Ice in the Body

On the silence women learn and what it does to them

I never learned to take myself seriously.

When I stumbled into my first intimate encounter with a man, as he stripped me of my clothes, an icy feeling took hold of me. The days, weeks, years after, that I failed to open up my mouth. Failed to share these moments with trusted friends, that although not acknowledged openly still throbbed under my skin. The arguments I was in, firing up all of my emotions, yet being unable to express them, resulting in me fleeing rooms and closing doors. Today, where I am thirty and still freeze when being given exactly what I want, which is a musician asking me to sing with them, and I can’t get a word out.

The intensity of it.

The guilt, blame, and self-hatred that I have been throwing at myself for all of this.

I should have, I could have, why didn’t I?

Must be the emotions, this fragile woman, or maybe just the hormones. Whatever, she should really get her shit together and grow the fuck up. Don’t be so dramatic, yet again.

Or, just do it. It’s not that difficult, right? Just speak up. Say the thing you want to say. Don’t make it all about you, no one is interested in what you’ve got to complain about, be a little more rational, would you, please?

When I cannot express anger in the outer world, when I cannot release it, when it does not take its rightful place to protect me, to identify and guard my boundaries, it will, sure as hell, find a way to weave its fingers into my life. Attack my self-image, my every thought.

The guy that didn’t read the room and took advantage of me being insecure?

Why did I only ever blame myself?

The silence I have suffered through, all of those years.

Why did I only ever blame myself?

Have I ever learned to speak up?

The moments where I don’t step up even though it is exactly what I want and what I need, what I desire, what I have been dreaming of? Why don’t I smile and start singing like I know I want to? Why do I wince and make myself smaller, yet again?

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Society taught me to be small and convenient, to be nice and good, well-behaved. And even if my mum tried to teach us otherwise–she wanted me and my sister to be self-sufficient, confident–I still saw these patterns everywhere. Nowhere more so than at home. A farm in rural Germany, three generations under one roof, gender roles practiced without question. To the pleasure of the men, and all on the shoulders of my mum.

Strong woman. So very selfless.

She was taught to value duty and rules above all else. Always mending, caring, planning. She made me who I am today. I owe all of my freedom to her.

But damn, do I want a different life.

What does it bring me to be strong and selfless, when it crushes my sense of identity, of aliveness? When depression and chronic illnesses nobody can tell the cause of will eat me alive?

When I tap into the lives my female ancestors must have lived, I feel caged in, trapped. My breath shortens immediately, panic rising. I am grateful that I am allowed to choose now. Sometimes I hope that they can see me, that they feel my gratitude, and that they are proud of the path I have chosen.

That she is, too.

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Today though, this iciness keeps me stuck in small moments. Moments that are key to my self-confidence, my self-esteem, to every thought and emotion that is fluttering through my body.

This iciness, I cannot quite put into one easy description. It’s like a wall caging me in, splitting me off from all the others. As if I could put my hands on it, palms flat, and press my nose against the surface. Like glass, letting me watch through it, but not pass.

I thought it was shame.

But now I know it’s fear, as well. Fear of the unknown, fear of pain, fear of abandonment, fear of rejection. Fear of losing connection.

And also, fear of being strong. Fear of being seen as someone who knows what she wants. Fear of showing emotions. Fear of embracing myself. Fear of owning my desires.

Fear of being judged. Fear of not fitting in.

Fear of getting what I want and it then being taken away from me again.

Fear of getting what I want and then realising it is not what I want at all.

Fear of showing up as myself and not being accepted for it.

Fear of taking up space.

The closer and more intimate the situation, the louder the fear gets.

Sexual intimacy?

My voice?

My values?

My dreams?

Is there an easy way out?

Oh, does it hurt not being taken seriously. The ice under my hands stings, but I leave them there. Fully determined.

I have been choosing patience. Journals filled and discarded. Even travelled to Asia, learning loving-kindness in Buddhist monasteries. Lately, I have been building a small circle of safety. Just a few people. My rituals. My art. My voice, and my vision.

It will take years.

I was taught to fear getting older. The greyness of my hair. The lines on my face.

Fraud. All of it.

Age has brought more peace and understanding, more strength, wisdom, and resilience than I could have imagined. So, I am okay with learning, with slowness. With this gentle approach.

And I am only 30.

Well, did you already think about starting a family? The biological clock has started ticking, hasn’t it?

Writing about patience, about age, about being a woman, this message hijacks itself onto my page. My hands thunder on the keyboard. Fast and with aggression. Damn this thing that is called patience, damn me for having to be the bigger one, to always have understanding. Be kind, girl, be polite.

Now that I want to choose my behaviour, choose my path, choose my words, even now, where I am so conscious of every little thought popping up in my head, it is sexism that is seeping in. The question is not why I froze and why I still do so, but what it has cost me. What does it cost me to be interrupted—even here, in the privacy of my own writer’s mind, I am yanked away from my own desires and thrown into the devastating hole for us women. Bleeding out of energy while explaining as rationally as possible why we choose our ways of living.

I lift my hands in the air.

Away from the keyboard, away from the glass.

I am thirty and I relish the fullness of this, the declaration that it means. I saw generations of women having to survive being the good wives. Which meant that there were barely any female role models I could learn from. How to locate my desires. How to claim my desires, how to chase them.

I am such a patient woman.

And, just for today, I want to be an angry one.

Let the logic return tomorrow.

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