This is a bit of a side story, and doesn’t really involve others shaming me, but the standards I put on myself, as a result of societal messages, led to a deeply rooted shame that I still carry with me. Just a heads up, this isn’t a happy story and alcoholism is at the center.
As a single pregnant mama-to-be, I tried my absolute best to keep my son’s father in my life. I invited him to every doctor’s appointment (he came to a total of two); I purchased a house in the town where he lived (in hopes of coparenting with him); I gave him regular updates on my pregnancy; and I asked him to join me for the birthing classes I had signed up for.
The birthing classes spanned six weeks, with a one-hour evening class each week. I joined this particular series of classes because they were led by my prenatal yoga instructor, who had been a constant and positive presence throughout my pregnancy. You see, my entire family lived two-and-a-half hours north of me, so aside from a few close friends, I didn’t really have a nearby support system.
The first class, my son’s father was on time, present, and attentive. Mind you, we were an unconventional looking couple amidst a group of seemingly perfect 50s-esque couples. I say seemingly because everyone has their own set of struggles, and I don’t pretend to believe they were all perfect couples; I’m just pointing out the fact that my son’s father looked like he came straight out of a gang initiation.
So, anyway, the first class went surprisingly well. He followed directives. He was asking questions and checking in with me.
The second class, he came a few minutes late smelling of alcohol. I knew before I got pregnant that my son’s father had a drinking problem, but when we first got together, I was in a very dark, depressed place and the drinking didn’t concern me. As we built our relationship over the course of a few months, I realized how serious his problem was, because there was a certain point every evening where I could no longer get a hold of him. It was as if he shut himself up with his alcohol to hide the fact that he had a problem.
I mentioned the smell on his breath after our second class, and he got angry at me; felt like I was trying to control him, so I dropped it and hoped the next week’s class would go smoother.
Week 3, he showed up on time but still smelled of alcohol. I was so embarrassed, convinced that everyone could smell the rancid odor emanating from his breath. It was very difficult for me to concentrate on the techniques our birthing instructor was teaching, because I was constantly looking from couple to couple for any signs of their pity or judgment.
Then came the coup de grace, when my son’s father showed up late to class in week 4…drunk. He didn’t just smell of alcohol, he was visibly drunk: face flushed, speech slightly slurred and rapid. I was absolutely mortified when class paused as he entered and every perfect couple watched him walk in. As he struggled to sit down on the floor next to me, my face felt like lava rising to the surface. I could, literally, feel the heat rise from my chest, up my throat, and across my face. I mumbled something like, “Sorry for the interruption”, even though I had nothing to do with this interruption.
The birthing instructor refocused everyone’s attention onto her and continued with that evening’s topic, which, if memory serves, was the birthing partner’s role during labor. My son’s father was, for the most part, focused and attentive, taking some of the sting out of my wound.
A little over halfway through the class, the dads were sitting with their backs against a wall, with the mamas-to-be sitting between their legs, as we practiced some shared breathing techniques. After a few deep breaths together, with the father of my son’s hands gently on my thighs, I began to hear a soft humming sound and felt his hands drop from my legs. Before I could react, he let out an audible snore, waking himself from an apparent slumber.
He had passed out drunk in the middle of our birthing class! I had had enough. I excused myself, forced him upright, and walked out of the class. The rest of the story isn’t important, other than the fact that I attended the final two classes by myself. Graciously, the birthing instructor sat in as my birthing coach for those two remaining classes, but the shame and humiliation remained.
*Please note, I deliberately chose the image above because it most closely represents the warped image I had of a “perfect couple”.