Ha. Pull-out. Should’ve maybe tried that.
I throw my keys onto my dining table that is half-covered by towels under drying dishes and turn on the switch that works the lamp in the far corner of the room above my purple dresser. Sure, the apartment is one room plus a bathroom and less than 350 square feet. And the walls are all a little yellow from the smoker who lived here before me. And the carpeting under my couch is permanently stained with god only knows what. And I guess it would be nice to have windows that open to get some fresh air. But this place is mine. That counts for something.
It’s the first thing I ever saved up for. The first lease I ever signed on my own. The first home that I ever lived in by myself. Had complete control over.
I grab a glass of water, chug it back, and then refill it before I open the bath playlist on my phone and connect to the speaker in my bathroom. I follow the sound of Carole King’s voice, shaking off my clothes as I go. Leaving a trail behind me of handmade socks, a blue sweater, orange corduroy overalls, beige underwear, and an ill-fitting matching bra.
When in doubt, take a shower, my mother used to say. When in trouble, take a bath, Marcie would add. They were always speaking in tandem like that—little doses of life lessons piggy-backed on top of the other.
Oh, fuck. I’m going to have to tell my mom about the baby.
Nope. Not thinking about that yet. First, a bath.
Well, first, several things.
In fact, most things before I tell my mother.
I’m not ever really sure how to talk to my mom about what’s happening in my life. Sometime after I turned eleven, I became more of a friend and confidant than a daughter. There was never enough space in the conversation for two sets of problems, and hers always seemed more important.
Truthfully, I think she was lonely. Other than Marcie, she didn’t really have many friends or any family. Her parents wanted nothing to do with her the moment I came into the picture, and she’s an only child. Plus, I think some people have loneliness sort of built in. It often seemed that there was not enough attention in the world that could fill that void inside her.
I worry that I only recognise that because I have it too.
And I heard what people said about her. The other parents. They’d call her brash, noisy, gaudy. They’d make jokes about locking up their husbands when she came around. But June McNulty has always been unapologetically herself. I’ve got to give her credit for that. And I do truly love her.
I could have done with fewer late-night wake-ups when she’d stumbled home from a bad date. Actually, I’d probably go back and request fewer debriefs after the good dates—that’s just stuff no daughter should really ever hear about their mother. But I know she tried as best as she could. That was her way of communicating—sharing her life with me and probably hoping I’d return the favour. I just never felt like I could. I had Marcie to confide in. She’d give me room to let my thoughts percolate, to come to her when I needed to. And she’d listen without interrupting or jumping to conclusions.
Regardless, I always knew I was loved. Even if I wanted the love from my mother delivered differently.
I light a candle and wait for the tub to fill as I wash the day’s dirt and grime off my face at the sink—seeking comfort in how my warm, wet palms feel on my cheeks. Allowing myself to take hearty deep breaths as my tea-tree face wash evaporates with the steam.
Lowering myself into the tub, I bring both hands to my stomach and stare at the area I typically avoid looking at for too long.
It’s not that I dislike my body, or my stomach in particular. It’s just that I find there’s less risk of insecurity spiking the more I act as if I don’t have a body at all.
I, like most women my age, have learned to hate myself just enough to appease others. If you’re too fond of how you look, you’re told you’ll be unlikeable. Labelled as self-involved, egotistical, or stuck-up. But it’s purposeful—pinning us against one another. Consumerism demands we remain unsatisfied with our appearance. If we all liked ourselves, dozens of industries would crumble like Babylon. We have to want a solution to whatever or however many problems plague us in order to keep those factories running. To keep money in men’s pockets.
Acne? Wear more makeup that will only make matters worse.
Stretch marks? There’s a cream for that and a more expensive one if need be.
Stained teeth? Not with these white strips! Just don’t ask what’s in them.
Too fat? Here’s a diet plan so expensive you can’t even afford food.
Too skinny? Wear this bra that pushes up your tits—because you still need massive tits.
What I realised, though probably far too young, is that some things can’t be “fixed.” There were no ten quick ways to grow more fingers magazine articles for me to read as a teen. No creams that would blur or fix or correct my hand. Just deep pockets, long sleeves, and strategic posing that kept my hand out of view. Hidden like all flaws should be.
And though it was positively mortifying at the time, I owe a lot to Marcie for calling me on the hiding. It was my fourteenth birthday party, and I had all my friends meet us at the local pool. We were taking photos together with my friend’s disposable camera when Marcie came storming over from the set of lounge chairs she and my mother had claimed earlier in the day.
“Winnifred June McNulty, what are you doing?” she roared.
“Nothing,” I answered with a hefty dose of attitude.
“Baby girl…” She laughed without humour. “The rest of these girls have their hands up in the air. Two arms and two hands. You can count, can’t you? Where are yours?”
I glared over at Sarah, as if to say come get your mother, when Marcie reached between me and a friend and pulled my right arm up into the air, holding it there in a talon-like grip. “This is who you are, baby. And it’s beautiful.” She stepped back, admiring the row of us girls with a fondness that still sits lodged in my heart. “You can’t change anything by hiding it. You’ll just look back on memories and realise you tried to erase yourself. And how sad that would be.”
It was the way she said sad that hit me. That I can still hear so clearly to this day. Sad like pathetic. Which, to a teenage girl, is a blow not long forgotten.
Until then, I hadn’t realised I’d been doing it. Hiding proof of my hand, as if I could someday look back on my life and forget that I was different. After that, I tried, bit by bit, to stop erasing myself.
It was a lot of effort at first. A lot of catching myself in the act and readjusting. Then, slowly, over time, it got easier. To the point where I didn’t have to remind myself not to hide anymore—at least on the outside.
The internal struggle was harder to kick. The awful game of comparison and shame spirals followed me through most of my adolescence and into early adulthood. I often stopped myself from trying because I was scared to fail. I was being told it was okay to struggle with simple tasks while also being fed news stories of those… overachievers.
The disabled elite, if you will.
The surfer with one arm, the mountain climber with no legs, a drummer with one hand.
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.