Bitter
ANovel Bitch
maria sveland
Translated by
Katarina E. Tucker
A Herman Graf Book
Skyhorse Publishing
For Olof, Leo and Max
Contents
Title Page
Dedication
JOY OF FLYING
POPCORN AT NIGHT (1982)
ALMOST THERE
A NEW WAY OF MEASURING TIME (2002)
LILL-BRITTIS IS ENJOYING HERSELF NOW
PRAYING TO GOD (1983)
FAMILY JOY
LIKE A WHORE
EVERYTHING STINGS
PEACOCK
ORANGE MEN
800 DEGREES
I SAY GOODBYE (1993)
TUFTS OF A LEOPARD
A LITTLE TIME LEFT (1993)
THE REVOLUTION WILL NOT BETELEVISED
MIDDLE OF THE NIGHT
A HETERONORMATIVE TWENTIETH-CENTURY ENDING
About the Author
Copyright
JOY OF FLYING
It is a hideous January morning and I am sitting on a plane to Tenerife. I feel so bloody tired, so hideous, and so damned angry; no not angry, irritated. I am so damned irritated at everything, but mostly at myself, and I feel ice-cold inside. I have been angry for a long time, and the anger is like a solid grey mass that makes me stiff, makes me want to drink too much wine and forget everything hideous – like January mornings.
I have always hated January.
I am sitting here on the plane reading Fear of Flying, trying to get myself in a good mood, maybe even to feel downright happy for a little while.
I am only thirty years old, but boy am I bitter. I’m a real bitter bitch, a bitter cunt, in fact.
It was not supposed to be this way. Like everyone, I dreamed of love, but a suspicion, an insight, has started to grow inside me, forming a deep, festering wound: How will we ever achieve an equal society if we can’t even live in equality with those whom we love?
I am thirty, just like Isadora in Fear of Flying, but I am infinitely more tired, more mundane. Family hell, with all of its sordid emotional stains, has drained me of energy. I could be her. I could be you, Isadora, if I were able to feel more, but I am disconnected from everything and I am not even afraid of flying. And I do not know how I will survive without bitterness when there are so many reasons to be bitter. All of the women you see, with their cheerless expressions and empty eyes, the ones who snap at you to get out of the way in the dairy aisle, making you want to snap back: witch. They make you angry for the rest of the day, don’t they – but is that because they remind you of someone?
I was struck the other day by the revelation that I run the risk of ending up just like one of them in twenty years’ time. I am already halfway through my bitter bitch cunt transformation, which seems impossible to avoid when we live in a society that discriminates, rapes, abuses and violates girls and women. But every time I see a cheerless old hag, I tell myself that deep down inside there is a happy little girl who once dreamed magnificent dreams without boundaries.
I am sitting here on the plane reading my book about Isadora. She is on her way to a psychoanalytical conference in Vienna, together with 117 psychoanalysts and her psychoanalyst husband, Bennett.
There are not 117 psychoanalysts on my plane, just me and sixty or so other sallow January wretches who appear to be in varying states of unhappiness. Nor am I on my way to the Congress of Dreams or a glorious fuck with some wonderful stranger, just a spa hotel built in the 1980s which will probably be occupied by retirees, the odd young family, and me. But then everything was so amazingly carefree in the 1970s when Erica Jong wrote Fear of Flying, and that is partly why I am sitting here, a bitter bitch.
While she got to fuck around, undergo analysis, do drugs, be left wing and part of a big fat women’s movement, I grew up and became a teenager during the fearful, anti-feminist 1980s when everything was dark blue, even the mascara.
Erica Jong coined the concept the zipless fuck – the pure, guilt-free encounter, a fuck free of emotional baggage and remorse, free of power struggles. But that was then, during the carefree 1970s. Thirty years later, we are in a completely different world. I have coined the expression bitter bitch to describe us: laden with guilt and filled with all of history’s injustices, weighed down by the battle of the sexes. What you become in this society – if you are a woman.
Isadora preached zipless fucks and drugs; my generation received lectures on AIDS and drug abuse. When we got older, and sought therapy, the queues were endless because weakness doesn’t fit into the free market’s myth of success; and then, just when we were ready to seek employment, Sweden found itself in a recession so deep that the unemployment rate was no joke.
And then one day it is January and I am sitting on a plane reading about Isadora’s zipless fuck, and about Bennett and Adrian, her husband and her lover. I am sitting on a plane on my way to Tame Tenerife instead of zipless fucking at a psychoanalytical conference in Vienna.
A couple in their thirties is sitting next to me and as I get out my book, I hear the woman begin to sob. She has her face to the tiny window and her shoulders are shaking. Her boyfriend, clean cut and dressed in a suit, sees that I see. He points at my book and rolls his eyes.
‘You’ll have to excuse my girlfriend, she’s afraid of flying. Maybe she should read your book,’ he says, and attempts a laugh, but it catches in his throat and just sounds mean. ‘I don’t understand why you’re afraid. Did you know that travelling by car is more dangerous than flying?!’
He looks at me again, searching for support, but I stare at my book. She turns towards him and sobs against his shoulder.
‘I know. It’s stupid but I can’t help it.’
The stewardess comes over, an older woman with a large, comforting bosom. She leans forward and speaks, her lips carefully painted pink. She has a calming stewardess voice and kind eyes that meet those of Fear of Flying Girl.
‘Do you want to come up to the cockpit and have a look?’ the stewardess asks, covering us with her dry, old lady perfume. I like her. I think Fear of Flying Girl likes her too, happy that someone is trying to comfort her instead of mocking.
‘No, thanks. I don’t think so. It usually passes as soon as we’re up in the air. It’s worse during take-off and landing.’
‘Yes, that’s what it’s like for most people,’ the stewardess replies. ‘Shall I get you a drink?’
‘Yes, please. Thanks so much!’ Fear of Flying Girl looks up at her guardian angel gratefully. Her boyfriend is sitting quietly and seems to think the whole thing is embarrassing. A scene. We are flying high and my ears are buzzing. I am glad we are in the air now.
The stewardess voice over the loudspeaker is soft. We’re sooo welcome and she hopes we’ll have a pleasant flight. And just think, today is the day she has fantastic deals, for everyone.
‘Gucci perfume for just 100 kronor. Or why not three mascaras that’ll make your eyelashes long, black and beautiful. All at very attractive prices.’
I do not know when poor stewardesses were forced to start working as sales people, but Fear of Flying Girl buys the mascara and her boyfriend continues to brood quietly rather than comfort her.
Breakfast is served, and as I eat I feel the tiredness disappear along with the sweet yoghurt, warm cheese sandwich and black coffee. Either the breakfast or the whisky has calmed Fear of Flying Girl because she has stopped crying and wants to talk.
‘Aren’t you ever afraid of flying?’ she asks me.
‘Nope, but I’m afraid of a lot of other things!’ I answer. I do not want her to feel stupid and in any case it’s true. I am terrified of all sorts of things: walk
ing home alone from the train station at night, travelling by car, biking, not being loved.
She asks if I am travelling alone and when I answer yes she gives me a wide-eyed look.
‘God you’re brave, I could never do that!’
It makes me happy to know there is someone who thinks I am brave, even a girl who is afraid of flying. I smile and tell her that I am sleep deprived because of my two-year-old son and need a little break from it all.
‘His name is Sigge. Want to see a picture?’ I ask, and proudly show her the photograph I always carry with me. A trophy and a reminder, because I cannot deny that my daydreams are increasingly about a vast, unrestricted solitude, one without husband and child, the kind of quiet solitude that makes room for thinking. Daydreams that fill me with endless guilt and isolation.
I realize that I need to explain that I am normal and have a family, but if anything this has the opposite effect on Fear of Flying Girl. I go from being brave for travelling alone to being suspect.
‘But isn’t your son going to miss you?’
‘Yes, and I’m going to miss him, but I think I will be a better mother if I get to rest this week.’
Fear of Flying Girl looks at me through narrowed eyes.
‘It’s really just one week,’ I plead, but she is ruthless.
‘But isn’t a week a long time for a two year old?’
‘Yes,’ I say.
Fear of Flying Girl squeezes her boyfriend’s hand and kisses him on the cheek. He looks up from his magazine and kisses her back. They look at each other in loving understanding.
It was not until I told my friends and family that I was leaving my husband and son for a week without a valid reason that I understood that it was weird. ‘Are you and Johan having problems?’ most of them asked, and maybe we were. After intense touring around family and friends in Västerås during the holidays, the passion level in January was so-so, but no worse than usual, no marital crisis or anything, just a slightly abnormal tiredness combined with the logistical nightmare of having a toddler and two demanding careers on which we are both dangerously dependent.
Then it is suddenly there when you wake, an abyss that opens up on a dark January morning, for example, a bottomless fatigue. I looked out across the snow-covered roofs and registered dryly that it was beautiful. A wonderland. For a brief moment I felt a spark, but the sensation soon transformed itself into an objective statement.
Where did the sparks go? I looked at my husband eating breakfast across from me. He was reading the sports section with the same detachment with which I was reading the arts one. I tried listening to the radio, but they were only words and I wished I listened to music in the morning. Wished I was someone who drank tea instead of disgusting coffee, ate my breakfast on the sofa, listened to classical music and thought. But the coffee was poisonous and the radio disturbing and something about it all was appealing; some quality that matched the feeling of numbness.
Sigge was playing in his room and I thought with irritation of the stress of soon making my way through the slush to daycare and then on to the train, which would be packed and damp with its steamy windows.
Always stressed, always tired and often irritable. My hair would get wet because I had left my hat at the paper the day before and I knew I would freeze, and I hated January. Immensely.
Sometimes the pain was so intense I had to pretend I was part of a movie, playing a role: emotionless young mother posing on the sofa in a Chinese robe. Maybe I was beautiful?
Our wedding photo hangs in the hall like a taunting reminder of everything we dreamed of, everything we wanted. It rained the entire day and so I got married in a yellow raincoat.
When I stare at the picture I see my puffy eyes and my wet hair plastered to one side of my head. I was crying, moved by all the thoughtfulness, the care and the warmth we had received from our friends and family.
Getting married felt so amazing and adult and beautiful, but I was forced to start joking about the absurdity of it all only a few months later, the fact that I had gone and got married. It is not that I do not love Johan, I always have (with the exception of a year-long marital crisis), but the truth is that I can’t answer for being married. I cannot stand the shitty baggage that goes with marriage. The acrid taste in your mouth when you think about what marriage stands for: hundreds of years of oppression and millions of unhappy people hissing in the background. I do not know how to handle my conflicting feelings, of wanting to be married even though I do not know of a single happy marriage. It is like having a blister on your tongue you are forced to touch even though it stings. I cannot stop reading all the books which criticize marriage, especially the ones from the 1970s.
That is why I read Fear of Flying over and over again, that is why I devour Denmark’s Erica Jong, Suzanne Brøgger, reading her desperation regarding the nuclear family as if it were my own, and then realize that it is my own.
I do not know of any happy families or marriages, none, not even among those closest to me: grandmothers, grandfathers, Mum, Dad, uncles or aunts, friends. Everyone is unhappily married, everyone is deceived by the myth of love.
My own poor head is stuffed with false love.
A Lill-Babs lives inside me. A Sue Ellen from the TV programme Dallas, with a pouty mouth and lips that tremble every time JR disappoints her. Lill-Babs, Swedish singer and actress, and Sue Ellen are tired, boring and rather sad but never angry. They sip on champagne and become just tipsy enough to hiss: I hate you, but softly, so that JR doesn’t hear. My poor head is filled with images that stifle every drop of real emotion. These images of how love ought to taste make it difficult to tell if it is bitter, or salty, or sweet. In the beginning love is romantic, comprised of hilarious and exciting encounters and mix-ups, filled with desire. But then everything becomes quiet and you struggle desperately for it still to seem sacred and wonderful. And no one, not even your closest friends, talk about the pain. The real pain, not to be confused with the false grumbling women sometimes indulge in together. That superficial communion about how hopeless their men are, while these women keep cooking, cleaning and taking the children to daycare. A whine that may be an expression of the real pain beneath the surface that smoulders and causes cancer, but lacks the power to stoke the anger and achieve real change. A whine that is little more than a small whisper, leading women to continue to neglect their own lives and intellects, and devote everything to their husbands.
Real pain makes you wonder if you would have been happier had you chosen another kind of life. It makes you wonder if something is wrong with you, if you missed out on something everyone else has. Until you realize that the thundering silence is borne of everyone around you being completely engrossed in fostering their own lies about love.
I would like to understand what Suzanne Brøgger really means when she writes:
Marital problems originate from the moment when love began to force its way into the family; which was not at all the idea. As a result, misery.
Maybe it was easier when marriage was built on reason, a business arrangement between friends? All romanticized expectations were avoided, but when romance and the myth of love came into the picture and took a patent on the couple, disappointment entered the picture too. Maybe that is when free love was kidnapped, reduced to something that should only apply to two, man and woman. Coupling, writes Brøgger, is an organized form of an unlived life. A string of non-meetings. Her words are almost the most beautiful thing I have ever read.
If only I were a member of a church, a foolishly happy wife and mother. It is devastating to have a self-image which revolves around my lifestyle in 1994, before I met Johan; all the parties, the men, the time, the sleep, the freedom. It is just as devastating as constantly daydreaming about the 1970s. When the tension between daydream and reality becomes too great, you start to become a bitter bitch. I try to fight it but there are a lot of reasons that cannot be overlooked, all of which lead me to make bitter bitch analyses, all the conspirato
rial facts I read and hear which confirm what I already suspect. Besides, it is January and I am thirty, a young mother and I have been married for seven years. Seven years! And everything is so disconnected. And I hate January so much.
The only thing that helps for a while is a warm bath. I have lowered my body into hot bath-water every night for four weeks now. The water consoles and encloses, makes me warm and weightless and delightfully giddy. I can lock myself in the bathroom and refuse to answer when I am spoken to. In the bathtub I have read and comforted myself with Isadora’s longing.
Those longings to hit the open road from time to time, to discover whether you could still live alone inside your own head, to discover whether you could manage to survive in a cabin in the woods without going mad; to discover, in short, whether you were still whole after so many years of being half of something … Five years of marriage had made me itchy for all those things: itchy for men, and itchy for solitude. Itchy for sex and itchy for the life of a recluse. I knew my itches were contradictory – and that made things even worse.
In the bathtub I read and I thought how I loved Isadora and her confusion, but I did not want to fuck, or have an affair with some other unhappy fool. Not even that. Even my daydreams are about solitude and time. Let me sleep and think endless thoughts.
One day last week my January life quite simply became unbearable. On Thursday morning I was in a hurry and cycled quickly, arriving at the Psychotherapy Clinic all sweaty. I was a few minutes late and annoyed because the woman at reception did not have change for a hundred. They never have change, as if they do not want to admit they accept payment. I tried drying myself off using the coarse paper towels they have in the loo, but it did not help because I was still sweating. I knew that therapist Niklas was waiting and as I had often done before, I began to cry. I do not know how many times I have stood there feeling sorry for myself. There is something about Niklas that evokes a great sadness in me, an invitation to be small and pitiful, knowing that he is still there, welcoming me. The kind big brother, a male relationship which for once is not filled with confused desire.
Bitter Bitch Page 1
