Boundaries.

Things I have recently finally stopped doing:

- being helpful to people who don't actually like me. They might have liked my kindness, my talent for listening or that I'd bent over backwards to make sure they were comfortable. But I'm actually someone, not just a service, so yeah, nope.

- chasing after people who don't actually like me. It's ok, I'm taking care of my belonging wound. I'm finding my people. It's allowed to not like me.

- centering men, their experience, their comfort, their advice, or their point of view. It's just not relevant to my life. And being relevant to my life is obviously what ought to matter to me.

- caring about being perfect and morally irreproachable 100% of the time. It's a very hard one, and goes against all my autistic instincts. But fuck that.

Clearly, the unmasking process is on its way.

Peace or privilege.

Resist silence.

Refuse neutrality.

It's not because it's not your fault that it's not your problem.

Poetry 101

Me, feeling pretty ill: I think I'm feverish. Actually , I was super thirsty AND sweating so much during orienteering this morning, it was weird. 

My 8 year-old daughter: You mean, if sweat was the waves, you were the sea?

I mean, hurray for her creative writing sessions with our poet home-ed mum friend...

Undiagnosed

I will not drink water out of a mug. Unless camping.

I will not drink coffee out of a transparent glass. No exception.

I won't use anything that's yellow. And if I must, I will wince.

I don't seem to make myself heard when I talk to health professionals.

I explain that I'm overwhelmed, which leads to me getting anxious. They say are you sure the anxiety isn't causing the overwhelm?

I'm sure. 

But now I'm also dysregulated and will soon cry, so you'll assume I'm depressed.

I'm not: I'm overwhelmed.

I need a shower. Every single morning. Not showering in the morning is hell. Having to interact with anyone before a shower is hell. Please let me shower.

Please stop rubbing your feet on the carpet. Or on the sofa. Actually just stop moving your feet. Maybe even stop moving at all? This is unbearable.

How did I get into a discussion about the spliceosome with my 12 year old while clearing the dinner table? And how didn't he know the concept of exons & introns?

Leaving the house is always a panic.

I mean, the actual leaving.

The checking and double checking I didn't forget anything, the looking for my phone / keys / whatever essential item that surely someone must have moved from its designated place for fuck's sake, the rage rising... oh, it was there all along, in my right pocket, the shame rising, the absolute need to pee no matter what, even if I don't actually *need* to pee, the time ticking, the remembering the kids' sun glasses, the sending the WhatsApp message to warn we're leaving, the setting the right playlist, the setting Google maps. 

Panic over. 

With Google maps, the panic stops.

I have recently found the miracle cure to my anxiety: the kids and I each building our own Lego set while watching old episodes of Star Trek, sat on the sofa. 

It's peak happiness, honestly.

Unfortunately, Lego isn't available on the NHS.

Overstimulation is overwhelming.

Understimulation is overwhelming. 

Any onion smell is overwhelming.

Any succession of tasks is overwhelming.

Asking for help is overwhelming.

Being denied help is overwhelming.

Having to explain is overwhelming.

"Oh, you're lucky, you're always so organised!"

Time to be awesome*

Le truc, c'est que je me suis éteinte. 

Je me suis effacée, comme la plupart des femmes / mères. C'est d'une banalité tellement affligeante que ça en devient très embarassant. Parce que bon internalised victim blaming is a thing. Et donc je me retrouve à avoir honte d'être devenue moi. D'avoir vieilli éteinte et effacée, de ne pas m'être respectée. D'avoir pensé que mes sacrifices avaient du mérite, alors qu'ils n'étaient que le résultat d'un conditionnement patriarcal. 

Rien de plus, rien de moins.

Il y a eu plusieurs phases, biensur.

La phase où je me suis convaincue que son bien-être était prioritaire au mien. En m'illusionant - surement c'etait reciproque, surement c'était ça, l'amour.

La phase où je me suis convaincue que j'etais juste hystérique et ridicule.

La phase où je me suis convaincue que mon sommeil & ma santé étaient de l'ordre du luxe. Ou de l'égoisme. Sans jamais questioner SON droit absolu au "luxe".

La phase où je me suis convaincue que j'étais privilégiée de passer 100% de mon temps avec mes enfants, meme si ça signifiait aucun moment de répit - juste une douche le matin.

La phase où je me suis convaincue qu'il avait raison, j'étais une profiteuse qui avait tout ce qu'elle voulait et qui controlait tout - sans m'apercevoir qu'évidemment, quand on est responsible de tout, on doit faire tous les choix.

La phase où j'ai commencé à réaliser le piège dans lequel j'étais tombée, mais je n'avais plus les resources financières pour m'échapper, profiteuse que j'avais été.

La phase où je me suis convaincue que je protégeais les enfants en restant - ne pas briser leur famille, ne pas quitter la belle maison.

La phase où je me suis convaincue que je pouvais survivre jusqu'à ce que les enfants soient plus grands - jusqu'à ce que je me retrouve à envisager un accident de voiture salvateur - mettre fin à ces sacrifices trop lourds.

Sauf que j'ai enfin trouvé une sortie. Que ce n'était pas moi qu'il fallait éliminer de ma vie, mais lui. J'ai mis plus de 15 ans à arriver à cette conclusion logique. La seule conclusion.

Et j'ai honte de ma lenteur. 

J'ai honte de ne pas avoir réalisé ce qui m'arrivait.

Je me croyais pourtant intelligente.

Internalised victim blaming, donc.

En fait, j'étais un etre humain aussi.

Shocker, I know.

Et même si je continue à passer 100% de mon temps avec mes enfants, (1) ils ont grandi, leurs besoins ont changé et (2) il n'est plus là pour me critiquer constamment.

Et donc j'essaie de me rallumer.

J'essaie de ravaler ma honte.

Ou plutot, j'essaie de la recracher. De m'en debarasser, ou de m'en décorer. D'en faire une armure, ou juste un bouclier.

J'ai 48 ans dans une semaine, et je me réveille à peine.

What the fuck happened?

* Yes, this refers to a My Little Pony song. There is much to be inspired from what my children listen to!

Freedom

At last.

16.5 years later, I can breathe freely again. 

I can just be me.

Not his support worker,

not his shrink,

not his housekeeper,

not his emotional punchbal.

Not anymore.

I can just be me.

I really thought I was stuck for another decade.

I didn't want to live through another decade.

The constant criticising, 

belittling, 

gaslighting, 

tone-policing. 

Not anymore.

The being transparent, 

not really human,

just a function,

an inconvenience,

free domestic & emotional labour,

doing everything but nothing.

Not anymore.

I can just be me!

Never enough.

Perfection is not reachable. Yet it's the only way I've ever been afforded.

Every single mistake, every single weakness, every single dip in energy level seems to result in so much outrage.

How dare you be human?

How dare you have needs and struggles?

And if I ever end up in a meltdown - the consequences have often been catastrophic.

I'm so tired of this constant double standard, of what I can expect vs what's expected of me. The discrepancy is so wild it's unbelievable.

I've been groomed since childhood to fulfil this shitty role. Fucking patriarchy.

---

My #1 quality? Being reliable.

I am this over-functioning, self-sufficient, multitasking, hypervigilant quiet woman.

I'm not fun. I'm not entertaining. I'm not loud. I'm not attractive. I'm not even interesting any more. 

I'm just very, very tired.

But reliable.

---

She just fell asleep alone, in a different room, for the very first time ever. 

There's no need for tears, she's 7.

And yet.

It's so much more bitter than sweet right now.

---

Maybe it's not about being reliable. 

Maybe it's about being indispensable so that I don't get forgotten.

---

Maybe it's not about being flawless.

No, fuck that, this one is not on me. 

Groomed.

Fucking patriarchy.

Choose happiness. Or not.

Choose an easy life. Choose fun. Choose local. Choose to not wait for better things to come, choose to not be patient, choose to not accept any struggles, choose to not accept the temporary difficulties.

Because you were never going to choose me. I was never going to be enough.

Confidentiel.

Finalement, c'était peut-être que.

Et c'est assez extraordinaire.

Tellement que je n'y crois pas vraiment. Ou que j'y crois trop.

Je sais déja plus.

20 ans à pleurer en refusant d'écouter cette phrase.

J'avais oublié.

J'étais résignée.

J'étais satisfaite, aussi.

Parce que la vie est faite d'états d'équilibre imparfaits, mais satisfaisants.

Parce que le vent, le vert, les enfants, le quotidien. 

Parce que c'était chouette aussi, cette vie résignée. Cette tranquilité d'esprit, enfin. 

Et puis tout à coup, une discussion, une mise au point, une réalisation, et je tombe à pic.

Sauf que je ne suis plus libre de sauter. Sauf que c'est impossible, une impasse. Et tout à coup, la vie recommence à me piquer les yeux. 

Parce que, finalement, ça risque d'être peut-être pas.

Et c'est juste insupportable.

Secret pet.

It might look cute, a little ball, not furry, not fluffy - more scaly and spiky.
It's hard to touch - impossible to swallow - thankfully somehow.
It might sound strong, a great big shout - or a shriek, even a screech. A strangled throat.
It smells of sweat, of trembling lunchtime, acrid, unhealthy, ungratefully unbeatable.
It tastes bitter, inedible, and that's lucky: you shouldn't eat your own pet, even in my country.
It never answers to its name, always tries to camouflage. It looks like anger, sadness, maybe depression.

But it's just fear.

Nine lives.

Cat life one, the pyromaniac, half cute fluffy ball, half evil dragon
After that, a prisoner's life, karma kicked in, justice followed
The third life was about repairs: they called her Sam, the firewoman.
Cat life four, the eternal teenager, sleeping all day, drinking all night
After that came a life of repentance - in a monastery, quietly praying
The sixth life was about balance, but mummy cat never found it.
Cat life seven, under the spotlight: fame, money, success; public face
After that, the earth was calling, its mice and rabbits now trembling
The ninth life has just begun. It's the best yet - the possibility of freedom.

How to train your Errol?

You can't. You can't train Floras either. It's best to purchase a robot and learn to code - it will fulfill your need for control in a more efficient way.

La vérité.

This morning, I said something to my 6 year-old son that sounded like: "you know, my parents didn't really hear me when I was a child. I really don't think they ever will, even now."
We carried on chit chatting, and after maybe 5 min of unrelated stuff he said: "you know Mummy, I'm pretty sure you parents heard you. They just chose to ignore what they heard."
Oh wow.
My boy.

Moon baking

I've always taught my son: you only need 4 ingredients
It's eggs, flour, sugar and butter for cupcakes
But when it comes to the moon, it's a bit different:
You need a way to chase the clouds away
You need to look up high
You need patience and determination
And a little bit of love for what's far
But the most important,
The essential ingredient,
The one you can never forget,
Whether or not you have a rocket,
Is: moonrocks.
And no, you can't eat them.

It turns out.

Being an emigrant, I take some things for granted.

It turns out that places don't stay the same once you leave them.

It turns out that memories are only memories, even if I sometimes assume they are someone else's current reality.

It turns out that cathedrals can and do  burn, that a walk through Paris in the morning will never be the same, that the city of my teenage years was probably long gone.

Having grown up in Paris, I take some things for granted.

I've been spoilt, let's face it.

The idea of a trip to Paris doesn't excite me. It sounds like taking the bus home: nice, comfy, welcoming. Okay. Nothing much. Could we go to somewhere new and amazing instead?

It turns out that my children will never see Notre Dame. Let me repeat this. They will never see Notre Dame! I didn't take them. Why would I have?

Everlasting buildings don't disappear!

Landmarks are taken for granted. They don't suddenly collapse!

It turns out they do.

Grow (ghazal)

It's always been my job: making things grow.
It used to be plants; today the children grow.

I've spent so many hours in these growthrooms
Potting, planting, watering, harvesting - plants growing.

I'm spending so many hours in this bedroom
Cajoling, cuddling, holding, breastfeeding - children growing.

I used to be a researcher, wearing a labcoat
Hoping for a discovery, a success, a scientific growth.

I've become a mother, wearing a toddler
Hoping for a smile, a happy day, a personal growth.

Lycopersicon, Arabidopsis, the joys of my youth,
Errol, Flora, the gifts that made me grow.

Qu'elle soit elle.

She's smiling sweetly, sitting on her chair, drinking her grenadine. She laughs at something her brother just said.
I exclaim: "Awe, you're so cute!"
She looks at me with wild eyes.
"No, I'm not! I'm Flora!"
-----
She's dancing about, jumping, singing along the tune on the radio. Her ease with words, her remarkable ability to chat at such a young age amazes me. I look at her with awe.
I exclaim: "Oh, you're such a big girl now!"
She looks at me with a grump.
"No, I'm not! I'm Flora!"
-----
We're chatting in the bathroom. We're getting ready for the night. She's wearing her new footless pyjama, standing on the changing table. She stretches, and looks at her reflection with a smile. Her head is above mine in the mirror.
I exclaim: "Look! You're so tall!"
She looks at me annoyed.
"No, I'm not! I'm Flora!"
-----
You might think she's cute, big or tall. You might even be right.
But that's on you, she doesn't care.
What you think doesn't matter.
Your labels, however sweet, don't belong to her.
She is Flora.
That's the only definition that could ever suit her.

Winter - a haiku

The shape of the trees
Their beautiful bark on show
Who needs leaves after all

Après 4 ans.

4 ans sans ouvrir ce blog, c'est aussi 2 ans sans mes pipettes, et presque 2 ans à être débordée, finalement, parce que maman à temps plein - home-educating mum - c'est non-stop. C'est se trouver chanceuse d'avoir le temps de prendre une douche le matin, parce que chéri s'occupe du p'tit déj, c'est faire les courses sur internet et préparer le lendemain au lieu de décompresser - me time! - parce qu'Errol parle non-stop toute la journée et que Flora ne s'endort qu'en écharpe - oui, même à presque 2 ans. C'est s'oublier, beaucoup. C'est rêver à un moment de solitude, à une heure allongée à lire un bouquin, à une nuit à dormir.
Ceci dit, ma vie n'a jamais été aussi à mon gout qu'à présent.
Je me croyais chercheuse.
J'étais maman.
Je suis maman!

Femme des années 10

Le truc avec la vie, c'est qu'il n'y en a qu'une seule. Une toute petite vie, quelques dizaines d'années, 8 ou 9 si on veut être généreux, et paf, c'est fini. Ce n'est pas un problème en soi, c'est juste qu'il arrive un jour où ça clash(e?).
Un problème de priorités.
En même temps, je ne l'avais pas vu venir. Après tout, ça fait des années qu'elles font tout, les femmes. Ca fait des années qu'on me répète qu'on peut tout avoir, sans rien y perdre. Ca fait des années qu'on me montre que c'est une question d'égalité, de modernité, d'évolution de l'humanité.

1 an de DEA, 3ans de thèse, 12 ans de post-doc; 15 ans de vie de labo, et je ne suis ici que pour faire bouillir les patates. Rien d'autre. Il faut bien manger. Et payer son emprunt. Consommer.
Mais voilà, tous les matins, je me réveille avec une petite main sur le sein, un petit sourire aux yeux ronds, et une petite voix qui me dit "no Tweenies !". Mais si mon chéri, Tweenies, maman et papa vont au labo, et toi à la crèche. Et le sourire s'envole. "No nursery !" Puis il pense à autre chose. "Zip off! Trains!" - et la journée commence.
Mais tu sais mon Doudou, maman aimerait bien dire "pas de labo!" tous les matins. Elle y pense, mais elle n'ose pas.
Pas encore.

Et le temps passe, et tu grandis, et je suis au labo à remuer du vent pour de l’argent.
Quel gâchis.