[Un]reasonably outraged by power imbalances & rage tears
Photo by Markus Kammermann on Pixabay
In a month of incredible highs and some frustrating lows, I have yet again been alerted to the significant power imbalances that exist in our society.
First the highs: my second novel hit shelves. YAY! I’m grateful I even get to say that. My second novel. To have finished writing one book, let alone two, to have the publisher backing them and to have readers devouring them are all gifts I do not take for granted. The Eleventh Floor had a second print run after only two weeks on shelves and that was unexpected to say the least! I was floating on air. Then there were the book events where I met so many readers and supporters of my writing. As Dylan Alcott would say, “how bloody nice is this?”
Photo by Han Tran Photography from my event at Wheelers Hill Library
So in the middle of bloody nice stuff, I also had some things gurgling in the background.
At the most intense time of book promotion, my husband headed overseas for work. It was a conference that helps his business stay relevant in an ever-changing culture of technology. The timing was appalling and if I’m honest, I didn’t want him to go. Unfortunately, as a self-employed person and the director of his business, the pressure of being the breadwinner will always drive the family decisions. It was a reminder to me that money is power and when you don’t have much to throw into the mix, your voice doesn’t have the same level of boom.
In the midst of book events, I discovered a historic payment issue that I was trying to have rectified and learnt the hard way that I still don’t have much power in this world—as an author and a woman. Administrative roadblocks, terse emails, phone calls with lawyers and bank hold times: all the things I was not keen on doing in my “spare” time and definitely not my chosen activity in book promo buzz weeks.
I inspected a car with my 18-year-old son and felt the dismissal of my opinion with the seller, who clearly saw me as someone who didn’t know anything about cars. He would be correct in his judgement that my stored knowledge of every vehicle make, model, year and mechanical weakness is lacking, however, I do know how to conduct research and also have the skills to ask other experts—like our local mechanic, who treated me with respect.
Then the was the actual power. We had a massive, violent storm in Victoria that lasted all of about five minutes and did more damage than Donald Trump's four-year tenure in the White House. We live near national parks and forests and as a consequence, lose power often. Trees on power lines are standard but the destruction was so widespread that this time we didn’t get power back for days. With my husband away, preparing an anxious child for camp, and more book events to attend, I did not have the brain space for searching out the generator we bought during the last outage, nor did I feel like studying instruction manuals to work out how to run the damn thing. Candles it was.
Throughout this period, I found myself on the verge of tears many times. I dismissed the emotion as a symptom of stress and fatigue, overwhelm and frustration. I even said to my husband (on Facetime!): “When do I get to be the bloke who just gets up and goes to work?” The subtext: and do nothing else. (*Disclaimer, my husband does a lot more than simply go to work, but in that moment it felt like I was doing all the juggling while I imagined him sipping cocktails by the pool.)
I managed to suppress my tears for most of the time and just get on with the job of parenting and book promoting and living. But as I was scrolling through my phone, I came across a quote I’d saved from Em Razz, “Feminist Next Door”. Her words resonated with me.
Rage tears
Maybe it’s because I wrote a book about a woman losing her identity after having a baby that has illuminated all the things around us that are a constant battle of power. My protagonist is struggling with the role of motherhood and how she is (not) seen by the world and that bleeds into the larger issues of undervaluing women’s contributions, the sometimes-overwhelming tasks of managing a household while carrying the emotions of our children and trying to be the best we can be in our jobs. So to spinoff Dylan’s great saying: how bloody exhausting is this?!
Or maybe (as Taylor Swift would say) it’s simply that I have “a lot going on at the moment”.
Book events have slowed down, the electricity is back on and my husband is home. I might take a nap, cry some rage tears, then pick myself up and power through the next task … like women do, hey?
Do you cry rage tears? Join the conversation on Substack.
Kx
