‘It's Different Now’
Suwan Choi is an artist inspired by the beauty of insects. Through vibrant, detailed work, she captures the intricate patterns and forms of these creatures, aiming to raise appreciation for their role in nature.
It's Different Now
The neurologist said something is wrong, but doctors say things are wrong since she was growing inside of me, my little Clémentine. It never stops, so somehow we got used to it. You’re so strong, people say, but I almost jumped out of the window last year. I almost destroyed my family last year. The two pills of Prozac I swallow every morning keep me sane now. And her. I kiss her round cheeks so hard until they turn red. She pushes her head against me as if she’s trying to get back in the body that almost killed her the first time. I spend hours with my fingers in her tiny blond curls and I blow warm air on her belly to amuse her when I change her diaper.
People apologize to me for complaining about trivial things, but I still do it too. Each time we get bad news I tell myself I’ll stop complaining for minor inconveniences, but it turns out they make me even more upset, like people shouldn’t be allowed to be rude to a heartbroken mother. And I am not even that heartbroken, not like I was before, when it all went dark and I looked out of the window, fighting against its pull. After the pregnancy and the hospitals and the cardiologist I just lost the will to be anything, even being a mother wasn’t keeping me afloat - even though it is probably what kept me alive. My emptiness filled the house and our lives and everyone around me started suffering too. Bérénice felt it too; her smiles were forced, her hugs rare, like she pulled away from the stranger in her mother’s body. The shame made it worse and I punished myself by letting someone abuse me until my friend took my hand as I was getting threatened and screamed at.
It’s different now; Clémentine is not a baby anymore, she’s a person, and she’s clever and hilarious and wild and it turns out that as long as she is happy I have no reason not to be. They’re the center of my world, my daughters, but I learnt that I’m allowed to have a world of mine too. I just try not to get lost in there, like I easily tend to. Blond guys rearranging their hair in the reflection of their cars’ doors. Anyone giving me attention. I’m giving myself attention now; I work and I travel and I read and I accept the parts of me I was taught were flawed from a very young age. I am not trying to be someone I am not. I’m getting better for myself and my daughters and for no one else. I’m allowing myself the feelings I was denied during the pregnancy. When people tell me they’re pregnant I feel jealous. I’ll let no one tell me I’m not allowed to be just because I already have two daughters. I’m happy for everyone’s happiness, but I’m just letting myself feel upset because when I don’t, it all comes out at some point. Franck said he’s upset when he sees toddlers walking, and I said me too, I hate that anyone is walking in a world where our daughter can’t.
It’s different now; we stopped pretending that everything will be fine, but things are good now so I close my eyes and hold their hands and listen to the little snores coming out of their stuffy noses. Maybe something is wrong with her, maybe something is wrong with all of us. But today she’s playing with her big sister and they’re laughing and fighting and rolling on the floor, and nothing can be wrong today. Things are good enough, and I learnt that I can be happy and grief at the same time and it doesn’t make me ungrateful. I was always waiting for life to get better, but I look at them playing in our warm apartment; crisp orange leaves fly down from the trees and I watch the purple fall sky and I see that this is it: life doesn’t get better than this. And this moment is everything I want, and there will be more of those moments tomorrow and after tomorrow and next week but we can never know how many good times we have left so I just enjoy the one now. Bérénice comes in my bedroom every night and holds me tight and I hold her tighter. I don’t tell her everything is fine; I just say it’s different now, I am right here. She tells stories and she laughs and she makes loud kissing noises and they replaced the silence that suffocated our home one year ago.
Ludivine M. was born and raised in Paris, France, and has been living for the past ten years in Berlin, Germany, where she works and raises her two daughters. She mostly writes nonfiction essays about motherhood and addictions. Her work has appeared in The Word’s Faire, Black Horse Review and Tint Journal. You can follow her here: https://www.instagram.com/ludivine_bodymind
