Small precision first: the text that follows is probably pretty hard.
It is both a reflection of a singular experience and subjective, and the fruit of many years of cogitation on the matter. It has enriched testimonies to the right and left, exchanges, discussions.
In other words: no, it does not describe the ultimate reality of childbirth in general. Yes, the birth of a child can be a great celebration of body and mind, thank you, I am aware.
But sometimes (often?), This is not the case. I write for this second category of women, the first may already store your memories bright and sweet memories in her drawer to staff, failing to come to share it here, thank you very much.
Childbirth is an experience of loneliness and death.
A self-sacrifice, sacrifice relatively extended, until the woman in labor realizes what is happening. Then began a fierce struggle between mother and child. The mother refuses
what happens to him, she refuses the pain, she refuses to become a mother with all that that implies, she refused the humiliation associated with the medical environment in which it is immersed to above the neck.
Because the medicalization of childbirth remains a solid bastion of social control over women.
It's about being compliant; to bed, make the back round, walk, make sound, be visited by multiple gloved fingers coming evaluate the progress of work in one word: obedience. Because he must leave this child. And nothing can prevent this output at this time. It will force if necessary.
The body of the woman is humiliated, just as we should exalt him, just to infuse the necessary heroism - the heroism that would take until after the sacrifice is in the process of taking place. But
submission seems a more convenient; submission to suffering, acceptance of the opening where the child will slide into the blood and screams.
Exits to use the technique if the bid is evil - or at the wrong time, too early, too late. And the instrument, guided by the hand of one who knows, midwife or obstetrician, the book ends.
Within minutes, the woman feels curious mixture of despair and relief. The door was reached, something irreversible has occurred, terrifying. The pain gradually subsides
, replaced by a diffuse discomfort. The body is heavy, bulky, even when it is emptied. The baby is like a dream between two levels of reality, or in the womb or in the hollow arms, somewhere further ...
It is different, he looks at us, we look at it, that being that we no longer feel in us that is born at that moment has always been not only a human being is speculation as such .
But this speculation is embodied in a man (boy or girl), which owes its existence to the submission of his mother. We must rise to force the passage and push a door, destroying always a bit around there. Women
silent but their anger, either themselves or (more often) because they receive, along with their baby clean, terrible injunction to forgive.
Forgive the child, love child. Love yourself again, when we lived was faulty, dirty, denied. Resume a social life, sexual, emotional.
And the injunction seems less insurmountable, it is argued that women are "strong", which means in reality is expected of them as they are, he must endure as they are to accept motherhood and, if possible, several times, being "forced ".
But this force is invoked, however, is frightening for those who ask. It requires both endorse and silent; the stunning birth, follows the self-censorship of the mother, which would anyway be hard to say what no one has said it before, this she never heard.
Having no real cultural foundation articulated nor literature, nor reflexive or narrative tradition that takes the road, the young mother can only register in the empirical, the "lived", the "felt", compassionate and often mawkish.
be compared with dismay that void with the abundance of literature known as heroic or epic epic tongue, she, nobody cares.
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