• I’ll Sleep When I’m Dead

I'll Sleep When I'm Dead

~ writing my way through motherhood, doctorhood, post-PTSDhood and autism. sleeping very little.

Tag Archives: adulting

a room of one’s own

04 Saturday Jun 2022

Posted by elizabethspaardo in kids, parenting

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

adulting, beauty, children, empowerment, jamaica, joy, love, meaning, Parenting, patriarchy, Possibility, truth

I told you in the course of this paper that Shakespeare had a sister; but do not look for her in Sir Sidney Lee’s life of the poet. She died young—alas, she never wrote a word. She lies buried where the omnibuses now stop, opposite the Elephant and Castle. Now my belief is that this poet who never wrote a word and was buried at the cross–roads still lives. She lives in you and in me, and in many other women who are not here to–night, for they are washing up the dishes and putting the children to bed. But she lives; for great poets do not die; they are continuing presences; they need only the opportunity to walk among us in the flesh. This opportunity, as I think, it is now coming within your power to give her. For my belief is that if we live another century or so—I am talking of the common life which is the real life and not of the little separate lives which we live as individuals—and have five hundred a year each of us and rooms of our own; if we have the habit of freedom and the courage to write exactly what we think; if we escape a little from the common sitting–room and see human beings not always in their relation to each other but in relation to reality; and the sky. too, and the trees or whatever it may be in themselves; if we look past Milton’s bogey, for no human being should shut out the view; if we face the fact, for it is a fact, that there is no arm to cling to, but that we go alone and that our relation is to the world of reality and not only to the world of men and women, then the opportunity will come and the dead poet who was Shakespeare’s sister will put on the body which she has so often laid down. Drawing her life from the lives of the unknown who were her forerunners, as her brother did before her, she will be born. As for her coming without that preparation, without that effort on our part, without that determination that when she is born again she shall find it possible to live and write her poetry, that we cannot expect, for that would he impossible. But I maintain that she would come if we worked for her, and that so to work, even in poverty and obscurity, is worth while. -A Room of One’s Own, Virginia Woolf

I am no longer sleeping on the left side of the bed.

We moved this week to a beautiful house in the country with big, old pine trees. Like the ones I grew up playing in. It’s my forever home. It’s home. Finally home.

There is room to spread out in this house. We still spend a lot of time together but when we want to be alone, there are lots of lovely spots to go to. I sit in the screened in porch and watch the deer and the chipmunks and sometimes a fox. And my bedroom has a sitting room that I have made a little cozy gym. I have my own bathroom. For the first time in my life. I take long relaxing baths now. And I spread out in my bed and take up space. The luxury of space.

My heart has felt the words of Virginia Wolf for so many years. A room of one’s own. When I am overwhelmed by all the needs I am asked to meet everyday I find myself saying, can I just have ten minutes to myself, can I just have one inch that is mine alone. And now, now I have an acre. And a room. A screened in porch. A whole big bed. That is full. Of me alone.

I used to be afraid to be alone. It terrified me. I felt like I was falling into a darkness so deep and wide, with no bottom. That I would just fall forever. Afraid of hitting bottom but more afraid of never doing so. Its the fall that is intolerable. It’s a terrible thing to be afraid to be alone. You keep company with wolves because being eaten seems a better fate than being alone.

I used to be afraid to be selfish. To not be omniavailable (yes I just made up a word) to my kids, my attendings, my patients, my family, my friends. But that’s no good. Ten minutes to myself, sometimes hours or days to myself, is a beautiful thing that makes me a better mother doctor friend. And space. Space that is just my own. Whether it be my tree house in Jamaica or the back room of my office in Grove City or my Mini or my queen size bed.

I wish I could give this to my female patients instead of medication. Space to themselves instead of tiny falling down houses with 6 or 7 people on top of each other. Time. Without kids or work or toxic family. But a lot of them would be terrified by it. We are raised to be this way. To stay small and not take up room. To give ourselves away. Inch by inch, moment by moment. Chipping away the boundaries. To be terrified of our own freedom, afraid to declare our time and space and bodies and thoughts and feelings and wants and needs our own.

And words. To claim our words, our voice, our writing, our ideas, our cadence, our beauty.

There was a time in my life I read Allen Ginsburg and Jack Kerouac and dreamed of all the life that lay outside my little town in the country. All I had ahead of me. The life I would live. Of revolution and gorgeous poetry and art and fascinating people slightly mad but mainly genius burning brightly, so bright.

I have lived intensely and now I am ready to be content, back in the country. Back to my own bed in my own room as it was then. Time to myself, to read and savor and enjoy. My kids are the ones heading out into the world. Beyond the pine trees and the covered porch and sometimes a fox. While I spread out in my bed in the quiet of my room and write you these words of my very own. Send them out into the world and hope they land where they’re meant to. Here in a room of my own.

Perfect round, firm, bright orange oranges

25 Monday Jan 2021

Posted by elizabethspaardo in Uncategorized

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

adulting, feminism, narcissism, oranges, pandemic

When I was a girl, maybe 10 or 11, I would daydream about my life as a grown up. I daydreamed a lot. I had my life figured out. I would be an international accountant (although it should be noted I was already a socialist by then so I’m not sure I really thought that part through) and live in a huge loft apartment in New York City (I really had no idea how expensive it was to rent in Manhattan at this point) and I would be unmarried and adopt two girls from China (I’ve birthed two half Chinese sons so I’ll consider this the one I came closest to following through on although I’ve been married not once but twice). More concretely, I dreamed of being able to go grocery shopping. I loved my weekly trips with my mother grocery shopping at Kroger, Riverside, Bilo, Shop N Save. Those were the days before Giant Eagle consumed every store in sight with her ruthless talons. I pictured the day I would be at the store on my own, picking out perfect round, firm bright orange oranges. Rolling that perfect orange in my hand, pressing on it, feeling the cool shiny skin. My visualization never got beyond this moment. But that moment contained all the possibility my life held. That orange was the world.

I had therapy today, zoom therapy. And we talked about how my life had settled down in so many ways and was going well. I told her I’ve been processing some things like the trauma of getting COVID last spring. And she said she hoped I was taking some time to exhale and enjoy this good moment in my life as well. I said yes I’ve been reading novels and working out and signed up to volunteer. And I said, honestly cleaning my house and doing laundry and cooking dinner are so enjoyable now. I said I thought it was because I’d been sick and exhausted and overwhelmed so long I felt grateful to have the energy for it, and grateful to finally really be making my house a home.

I came downstairs to cook dinner and when I opened the fridge I saw a bag of perfect, round, firm bright orange oranges I had bought at Giant Eagle yesterday on my weekly quarantine shopping trip. And I remembered that moment from my childhood. And I thought, it finally feels the way I pictured it feeling.

You see, my therapist had asked me how it is that as a single mom of four kids and a practice to run I seemed to have the energy for hobbies and all the plans I’d told her I was working on to take some classes and go on some trips alone and et cetera. And I said, well you know I was thinking the other day how much energy and time has been freed up by leaving my marriage because everything was always focused on anticipating his reaction to things. And she said, well you still have that. It’s true he is still in my life to some extent. It’s true I still spend some time trying to figure out how he’ll react to something I’ve done or not done. But I said, it’s so much less. Literally everything I did, I thought, what will He say? If I walk to work versus ride my bike versus drive. If I text a friend. If I wear this skirt or suggest we watch a movie or do an interview on a podcast for the practice. Every decision I made, trying to anticipate his reaction and how I would handle it and if I’d need to shield the kids from his reaction. And if I had the energy to deal with it. And the example I gave her right away was grocery shopping. I said, literally every item I picked up at the grocery store I would stop and try to figure out what his reaction would be. Every. Single. Thing. And she said, oh I had no idea it was that bad. That must have been exhausting. And I said, it was.

And so when I saw those oranges and was sent back to that moment in Riverside thirty years ago, shopping blissfuly with my mother, I knew why it was it finally felt that good to be a grown up out doing my own grocery shopping. Even in a mask during a pandemic. The oranges are mine to buy or not. Mine to eat or not. And when the juice runs sticky down my face, drops onto my kitchen floor, there will be no one there to make a bitchy comment that’s clearly a joke that I need to learn to take. And I will not have to weigh the option of not cleaning it up and getting lectured on how hard he works to clean the house (a lie of course) or cleaning it up and being accused of implying he’s not a good housekeeper (the truth of course). Because as much time as you spend trying to anticipate how someone like that will react to every choice you make all day and night, the reality is that there is no right choice. You are always wrong and they are always right. And if they say an orange is an apple, you learn to say, of course. Because who wants to stay up until 2 in the morning arguing that an orange is an orange?

Actual footage of my husband cleaning
It is clearly an orange

I lived in Manhattan a little while when I was 23 in a tiny 300 square foot apartment on the Lower East Side and rode the F train to NYU each day to study the history and economies of Latin America. I had two half-Chinese sons. I was a card carrying member of the International Socialist Organization for a few months in college. For the most part, I got the details wrong of what it is to be a grown up. But I got the feeling right. It took me almost 42 years to get to that feeling but here I am. A fridge full of oranges and ready to go.

Subscribe

  • Entries (RSS)
  • Comments (RSS)

Archives

  • June 2022
  • May 2022
  • April 2022
  • March 2022
  • November 2021
  • September 2021
  • August 2021
  • July 2021
  • June 2021
  • May 2021
  • April 2021
  • March 2021
  • February 2021
  • January 2021
  • July 2020
  • May 2020
  • April 2020
  • March 2020
  • January 2020
  • August 2019
  • June 2018
  • May 2018
  • March 2018
  • February 2018
  • January 2018
  • December 2017
  • May 2017
  • March 2017
  • February 2017
  • December 2016
  • November 2016
  • October 2016
  • February 2016
  • April 2015
  • February 2015
  • January 2015
  • December 2014
  • November 2014
  • October 2014
  • September 2014
  • June 2014
  • May 2014

Categories

  • addiction
  • autism
  • Catholicism
  • christianity
  • COVID 19
  • doctors
  • empathy
  • Evil
  • kids
  • love
  • marriage
  • medicine
  • movies
  • my awesome husband
  • narcissism
  • New York City
  • outrage
  • parenting
  • Politics
  • PTSD
  • Rape
  • residency
  • romance
  • Sin
  • special needs
  • Uncategorized

Meta

  • Register
  • Log in

Blog at WordPress.com.

  • Follow Following
    • I'll Sleep When I'm Dead
    • Join 963 other followers
    • Already have a WordPress.com account? Log in now.
    • I'll Sleep When I'm Dead
    • Customize
    • Follow Following
    • Sign up
    • Log in
    • Report this content
    • View site in Reader
    • Manage subscriptions
    • Collapse this bar
 

Loading Comments...