The Mad Hatter

Since I found out of my pregnancy, I had been attempting to wear a number of different types of hats; happy ones, patient ones, loving ones, and understanding ones. Turns out, the frustrations of never having any hat fit properly made me bitter and quite dishonest with myself.

"This hat is comfortable" meant "Thank goodness! When I wear this hat, I cannot see how hideous it looks on me unless I take an honest look into a mirror."

 -or-

"This hat is beautiful" meant "The pain in wearing this hat is unbearable, but it looks good. As long as I don't cringe, nobody will know how this doesn't fit me."

Daily, I dealt with similar anecdotes. Finally, I realized this process was ugly and getting uglier the more I tried to force it to work: I was not happy being with the father of my child. Although it was fun being in another country with a completely different culture, there was no true happiness for me in Venezuela.

It was only after being miserable; sick and tired of being sick and tired, that I knew something had to change. What I was doing was not working.

So, after a few more weeks of asking God and the universe for guidance, my daughter and I got on a plane to come home to the United States, and things began to change; to feel "right" for the very first time.

Whenever I come back to the US from abroad, I believe that nothing will be difficult. Put quite simply, the folks in the US literally speak my language. There is no looming fear that I am misunderstanding what people are trying to communicate to me. I love the feeling of security and the prospect of having deep and meaningful conversations with those who have my familiar lexicon.

However, that is never the case. Although I can communicate ideas and intentions clearly, English speakers tend to use their familiarity with socially constructed norms of the 1960's to formulate any conversations. It is unfortunate, because when I chose to return to the US, I wanted people to support my decision to be a single mother.

Nobody did. How frustrating it was to be asked about the relationships in Venezuela I was attempting to momentarily quell. I was stuck in a quagmire of intricate social issues and questions which single-parents face daily:

"Don't you love him? He is her father! You should try harder to make it work!"

The part that made answering these questions extra difficult was that I hadn't spoken English in months! Translating all of my beliefs and feelings from my recent trip abroad from Spanish to English without adding personal editorials was really difficult. After all, I was not upset with the father of my child. He is a good man. Everybody made it clear that they believed in the father of my child, not me.

I should have responded simply and eloquently, "I tried to be with him. No dice. You can shove your ideas and opinions about my decisions up your ass," but instead I began to romanticize the idea of being with her father, living on a little farm in the Andes Mountains once again.

So, here I was in the USA once again. I unpacked my suitcases and found all of my metaphorical, uncomfortable yet pretty hats once again. I dusted them off and put them on...nothing had actually changed. I was still weak.