The Powerful People

There’s a part of me that feels I shouldn’t be seeing anyone right now, that I’ve lost the capacity and privilege to love and to be loved. But there’s another part of me that thinks the first part of me is really fucking stupid. So here I am once again, memorizing his favourite foods and learning his quirks, while simultaneously uncovering my deepest fears and beliefs about life and growing my awareness about who I am and the barriers that hold me back. Because even after seeing a therapist and doing all the self work I could possibly do on my own person, nothing brings my deep-seated issues to the surface more than being in a relationship and seeing myself through someone else’s eyes.

To my own surprise, I’ve thus far been able to approach this with a clean slate and the vulnerability that every love deserves. And interestingly the thing that sets this experience apart from the others is that the person “who takes what is given, puts it on a fucking pedestal and then worships it for way longer than is necessary or sane” is gone now. After a decade of dating, it’s finally dawned on me that I’ve been really fucking stupid. And by that I mean too fucking generous.

So instead of waiting for someone to put me on a pedestal, I just went and did it myself over the last couple of months. And what I’m beginning to realize is that everyone is slightly taken aback and nobody knows quite what to do with a girl who stands atop a pedestal she’s built with her very own tiny hands. Because in a society that profits from our self-doubt, loving ourselves, praising ourselves, being kind to ourselves, are seen as radical acts of rebellion.

This is especially true for women, who have for centuries downplayed their strengths and successes so as to stick to the status quo, but are now killing it in all aspects of the modern world like never before. The moment we start owning our unconventional beauty, our vehement power and our praiseworthy triumphs, is the moment we start owning ourselves.

And so, without further ado, may I present the modern woman: she doesn’t bother with false modesty, she dares to challenge the boys in charge, she can have sex with the same frivolity as men, she can run a business, she can date other women, she can travel the world, she can raise children while thriving in her career. She doesn’t need anyone’s help or permission crafting her personality. She’s climbed her way up to a glorious point of high self-esteem. She values herself and rightly asks for what she deserves.

This can be intimidating because society knows it can't knock a girl off a pedestal she's built herself. And even if we somehow do, she has the means to build herself a new one. Women who own themselves, who don’t need saving, who know their place should be a win for everyone, but some of us (men particularly) still think of this as a hella threatening zero-sum game. And from my observations, it appears that the more women are able to do for themselves, the less men know what to do with themselves – not their balls though, no confusion there.

While the definition of power remains highly subjective, in my unbiased opinion, I’d finally morphed into a powerful person. To me, knowing who you are and being comfortable with the person you are, is what makes a “powerful person.” This is the kind of power that can’t be taken away from you, because it’s not defined by your looks, your square footage, your fame, or your bank account. People who possess this power know that they have the authority to choose what they want rather than let their lives be dictated by society or some irrational fear. A powerful person can be anybody – a Subway sandwich artist, a stay-at-home mum, a CEO, even someone with the upper body strength of a hamster such as myself. Power certainly doesn’t look the same on everyone, but people can always tell when it’s there.

I wish I’d harnessed this power sooner, especially since I seem to gravitate towards pompous misogynists, but then again I may have very well abused it had I not suffered at its mercy during my earlier days. If anything, this newfound power reassured me that my days of being chewed up and spat out were over. But when I discovered that his witty, self-deprecating humor was just a shtick masking a slew of insecurities, I looked to the heavens and shrieked “FOR FUCK SAKE, WHY GIVE ME THIS POWER AND THEN PUT ME IN A SITUATION WHERE I WON’T BE NEEDING IT?”

Sweet, sweet irony stirkes again.

The Injustice

Having enough kids to form a soccer team is one of my main aspirations in life so I felt conflicted not embracing the opportunity, however surprising and untimely it was. But after pragmatism set in, I was 100% behind my decision – for the most part. My reason was and remains simple: I am not ready. I am not mature or selfless enough to be the mother I want to be. And I have neither the mental nor emotional nor economic resources to raise a child on my own.

Even though I believe that it is our responsibility to protect those who cannot protect themselves, I have always found it odd that we assume a fetus would invariably choose its own life over the life and welfare of its mother and family. Why do we make that assumption? Is such a choice moral? Is it not incumbent on the parent to make the decision for the fetus?

On the other hand, when a soul decides to incarnate, doesn’t it select its parents – or parent – and life circumstances? And when I cross that line and say that I have the right to choose if the human being living in my womb should die, at which point does the value of life begin? When the fetus has fingernails? Right after a child is born? When they are three years old? When they bring home their first A for calculus? I don’t know. And I’ll never know. Life is often about choosing the least of all evils, is it not?

The moment I amped my rationalizations up to a self-serving degree, the paralyzing emotions I’d felt during the initial aftermath began to dissipate. One by one, they left – fear, guilt, denial, anguish – as if to go out for some beer and chicken wings and then never come back. Yet, abortion continues to be a confusing and hellish experience, just not for the reasons I’d foreseen.

What I’m realizing is that society now judges me as a woman who has fallen from grace. It’s as if there’s an unspoken law that women could have the freedom and right to choose their own future, but only on the condition that they are duly ashamed. And what strikes me as particularly unjust is that while I’m obliged to shroud my abortion in private remorse, the man involved has not been made – and will never be made – to feel marked for shame. It irks me that only one party is saddled with the weight of this perverse social contract, wherein abortion is considered a women’s problem, for which women must pay the price.

… Yes. And on Thursdays I sit in the backyard and burn my bras.

Anyway, I’ve always prided myself as someone fairly open about my own person, quirks, defects, blunders and all, of which my abortion is – as I’ve come to understand in the last couple of months – not included. Suddenly I found myself with a new identity, that of a person with something to hide. And I hate it.

The first rule of abortion (for women) is that you don’t talk about your abortion outside of your therapist’s office. And as far as I can tell, this rule applies even to women who are otherwise proud, confident, and pro-choice. They are happy and eager to shout about women’s right to have an abortion — just not their own. And I empathize with them completely.

But storytelling is vital, distinctly so and especially so, when we are told to keep quiet. There aren’t enough honest conversations about the painful and complex curveballs life sometimes throws at us, and it’s essential that we try to change this. Today I write anonymously because my story involves others who don’t necessarily want to be identified, but it's a step nonetheless in the right direction. One day we will all speak freely and put a face to each and every one of these precious stories.