenge, and embracing the potholes around you, knowing that if you manage to conquer the bad stuff, the good stuff will be all the better? I always feel like talking about hardships and problems with others makes them seem so insignificant, like I am moaning, and in the end it doesn’t really help the situation at hand. But trying to be strong all of the time can have some real downsides, and, as I have personally found, can be completely detrimental to one’s mental and physical health.

When I started writing about being surrounded by strong women in my life and doing my best to emulate this strength in my own journey, I also knew that I had to mention the other side of the coin, the one that is slightly tarnished and dark. In my heart it is the side of me that I don’t want people to see in case they catch a glimpse of my weaknesses or vulnerabilities. It’s often the side that I can easily keep away from those around me when I am sober, not so much when I drink. One of the many reasons, but not the most important, why I don’t drink anymore: there is something disconcerting about watching a person who seems to always have it together fall apart in public. Don’t get me wrong, I was mostly a fun drunk, until I wasn’t. In my head it all made sense, but how could it in anyone else’s when they had no idea what I was going through? There is some merit in asking for help sometimes. I often give this advice to others, and know full well that I should sometimes listen to my own little pearls of wisdom!

My other half tells me I’m so strong, my ability to put my mind to something and just follow through is something that inspires him. It’s just part of who I am, maybe a Taurean trait, seeing as a lot of it is really stubbornness or even bullheadedness. If I say I am going to do something, whether it is for myself or for someone else, you can count on me doing it. By saying something out loud I hold myself accountable and am terrified of being a disappointment. Well maybe not exactly terrified, my real fear is reserved for things that I cannot control and rather not think about, but it is a constant underlying worry. What if that article isn’t good enough? What if I annoy someone by bringing up a topic that they don’t agree with? What if no one buys my book because it’s just not interesting?? I don’t care if you like me as a person, I’m way beyond that now, but I do care about what I create and what I deliver. Perfection IS impossible, but I still continue to think that I HAVE to attain it. Even when I know deep down that I don’t.

You know those situations when someone asks how you are, and you know that they genuinely want to know the real answer, but you respond with “I’m good!”, or at least, “I’m OK!”. That’s me. And usually I AM OK. But sometimes I want to kick myself and say, no I’m not OK today. Or no I really just don’t feel like talking today. Or no, I feel like absolute shit and I want to dive into the sea and stay there for a while until everything is calmer in my head and I can deal with the world again. When Sylvia Plath described the bell jar effect, I totally understood what she was talking about. So much that when I was writing my MA thesis on her work I created my own bell jar. Not that you would have known because the only person I told was my journal. My closest friends guessed but didn’t know how to help, and did what they could in their own ways. It did help, and I figured my own way out, for the better. Every time I see the grey sky on the horizon I remember that time, and I remember how I found the blue sky and the ocean again, and it pulls me back into the rainbow rather than the abyss. I am acutely aware of the streaks of mental illness that run in my family, the depression, the anxiety, and I try to steer myself clear of all of that. Because I DO want to be consistently strong, and I DO want to be the positive person that I naturally am. And I DO want to always be there for everyone – it’s just sometimes I don’t have enough energy for it.

But who said we had to always have energy for everyone else? See I think here lies the crux of the problem: no one does. We tend to make ourselves so available, and then not know how to say no when it gets too much. And then we start to get angry and frustrated with the situation, ending up with a complete withdrawal or lashing out unnecessarily. I’ve had friendships that were all too one-sided to last, but last they did until I couldn’t give anymore. I’m sure those friends had no clue why I disappeared or “let them down”, but it was probably because I just didn’t have the energy anymore. Real friendship works both ways, and it’s taken me a long time to learn that it’s OK to say no (although I still forget to half the time…).

When I was in labour with my second child, I stoically told my partner to go back to sleep because it was OK, but in real life I was crying through contractions in the shower trying not to throw my guts up and wake and scare our firstborn, only 16 months old. It resulted in me making it to the hospital just in time to give birth and my partner missing it by 10 minutes because he was waiting for a friend to watch our other child. I was adamant I wouldn’t do the same for this last child of hours, but again, this time after many, many hours of labour, I found myself doing it again, and then yelling at him for not “helping” me (I don’t actually know how one can “help” someone go through back to back contractions at the end of active labour, but by that point I was a little delirious to say the least). I’m glad I yelled though, because it was the only way I could voice vulnerability at that point. It’s OK to not always do everything alone – especially something like this. And ultimately it ended in the situation where we were both able to be fully involved in the birth of our last child. Kind of magical.

I keep telling myself that asking for help isn’t a bad thing: we all need help sometimes. Doing everything alone isn’t always a merit, and while being strong in all situations means that I know there is always light at the end of the tunnel, sometimes it just feels better to get through things WITH others, instead of DESPITE others. At the time of writing this it’s been a tough couple of days, and while I have had an amazing recovery I need to remember that I am still recovering from 9 plus months of growing a child and 36 hours of getting him out safely. And that I also have two other children under four, one of whom has a lot of trouble adapting to change, and there have been a lot of changes recently. I just need to remember that strength also equals being kind with oneself and knowing when to ask for help, even if it’s just to take a nap. That will always be hard for me.

Immigration Series: Serial Immigrant

This week's story is my own mother's... We have lived thousands and thousands of miles away from each other for many years, but now all live together in sunny California. 

Serial Immigrant

I am an immigrant. I have been an immigrant, and an émigré, for much of my adult life: not because of dire need, or suffering, but from a desire to travel, to experience the world, and to provide a good life for my family. I’d always dreamed of travelling; as a child it was to Canada and France, or exploring the South Pole, as a teen I wanted to work on a kibbutz or travel the desert on the back of a camel; as an adult, to visit the ancient sites of Greece and Turkey and Jerusalem and Egypt and Japan. (I’ve been lucky enough to be able to do all of those, except Greece the South Pole, and while a visit to the Galapagos is still on the bucket list, I’m a little more wary of the cold these days.)

It all began when I was offered a short-term contract in the Netherlands when I was looking for full-time employment in Thatcher’s UK. The idea of spending a few months outside of what had become a depressed and gloomy Britain under Thatcher’s iron rule, in the country of windmills and clogs and Edam, was exciting and liberating. We packed a very few belongings into a mini-bus and took the ferry from Harwich to Hook of Holland, and never looked back. The children went to Dutch schools and my daughters were fluent in the language within a very few months. The short-term contract became three years, we experienced life as Europeans, and then a new job offer came along, from an American multinational with a large site in France.

Nine years in France, a country full of culture and life and history and strong friendships, and then, once again, I’m offered another job—with the same company, but this time, in the mothership—in the USA. Moving between European countries, pre-Brexit, was one thing. Across the world was another. It was a major decision: three children, divorced parents, oldest child already in university in France… but it was another adventure, it felt right, and it was an opportunity to experience yet-another way of life.

I entered the USA on an L-1 visa. That’s a visa specifically for “management transfers”: companies can bring in their managerial staff and workers with specialized knowledge, transferring them from overseas locations to a (new) location in the USA.

My employer provided help with the visa. They also provided legal help to make sure that the green card I applied for, for myself and children, were expedited, because my second child would celebrate their twenty-first birthday a few months after our arrival in the USA. Wait. Why is that important??? Because after 21, a child is considered “just another relative”, and you have to petition for them to join you, and wait years. But what about my eldest child, who is already over 21, yet still in full-time education and supported by me? Oh tough. They’ve “aged out”. No green card. You have to petition for them to join you, once you have a green card yourself, and then wait. And wait. And wait. At least seven or ten or more years.

My eldest was denied a visa to visit the USA for a few months, on the grounds that, “All your family is in the USA and you might be tempted stay.” Well duh… yes, all close family was in the USA. So you deny a child the right to stay with their only surviving parent???”

We found a work-around. My eldest was able to claim Canadian citizenship due to her father’s own citizenship, and then work in the USA on an annual TN visa, which wasn’t without stress. We waited and waited for her green card to be approved. We paid all the fees. Eventually, after several years, the green card was approved… but there would be another seven or more years before “the number would come up”, and the card would be issued. I learned that if I became a US citizen—by this time I was eligible, having held a green card for five years—then the wait for my daughter’s green card would be cut to just a few months.

So I paid all the fees, studied for the exam, and became a US Citizen. I now hold two passports, British and USA. My daughter has a green card, issued a few months after I became a citizen, and can live and work in the USA. The family is together. But am I a proud US citizen? Do I feel this glowing patriotism, and the need to put hand-on-heart when the Stars and Stripes are played? The belief in the right to bear arms? Not for one second… Do I feel somewhat compromised, and coerced into embracing a nationality, just to enable my family to be together? Some days, indeed I do. Resentful? No… I’m happy with the life we have, though I miss the history, the discussions, the cultural richness that is outside the USA. I don’t understand the American money-based mentality that drives everything and blinds people to the fact that there are better ways to manage health care and social welfare and ensure that everyone – EVERYONE – is taken care of. I don’t understand the shoot first mentality. And I really, really don’t want to live in the USA that Trump is proposing. I’m disturbed by the way the world is turning, whether it’s insulting click-bait political lies here in the USA, Brexit votes in the UK that will deny future generations the freedom of movement we enjoyed, and the rise in fear and hatred and intolerance around the globe… Maybe once you’ve seen more of different cultures and languages, you ask more questions, and are more frustrated by a brick wall of ignorance. I don’t know.

Those people who talk about immigration “done the right way”, obviously have no clue about how broken the “right way” is, how it can divide families, how much stress and anguish it can cause, how many years of wondering if your child will be allowed safely through the airport “this time”, or if they will be deported, or worse… and yes, that’s doing immigration “the right way”.

#iamanimmigrant. But I’m one of the lucky ones who had a choice, and tried to make the right decision. Was it? Ask my kids. I think you’ll get mixed answers.

In addition to being a wonderful parent and all-around great person, my mother (Alison Toon) is also a fantastic photographer and you can check out her work on her website, Facebook page and Instagram.