Unbirthing

Once I heard that birth is the most traumatic thing that humans ever experience. This makes sense-- being expelled from the womb must feel like quite the betrayal. In the weeks between gaining consciousness and being born, how is one to know that the warmth and comfort they have always known would ever go away? It makes me wonder if babies expect life in the outside world to be temporary. How long before we accept that this life is now all our own? How long before we forget the whole ordeal entirely?

A few weeks ago I noticed that the lines under my eyes did not go away no matter how much I slept or how well I moisturized. These were… wrinkles. I didn’t know that 22 year olds wrinkled. This is startling news. I have been young for so long, I had never really considered a version of myself not youthful. People older than me might roll their eyes at this-- I don’t mean to say that once you pass your early twenties, you turn to dust. It’s just that I felt like I was truly young-- a child even-- just a minute ago. I don’t feel so separate from my highschool self. But when gaggles of exuberant teenagers pass my street, I feel miles away. I remember my wrinkles. I am an adult, and I have no idea what that means. 

I could say that graduating college feels like an impending birth. I’m going to lose my employment, my mental health services, rent support from my parents. I will lose the illusion of being on a path which was set before me. The things which are warm and comforting to me will no longer be guaranteed. Grocery shopping, especially, puts this into perspective. I wonder if it is a common occurrence for people from middle class families to start shopping for themselves and become depressed upon realizing that out here on their own, they can’t afford almond butter anymore. That shit’s at least $8 a jar, which seems ridiculous when peanut butter is right next to it at half the price. And then suddenly you realize that you’ve been lucky to grow up in a household that bought you the almond butter anyway-- that your safe existence is not guaranteed to you. That you are going to lose it. 

Recently, I broke a habit of locking myself in the bathroom and scratching myself with an exacto-knife. I would sit there on the cold tiles, imagine what it would be like to decompose, and feel a little peace. I was never able to cut myself deeply, or do what was needed to rot. I’m not sure if I really wanted to die-- mostly, I just felt terrified. It was like I had looked behind me and I was so far from home, the home didn’t exist anymore. My grandparents had died, my parents were divorced, I could not see my friends or else they did not want to see me-- there was nothing. There was only me. Me, who couldn't even give myself the nut spread I wanted. Me, who hated myself so much I couldn’t accept that anyone had ever loved me. It was horrifying.

I am very lucky for growing bored of my suicidality. I think for everyone, there comes a point where the ideation develops into a question-- So are we doing this or not? I go to a university with free mental health services. I decided I ought to at least try it out before destroying myself.  This was the correct decision. During our first appointment, my therapist repeated that adage about loving yourself first. “You have to love yourself before anyone else can,” they say. I’m not sure about this-- I’m sure that my mother still loved me while I was ignoring her texts and stabbing myself. But I do think that it is impossible to see that love, to accept it, when you are rejecting any love you could generate for yourself. 

And so I practice; I think of myself as a child and say nice things to her. I brush my hair, I make myself nice meals. I’ve been writing little notes to myself and taking time to read my favorite books. Yesterday, I used my exacto knife to make a collage and send it to a friend. When I go to sleep tonight, I will focus on feeling warm and safe, warm and safe. These things are hard-- they take energy. Being a parent is very hard work, even when you’re parenting a 22 year old. If I were to guess, I would say that this is what becoming an adult is about. (That, and accepting the wrinkles.) 

About the Author

Elizabeth Rudderow is a senior International Studies major. 

About the Photographer

Gabriel is a passionate Deaf Latino visual artist. He received his BFA from Rochester Institute of Technology (RIT) in the School of Photographic Arts and Sciences in December 2018. As a Visual Media student, he specializes in Photography, Graphic Design and Video. Gabriel’s love for travel and adventure has taken him to four countries, where he has captured his journeys through his lens. He migrated from Venezuela in 2012 looking for the opportunities his country denied him, and from there his life gave an U turn as he started to achieve his dreams. Currently he is employed by RIT/NTID's Department of Access Services, as well as working as a Freelance artist.