Picture this scene:
I’m in the kitchen, taking washing out of the tumble-dryer so I can put another load in; the oven is on, with three pans bubbling and steaming away, as well as the microwave humming in the corner; the dog is circling the kitchen island, barking because next door’s Ring doorbell is louder than an air-raid siren; one of the kids has left the fridge door open and it’s beeping is becoming increasingly louder as it begs to be closed. On top of the clothes in the basket - none of which are mine - I balance a toilet roll, a charging lead, a couple of books, a box of candles and a stack of Pokemon cards, creating something resembling a twelve-tier wedding cake. And as I turn to navigate it through the hall to take it upstairs, I trip over the dog, scraping my arm against the kitchen door before landing in a heap on the floor.
Do you know who comes to check I’m ok?
Nobody.
“I’m fine, thanks for asking!” I shout sarcastically to the members of my household - my husband, daughter and son - who’ve apparently all lost their sense of hearing. Eventually, my son runs down the stairs to ask me if his dinner is ready because he’s ‘got a really important tournament on Fifa so it needs to hurry up and be cooked.’ Noticing the clothes on the floor, he doesn’t help or offer to pick them up but reminds me that his ‘football kits aren’t meant to go in the tumble-dryer’ and he hopes I haven’t ruined them.
My other half sticks his head around the door.
“What’s happened here?” he says, eyeing up the dog who’s now having a fight with the loo roll and winning, before PING! “Microwave’s done,” he states, “want me to do anything?”
Something bubbles inside me. I’m not exactly saying I’m feeling violent but for a moment, I wonder whether prison would actually be that bad.
Without a word, I pick myself up, leaving the football kits and checked shirts and work clothes and socks and tights and pants strewn across the carpet. Calmly, I carry myself upstairs. My daughter opens her bedroom door, expecting to find her room service on the other side. I smile. Slide into the bathroom. Close the door gently behind me. Breathe.
“Why’s she so angry?” my daughter shouts downstairs. I imagine them all stood scratching their heads in confusion.
Why am I so angry? Angry?
Well let’s unpick that, shall we?
First of all, which of my actions portrayed anger? I hadn’t said a word. Not made a sound, other than my sarcastic comment that apparently nobody heard. I hadn’t stomped up the stairs. Hadn’t slammed the door. I hadn’t shouted at anyone, kicked anything. So how was I being perceived by my family as being angry?
No, anger was definitely not the emotion I was feeling. We’ve been almost conditioned into believing that if a woman displays anything other than complete happiness and calm, then she must be angry, or crazy, or overreacting. Have you ever experienced something awful or genuinely upsetting, started to cry or feel distressed, only to be told (probably by a man) that you’re being over-sensitive or hysterical? Or given a tissue, as if to say ‘you can stop that now,’? But in the scenario I just described, I was calm on the outside. Maybe not smiling or skipping merrily while tiny birds circled my head, but I know I wasn’t displaying whatever it was that was bubbling up inside. So, does showing no emotion equal anger too, now?
Before I explore what I believe this actually was, I’d like to quickly think about this:
So what if I was angry?
What’s wrong with being angry? Why is it seen as a negative emotion? There will be times in everyone’s life where it’s a completely reasonable feeling to have, so why are we expected to mask it? BTW, I think anger has been given a bad reputation when it’s actually a completely valid, normal emotion. Throughout history, women have been seen as ‘the fairer sex,’ existing to be looked at, child-bearing, home-making, seen-and-not-heard creatures of society. But this wasn’t always the case - there was a time when women weren’t so domesticated, but were understood and worshipped (er, yes please!!). At our very core, we are animals, so of course we have those instincts to release pain and cry out; to be wild and free and open about how we feel - it’s who we are. But somehow, one of the only times it’s deemed acceptable for a woman to shout or scream is during childbirth! And even this has become a point of contention, with ‘silent births’ (yep, you guessed it, an idea dreamt up by a man) becoming increasingly popular… an article on bump.com describes ‘patients who are able to handle their labors very well and have a very peaceful and placid environment throughout their labor and delivery.’ In other words, if you’re noisy or vocal during this very painful and life-changing process, then you’re clearly not handling it well… somehow that doesn’t sit well with me.
Anyway… back to the emotion at hand
So. It wasn’t anger - but it should’ve been ok if it was - so what is this feeling that we as women, mothers, partners, daughters so often experience? I think the clue is in the question. Think of all the roles you have. In fact, grab some paper and write them down. I’ll start you off:
parent
partner
employee
colleague
family member
appointment maker
decision maker
chef
housekeeper
cleaner
bill payer
financial advisor
personal taxi driver
medical expert
Of course, these might not all apply to you and I’m sure there are a million more roles that you could add to the list, but do you get my point? As women, we’re expected to be everything to everyone, all the time. And not only that, we should be happy about it and smile while we’re doing it. Is it any wonder that we often feel like it’s too much? The silent, invisible load we carry often means we’re on high alert all the time; feeling needed is great but when it’s all the time, it gets overwhelming. And that’s what I believe I was feeling that day:
Overwhelm.
The Oxford dictionary defines overwhelm as ‘bury or drown beneath a huge mass of something’ and ‘to defeat completely.’
How often do you feel buried or drowned by the shit-load of things you need to do or remember or take care of? Completely submerged in being the one who everyone goes to, the one who knows where everything is, the one who never gets a real break or alone time? Just as our instincts are to cry and scream when we need to, it’s also in our nature to take on these things completely - as women, we don’t do things by half and we take our responsibilities seriously. Now, this isn’t to say that I hate men - I’m not man-bashing! I love my husband and son and nephew very much, but it’s just not the same for them, is it? Many males seem to have the ability to let the everyday, mundane, vitally important aspects of life slide easily off their backs. They don’t tend to sit and overthink like we do. And I guess when they see we’re doing such a fabulous, efficient job of everything, well, they just let us get on with it. Our minds are amazing at juggling a LOAD of information, but as with most things, we have a limit.
Imagine your mind is a bucket and each time an issue comes along or a problem arises, a drop of water is added. When your other half asks you again what time his dentist appointment is, or when you realise you forgot to make your kids’ packed lunches for tomorrow, or you need to get a birthday card for your work colleague before work but you’re late - drop, drop, drop. You need to reply to that email. Drop. The dog needs her vaccinations. Drop. The MOT is due. Drop. All of these ‘little’ things eventually add up until, inevitably, the bucket not only gets full, it begins to flow over. That’s overwhelm. And this can manifest in many ways - anger (as we thought about earlier) tiredness, irritability, sadness, the inability to focus, and even detachment, something that I experienced for the first time a few weeks ago which was incredibly scary and confusing (I’ll share this another time).
So what’s the answer?
How do we avoid feeling overwhelmed in our very overwhelming lives? I’ve seen so many articles and quotes online about self-care; meditation or taking a bubble bath or getting up at 5am to drink Chai tea in the garden. All very quiet and calm suggestions. If those things work for you, then great. But I need something more.
I read this amazing blog about a group of women in Yorkshire who get together and howl at the moon, an experience that takes them back to the wild and free and raw animal-women that I talked about earlier. I love the idea of being free to cry or shout in a safe space, allowed to let out real emotion without any judgement or anyone trying to stifle me. I’ve recently found that going to the gym and doing a dance-fit class is giving me a similar kind of feeling - albeit nowhere near the extent of moon-howling - where grunting and cursing is allowed and encouraged and I leave feeling a little bit lighter. Rage rooms are becoming popular too and definitely something I’d be up for - who wouldn’t want to smash up a load of shit with a baseball bat without getting arrested?! In my opinion, these are ‘prevention rather than intervention’ kind of strategies, where we get to pour out that bucket before it overflows, so it’s got space to hold those drops when they start trickling in
I want to leave you with this quote from Nobel Peace Prize Laureate, Leymah Gbowee, which sums up exactly what I’ve been trying to get across here today:
‘It’s time for women to stop being angry politely.’
Be brave. Be fierce. Be you.
Danielle x
photo credit: Jessica Hmoras
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