Today, I witnessed some blond chick birthing her resentment of her mother. I say birthing because the aim was for her to feel the emotion in her womb, and then pop it out. As you do.
It was surprisingly realistic, with this chick screaming and panting and genuinely hitting cushions and screaming “fuck you” a lot. It’s how I imagine a real birth would be.
Thank god and all his angels that she had her clothes on. It could easily have been done in the nude and no one here would have blinked.
I was aware that my reaction was the standard under such circumstances (which have occurred twice before) and that is absolute embarrassment and complete shame in empathy. There is nothing, nothing, nothing that could persuade me to surrender myself in to that display.
After the first time witnessing such release I was astonished to find others in the group did not feel the same. In fact the most common reaction appears to be love and a desire that help and support. Thats nice. But I don’t get it.
After the rather odd display, for some reason I decided to tell tales on myself. I said I thought she was brave, but I would feel so ashamed to behave like that in public. I acknowledged that was my shame to own.
The birthing blond came over and laid next to me and held my hand. As if I am the one with the problem. Sympathy for my corseted emotions.
Hey I might be all bottled. up. I am open to the idea that I am a little uptight. Stranger things have happened. The irony being to birth away my problem is the problem itself – I can’t. Unless I have a little private prodigy in my room tonight.