Out On a Limb(20)

And, deep down, I knew I should be proud of them. They were my community, and they were only working to erase stigma for the rest of us. But I didn’t feel proud. I felt bitter. Jealous too. Angry that they weren’t just great surfer, record-breaking mountain climber, and successful drummer. To me, they were a reminder that the world will always view me differently—put me in a different bracket—even if I landed myself on a pedestal.

I didn’t want to achieve despite myself. I didn’t want to defy anything. I just wanted to feel ordinary. To not overcompensate every day. I wanted to be bad at things and have people laugh at me because that’s life. I didn’t want pity.

And when I was great at something like swimming, I didn’t want to feel praised for what I’d overcome. I wanted to just be good.

It fucks you up, competing against low expectations. Nothing feels like a win.

But, like most people, I aged out of my insecurities to some extent. I found my own rhythm. I figured out who I was outside of the hold-ups and resentment I held. I started to build my identity in things that grew confidence. Who I was instead of who I wasn’t or couldn’t ever be. I stopped hiding parts of myself away.

Then came Jack.

Which rocked my confidence like nothing else.

Jack had wanted to be the hero in my story. At first. He’d hold my smaller hand in public but would smile at me in this way as if to say, silently, you don’t have to thank me. Truthfully, every regular boyfriend thing he did for me—the little, partially expected things like carrying bags or opening doors—was never for the purpose of being kind. It was always done with some ulterior motive. An ugly attitude that I hadn’t wanted to acknowledge for fear of it all unravelling.

I was his good deed.

He loved me in spite of; never because.

Eventually, I think, it all grew a bit too tiresome. I was incapable in his eyes. Not trying hard enough. Then he chose to become the villain. And he was good at it—I’ll give him that.

One night, late for his friend’s engagement party, I was fiddling with the strap of my heels for, I suppose, a minute too long.

“Just fucking try, Win,” Jack had yelled, exasperatedly throwing his body around. “People aren’t going to spend their lives waiting on you hand and foot. Stop being so goddamn useless.”

Suddenly, I was back to being that fourteen-year-old girl with her hand behind her back. Wishing, desperately, to change. To hide.

Attempting to become less of a burden, I plotted out my days in precise detail—ensuring I wouldn’t have to ask him to do anything for me. But he would inevitably find something to yell about.

And even after I finally left him, I still found myself grateful for Jack in my lowest, most insecure moments in the year that followed. Thankful that I had learned at least someone would want me. That I was capable of being loved.

That scared me far worse than Jack’s temper ever did. The power that I had given him to validate my desirability. The power I could give to someone else if I was foolish enough. So I decided I wouldn’t give anyone that power ever again. Not until I love myself enough that someone’s favour—or disfavour—won’t turn the tide.

It’s taken me almost four years to get back to a place of neutrality and vague acceptance of myself. Some days, like on Halloween, I think I’m beautiful. Inside and out. Other times, I hear Jack’s voice in my head, the cruelty in his aloof, melancholic drawl, telling me how useless I am… and I believe it.

But I learned to not trust those thoughts once, and I can do it again. I’m going to have to do it again. Because what comes next is an entirely new challenge. One that will require all my confidence. The very best of me.

Tomorrow, I’ll give myself permission to try and fail. I’ll start planning and overthinking strategies for motherhood that are adaptable. I’ll begin stockpiling baby clothes with easy fasteners, researching hands-free wraps and carriers, and plan on testing strollers and car seats.

But for today, I’ll pretend that it won’t be an issue at all. I’ll let myself feel like anyone else who just found out they’re pregnant unexpectedly. I’ll feel giddy and terrified and nervous for all the usual reasons without adding further baggage on top. I can give myself today.

Doing just that, I sink farther into the bath and daydream. Eyes closed, with my hair flowing around me like ink in water. My ears under the surface blocking out the sounds from surrounding apartments, muffling Fleetwood Mac’s “Songbird” until it’s nothing but a softened lullaby.

I imagine a small, sweet newborn laid across my chest in here with me. I think of the many baths we’ll take together. All the wonderful things we’ll do together. The sleepless nights and the tantrums and the teething and all the other things parents worry about. But mostly, I think of the good. The bedtime stories and slow, sunbeam-filled mornings. The walks to the park where we pick dandelions or skip stones at the beach. The cuddles, the warmth, and the sanctity of loving someone more than myself.

And I tell myself, over and over and over again, that I can do this. Until, eventually, I feel like it’s at least a little true.





CHAPTER 8





Nine Weeks Pregnant. Baby is the size of a grape.





Inhaling feels nearly impossible as I approach the end of the counter to pick up my order. Everything on the café’s menu sounded disgusting. Just as most foods have for the last week. Even better, when the food is acceptable to my brain, I still throw it up later.