Dooce – Não é Pera Doce!
“Um livro de memórias irreverente e cativante sobre as alegrias inesperadas e indignidades gritantes da gravidez, parto e maternidade – da criadora do mais popular blog pessoal na web, dooce.com.
Para os milhões de leitores dedicados que não se cansam de estilo único e inesquecível de Heather e das histórias hilariantes do seu blog, pouco há que ela não conte sobre sua vida quotidiana. Esta mulher com uma educação mormon da qual “recuperou”, filha liberal de republicanos, a esposa de um geek encantador , amante da TV que se exceda por ser realmente má, e mãe a tempo inteiro de uma Leta com cinco anos e dois cães voluntariosos.
Em “It Sucked and Then I Cried” (à letra “Foi uma Merda e Então/Portanto/Como Tal eu Chorei”) Heather conta, com o humor que é a sua imagem de marca, a história inexoravelmente sincera e brutalmente honesta de sua luta com a depressão pós-parto e todos os outros detalhes “menores” da gravidez e da maternidade que ninguém parece querer mencionar. Como, por exemplo, o quão chato pode ser cuidar de alguém cujo principal meio de comunicação é através de suas entranhas. E quanto tempo pode eventualmente levar a reatar uma vida sexual quando existe toda essa confusão da maternidade em primeiro lugar. E como às vezes se pensa que não se pode estar mais cinco minutos sem inspirar esse cheiro do bebé, absolutamente irresistível e redentor.
“It Sucked and Then I Cried” é um conto admirável e uma advertência sobre cruzar a linha invisível para o outro lado (o lado dos pais), onde tudo muda e só fica pior. Mas acima de tudo, é uma celebração de um amor tão grande que pode partir o seu coração em mil pedaços.”
“A good day was defined entirely by personal hygiene. Brushing my teeth = pretty good day. Brushing my teeth + brushing my hair = I was doing really good. Brushing my teeth + brushing my hair + taking a shower = WORLD DOMINATION. I believed that if I could get all the way to putting on mascara that I’d be magnificent enough to create my own planet and populate it with bears.”
“And I know that what I’m about to say is completely obvious, and it will be the least profound thing I have ever written. But to those who have suffered the unmerciful pangs of an angry biological clock, who have felt weak in the knees at the sight of a newborn baby, who daydream like I did about what your own kids will look like, what the biological clock isn’t telling you is that the job of motherhood is nothing like what you think it will be.Yes, there were baby smiles and giggles (…)There were transcendental moments when I’d look at her and she’d look at me and there were traces of recognition and THE WORLD STOOD STILL I LOVED HER SO MUCH.But there was all this other stuff that I hadn’t bargained for, and I felt foolish for being so unprepared. The day to day minutiae of raising a baby was at times so boring that I wanted to bang my head against the changing table. There were only so many ways to entertain a three-month-old baby (Let’s walk into the kitchen again! Let’s look out the window! Here, chew on my finger!), and I knew it would only get worse from there. In the next year I’d be repeating words all day long, reading the same books over and over and over again, and changing diapers that would redefine my entire definition of offensive.I was discovering that motherhood was just like any other job, that the good and fun parts were there, it just wasn’t good and fun all the time or even most of the time.I now understood that the family with the kids at the park had to get those kids dressed and fed and into the car and that on the way to the park the kids would probably all threw tantrums and spit at each other. And then they had to get back into the car, drive home while everyone was complaining about how hot it was, and then they had to feed them dinner, get them ready for bed, and fight them to brush their teeth. And those kids probably didn’t even have the redeeming fresh baby smell that made so much of this job endurable.”
“So I took her to the doctor and while we sat in the waiting room we watched other mothers chase after their shrieking, mobile toddlers and i caught a glimpse of what my life was going to be like in the next couple of years. It was like I was watching a videotape of my own execution, the volume deafeningly loud, and when one little boy threw himself on the floor and began pounding his arms and legs in a whirlwind thrashing of anger, all because his mom wouldn’t let him tear the covers off of all the magazines – mean, unloving mother! – I felt the dull blade of the guillotine slice into my neck, my head tumbling off my body and into a jeering crowd of cannibalistic three-year-olds ready to gouge out my eyes and teeth with crayons.”
“A few days after Leta turned nine months old we shared a huge day full of doctor’s appointments and cheddar cheese Goldfish. I had scheduled her physical therapy appointment after her first nap and her nine-month checkup after her second nap because I wanted her to be rested and in good spirits ans an all-around lovely lady. You can do that as a parent, manipulate your children and ensure that they will be on their best behavior.You, you who have children can now pick up your jaw after reading that last sentence, because it should be followed by a gigantic, witchlike cackle that goes something like, BWHA HA HA A HA! YOU AND YOUR LITTLE DOG TOO! For those of you who don’t have children, the last sentence in the previous paragraph is the biggest bunch of bullshit I have ever spewed out of my mouth.”
“This was part of being a mother, I suppose: the constant nagging feeling of guilt and sorrow and joy and worry and unfettered elation, feelings that should not exist simultaneously but CONSTANTLY EXIST SIMULTANEOUSLY.I had never been so alive, and yet, so on the verge to collapse.“
“The weekend before Thanksgiving my sister’s neighbor committed suicide. He was the father of four children, the oldest being eleven, the youngest being three, and his wife found him in their bedroom where he had hanged himself.When my sister called me to tell me about it I almost collapsed onto the floor. That could have been me. It could have been Leta who was left without a parent, Jon without a partner. If cameras had been following me around during those awful months of my postpartum depression you would have seen me throwing full gallon milk jugs at Jon’s head. You would have watched as I slammed the front door so hard that it fell off of its hinges, or the countless number of times I called Jon at the office just so that I could hang up on him. Maybe you would have seen me through the window as I stood in front of the medicine cabinet in the kitchen trying to figure out wether or not I had the nerve to take an entire bottle of Risperdal.I thought about suicide every day during those months. (…) I wanted to do something, anything to stop the pain.But I finally gave in and realized that I couldn’t climb out of the hole by myself (…)I knew so many people who were afraid that if they took medication or even agreed to see a therapist that they were in some way admitting failure or defeat.Or they had been told by their boyfriend or their mother or their best friend that they should buck up and get over it, and that asking for help was a sign of weakness. Well, then, let me be weak. Let me be a failure. Because being over here on this side, where I could see and think clearly, where I was happy to greet my child in the morning, where I could logically maneuver my way over tiny obstacles that would have previously been the end of the world, over here being a failure was a hell of a lot more enjoyable than the constant misery os suffering alone.All of this to say that I was a success story. I was a victory for the mental health profession. And despite everything that it would say about me and who I was to have to ask for help, I did it. And here was this crazy woman in the Utah desert who admitted and accepted all of those horrible things about herself and in doing so found a better life.”
É, em resumo, um testemunho incrivelmente bem escrito, importantíssimo e precioso, no que diz respeito a lidar com algumas questões fracturantes como a depressão, a depressão pós-parto e a maternidade, temas acerca dos quais toda a gente parece ter uma opinião formada e preconceituosa, baseada em nada de experiência própria ou conhecimento de causa, enraizada em conceitos antigos e perigosos, venenosos e pérfidos. E divertidíssimo, não obstante, acreditem.
Heather B. Armstrong não se tornou famosa por acaso nem seguida por milhões de pessoas pelo prazer mórbido de observar a desgraça da vida alheia, como se de um reality show se tratasse. Ela deu voz a milhões e milhões de mulheres em todo o mundo que sofriam muitas vezes em silêncio uma dor dilacerante, sem compreender de facto o que lhes sucedia e contado com a absoluta incompreensão e desconhecimento de causa daqueles que mais amavam e as rodeavam.
Devia ser dado na escola.
De salientar, ainda, que depois desta primeira experiência (que viria a dar alento a tantas outras mulheres como, por exemplo, Gwyneth Paltrow, que viria ela própria a ter um blog e a assumir a depressão pós-parto publicamente, numa entrevista, e a aclamar os textos de Heather), a autora decidiu engravidar novamente e ter outra criança, desta vez já sabendo ao que ia! :)
Todas as imagens © Dooce.com.