Thank you all for your comments on yesterday’s post. Your support, as always, means a great deal to me.
I had a troll once. Only once. She left one nasty comment and then disappeared, perhaps because I followed that old advice of ignoring a bully. Although, I must admit I did not ignore it to make her go away but because I was a little perplexed by her point. I paste the comment below for your edification:
Have you ever had anyone tell you, honestly, that all your fear based decisions are symptoms of being a neurotic?
You MIGHT try being both accountable and responsible for the peptide production of YOUR OWN hypothalamus and, developing some emotional coping skills as cures for your neurosis. For if I had to live with you in my head, I’d be a sniveling neurotic, too.
My confusion lay in the peptide/hypothalamus advice, not to mention the missing hyphen and the comma that comes after the word “and.”
I was not, however, confused about the overall point she was making. She was calling me neurotic. I thought for a short time about emailing her back and asking her whether she came up with that diagnosis all by herself after reading a few posts, or whether it was evident from the last name I include on my blog. Um, you noticed that I’m Jewish, right? It is my birthright to be neurotic. It goes with the asthma and the glasses.
Cultural stereotypes aside, however, I don’t see how anyone could be a mother and not end up neurotic. There are these two little people out there who exist separately from me, yet who hold within their persons far more of me than I have in my own body. Their bodies are vulnerable, and it is my job to protect them, even as I am also supposed to give them their independence.
And, as Tuesday’s earthquake reminded me, I cannot protect them. I cannot make sure no one ever teases them. I cannot make sure no one ever abducts them. I cannot stop earthquakes, hurricanes, or spontaneous combustion. I cannot shield against cancer and schizophrenia and depression. Most days, I cannot even protect them from one another.
I can however try my best to protect their planet. I can hang out my wash instead of using a dryer. I can recycle and reuse and buy less and so on. It only does so much good, I know, but it helps me to fool myself into thinking I am protecting my kids.
My world has shrunk in the last four years. I read a lot less news, and I am much less informed. Everything I do is about my children; everything I care about is them. When I worry about the homeless, it is because they are someone’s sons and daughters. When I worry about my husband, it is as a co-parent. When I think about the war, it is not about people dying but about someone’s children dying. There is nothing I do or feel that is not connected to my children.
Has that made me neurotic? You bet your ass. I could breastfeed them till they go off to college, but eventually even that protection is going to wear off. I can buy alarms and lock gates, but we all know a thief who wants to get in is going to get in. I can buy emergency kits and keep emergency numbers, but I cannot stop the emergencies.
Is it any wonder my peptides are out of kilter?