Category: Little Feminist Mama

Revisiting Charlotte Perkins Gilman’s “The Yellow Wallpaper” After Childbirth

A Summary of “The Yellow Wallpaper”

Charlotte Perkins Gilman’s short story “The Yellow Wallpaper” (1892) is considered a classic within the Gothic genre and it’s likely that you’ve encountered it at some point or another in your life. I know I’ve encountered it a few times: the first time was in high school when we read and analyzed it; the second time was in graduate school when I was a teaching assistant and taught it for first-year English; and the third time was just recently after giving birth to my daughter. Overall—because I taught it and was expected to familiarize myself with the details of it—I’ve probably read the story at least ten times.

But if you’re not familiar with “The Yellow Wallpaper,” let me give you a synopsis.

The story is narrated by an unnamed woman who is staying in a vacation home with her newborn baby and doctor husband, John. The narrator reveals that she has nervous and anxious tendencies—though John does not believe the narrator is sick at all—and has therefore been prescribed a “rest cure” that consists of rest (of course), light exercise, fresh air, and absolutely no overly stimulating activities such as writing. She disregards the last part of her prescription and continues to write, anyway. 

During their stay at the vacation home, John insists that he and his wife reside in one particular room which—according to the narrator—has a few peculiarities: a heavy bed that appears to be bolted to the floor, barred windows, and hideous yellow wallpaper with a strange pattern (or, rather, strange lack of pattern). Although it’s clear that the room may very well have been used as a holding cell for mentally unstable individuals in the past, the narrator insists that it was likely used as a nursery. 

The story revolves around the narrator’s increasingly unhealthy obsession with the disturbing yellow wallpaper—as well as the woman or women she claims to see lurking behind it—and ends with her ripping it down while John is away. When John returns, he faints at the sight of his wife creeping on the floor around the outskirts of the “nursery.”

A seemingly simple yet eerie tale.

Some Common Interpretations of “The Yellow Wallpaper”

As with all literature, “The Yellow Wallpaper” could have any number of interpretations depending upon the reader. 

One of the most common interpretations, however, is that the yellow wallpaper—with its horrid colour, odour, and lack of followable pattern—represents the patriarchal shackles that women are often forced to wear simply because they are women. In this interpretation read through a feminist lens, it is not only the narrator who is affected by the yellow wallpaper but women in a more general sense. This explains why the narrator sometimes sees other women lurking behind the wallpaper. The ending of the story—the narrator ripping down the yellow wallpaper—could then signify her rejection of, and freedom from, the patriarchal norms used to oppress her and the other women trapped behind the paper. Alternatively, one might read the ending as the narrator ultimately and unfortunately accepting the domestic role that she and other women are expected to occupy by literally becoming a part of the house as she slithers around the outskirts of the room with the yellow wallpaper.

Another common interpretation of the story—and one that could very much be connected to the above interpretation—is that the yellow wallpaper represents the narrator’s mental state. This interpretation might be bolstered by the fact that the room in which she is staying is suitable for a mentally unstable patient. Throughout the story, she becomes more and more obsessed with the yellow wallpaper—she is constantly looking at it, analyzing it, day and night—until she tears it down indicating her final descent into insanity or psychosis. It’s quite obvious that the narrator’s psychosis is worsened by her doctor husband since he constantly invalidates her feelings and treats her like a child. If you’re a fan of blood and gore—like myself—the more gruesome version of this interpretation is that the yellow wallpaper is not wallpaper at all: it is the narrator’s skin. This means that, by the end of the story, the narrator reaches a point of mental instability where she actually tears off her own skin, and perhaps this is the real reason why John faints at the sight of her.

Regardless of the way that you choose to read “The Yellow Wallpaper,” the feminist underpinnings are undeniable.

Postpartum Depression in “The Yellow Wallpaper”

After experiencing Postpartum Depression (PPD) for myself for the first month after giving birth to my daughter, the part of “The Yellow Wallpaper” that interests me most is the narrator’s illness and her mistreatment by her doctor husband. It could easily be argued that the narrator is suffering from PPD. In addition to the fact that the narrator has recently given birth, she also experiences many symptoms associated with PPD: anxiety, depression, and irritability; not being able to bond with the baby or take care of the baby’s basic needs (another woman takes care of the baby rather than the narrator); restlessness and insomnia; difficulty concentrating or focusing; crying episodes; and—if one chooses to interpret the yellow wallpaper as the narrator’s skin rather than wallpaper—self-harm.

In this day and age, the narrator’s illness would be recognized as PPD and treated as such. However, during the time that the story was written, PPD wasn’t necessarily a recognizable illness. This is confirmed in “The Yellow Wallpaper” by the fact that the narrator’s doctor husband doesn’t believe that she is suffering from any kind of illness. At times, it seems as though he acknowledges the narrator’s illness and goes along with the “rest cure” simply to appease her.

And the negligent doctor husband isn’t even the worst part about the narrator’s medical misdiagnosis and mistreatment in the story. The worst part is that “The Yellow Wallpaper” is often thought to be a semi-autobiographical piece of literature based upon Perkins Gilman’s personal experience of misdiagnosis and mistreatment after the birth of her own daughter. So, the medical negligence we see throughout the story is not fiction. It was something that was indeed a regular occurrence for women during the nineteenth century. 

After my experience with PPD, I can’t imagine what it would feel like to have those symptoms minimized and rejected by a medical professional like they were in Perkins Gilman’s case. In fact, it’s dangerous and can lead to further illness, which is exactly what she shows us in the story. Now, I’m not saying the medical industry is perfect at this point in time: far from it. They could definitely still do more to help individuals combat and cope with PPD in contemporary times—I was lucky that my midwife was so supportive when I was going through my bout with PPD and she provided me with resources to aid with that difficult time—but at least it’s recognized as a serious illness nowadays and there are treatments that can be offered.

I hope that there are no longer women suffering in silence alone during postpartum and being tortured by the menacing yellow wallpaper staring back at them from across the room. And if there are, myself and countless other women are always around to provide support.

Little Feminist Mama: My Elective C-Section

Attempting to Turn My Breech Baby

At 32 weeks pregnant with my first baby, I was informed that she was breech and that I should start taking measures to try and turn her. My midwife was not overly concerned, though, as there was “still plenty of time for her to turn.”

Even though there was still time, I whipped out every trick in the book to create more space for her to turn: forward-leaning inversions off the couch mixed with yoga postures like Downward-Facing Dog and Bridge; hanging an ironing board off the couch and lying head-down feet-up; sitting on a birth ball consistently instead of a chair or couch; swimming for the first time in years; visiting a chiropractor; using moxibustion and taping rice kernels to my pinky toes because there are supposedly pressure points in the pinky toes that help with turning breech babies. 

Four weeks passed and she still wouldn’t turn. 

At that point, I was given two options: either schedule a C-section in place of a vaginal birth or schedule an External Cephalic Version (ECV) where a doctor would attempt to turn her so I could deliver vaginally. After weighing out the positives and negatives of both procedures, I opted for the C-section for a few reasons. First, an ECV is not always successful. Second, a baby can still revert to their breech position even if the ECV is successful. Third, an ECV can sometimes trigger early labor leading to an emergency C-section. And fourth, I had a feeling that my baby was wedged so far up in my ribs that there was no way she would turn, anyway. 

I trusted my intuition and, although my midwife was totally supportive of my decision, there was one medical professional assigned to my C-section who was not.

Coping with the Social Stigma of Having a C-Section

At my pre-screening appointment, that particular medical professional questioned my decision right away and urged me to, instead, have the ECV. I don’t think it’s an easy decision for any woman to opt for a C-section. I say this because it took me a long time to come to that decision and be okay with it: I was terrified of having a spinal tap, going through major surgery, and starting the lengthy recovery. So, to have my decision questioned by one of the medical professionals who was to help deliver my baby via C-section was devastating. It made me feel selfish, guilty, and ashamed.

I felt even more guilty and ashamed when I told my friends and family about my decision. Yes, I had support from friends and family, but I also received pitying stares and comments such as “oh no” or “I’m so sorry” or “that’s too bad,” which made me feel like having a C-section was unnatural and less valid than a vaginal birth. I didn’t tell them that, of course. I just accepted those stares and comments despite how they made me feel. 

Recognizing that C-Sections are No Less Valid than Vaginal Births

I’m now four weeks postpartum, post C-section, and I wish I would have told my friends and family how they made me feel while I was pregnant. I wish I would have told them that there is no “right way” to give birth to a child and that I chose to have a C-section because I felt it was the safest way to bring my baby into the world. I wish I would have told them that a C-section can be equally as beautiful of a birth experience as a vaginal delivery. I wish I would have told them that, as with a vaginal delivery, a C-section can be anxiety-inducing, difficult, and painful: the main difference is that most of the difficulties occur during labor with a vaginal delivery whereas most of the difficulties occur during the recovery period with a C-section. I wish I would have told them that a C-section is no less valid than a vaginal delivery. 

At the end of the day, I got the spinal tap; I had layers and layers of skin, fat, and tissue cut open; I physically birthed my daughter from my body; I cried instantly when I saw her and held her in my arms for the first time; I received stitches and now have the smiley-shaped scar below my belly-button to prove it; and I began my long physical and emotional recovery afterward. 

My emotional recovery actually began when I finally realized that my birth experience was valid, beautiful, and exactly how it needed to be. 

And this isn’t just true of my own birth experience, either, but of all women’s birth experiences. 

Becoming a Little Feminist Mama

My Initial Concerns with Growing a Human

Do you remember when I made that joke a few months back—maybe seven or eight months back now—about switching over to natural birth control methods and not being an expert with numbers or tracking my cycle and potentially becoming pregnant in the near future?

Well, it happened—I’m going to be a little feminist mama in just six short months—but not because of my horrid math skills or inability to track my cycle. I wholeheartedly believe in the effectiveness of natural birth control methods and fertility awareness. No, no, my partner and I decided a couple months ago that it was the right time for us to start trying to grow our own little human.

To be quite honest, though—because of all the literature I’ve read recently upon the detrimental impacts of hormonal birth control pills on the body, the side effects I’ve experienced myself,  and the life-altering implications I’ve seen hormonal birth control pills have on a member of my own family—I was concerned that I was not going to be able to have children after taking hormonal birth control pills for such an extended period of time, or I at least thought there would be additional challenges that came along with trying to conceive because my hormones were out of whack for close to ten years.

This being said, I’m super grateful that my partner and I were still able to conceive. I realize that I’m now speaking from a position of privilege, however, and that many individuals are challenged on a daily basis with fertility issues. My heart goes out to those individuals, and I find myself thinking about them more and more with each passing day. 

After my fertility doubts were put at ease, the next thing I found myself worrying about almost immediately upon finding out I was pregnant was the potential for miscarriage. Between 10-20% of pregnancies end in miscarriage and these numbers are thought to be even higher when taking into consideration miscarriages that occur before an individual even knows they are pregnant. So, it’s not like miscarriage is an irrational fear: it’s something that happens quite frequently in pregnancy.

In fact, I personally know multiple people who had miscarriages and shared their experiences with me. The scary thing is that there’s not really a whole lot you can do to prevent a miscarriage. They just happen, and the reason is left a mystery. Perhaps that’s the most difficult part of it all.

I find it strange and a bit disheartening that—when trying to conceive and after actually conceiving—the most prominent emotion that I felt throughout the journey was not joy or happiness, but fear: fear of not being able to conceive and fear of losing a baby after conception. I’m still scared, but I’ve realized that I can’t go through my whole pregnancy being scared. It’s not healthy for me, and it’s not healthy for the tiny human now getting comfortable in my womb. 

It’s time to move forward, and writing this blog post is the first step for me. 

Finding Joy in Telling the Family

Although my initial emotions regarding conceiving and miscarriage were ones based in fear, I did manage to find some joy at the beginning of my pregnancy journey when revealing to my partner and family that I was, in fact, pregnant.

Of course, I could only keep the secret from my partner for maybe two or three hours after I took a pregnancy test. You see, what happened was, on the morning that I took a pregnancy test, I ended up taking it at around four o’clock in the morning because I couldn’t sleep. I had an inkling I was pregnant and was excited. So, I sat on the toilet at four o’clock in the morning, peed on the weird little stick, waited two or three minutes, then looked at the test: a plus sign. I then immediately started to cry while still sitting on the toilet. Also while sitting on the toilet, I took a photo of the positive pregnancy test because it was digital and needed proof (and how long do those things really last?).

The only reason I managed to keep the secret from my partner for a few hours was because he was still sleeping when I took the test. I tried to keep it to myself when he woke up—my plan was to go out and buy a cute little pair of shoes or a mug or something to do a pregnancy reveal later that day—but I broke and just showed him the photo of the test. His initial response when I showed it to him was “that’s not your hand in that picture” and I said “yes it is, and that’s our bath mat.” And then I cried and he told me he loved me. 

This sounds awfully cheesy as I’m writing it, but it’s exactly what happened.

Soon after that, we called my partner’s family and then my family to share the news.

My mom has one of those neat little picture frames that anyone can send pictures to, so while talking on the phone to her I sent the photo of the pregnancy test and she shouted “YOU’RE PREGNANT?” And then my dad immediately walked in—are your parents really your parents if they don’t have you on speaker phone all the time?—and said “I could hear that all the way in the other room.” They’re stoked, to say the least.

My brothers’ responses were a bit more colourful. I believe my oldest brother said something along the lines of “you’re going to turn into a whale,” and my other older brother—but still younger than my oldest brother—said something like “get ready to put your body through hell.” Lovely, aren’t they? It’s about what I expected. At least they made me laugh instead of cry, though. I’d had enough crying by that point in the day. 

My older brother—not the oldest—also asked me what I was hoping for: a boy or a girl. I told him I was hoping for a girl, and his response was somewhat off-putting. He responded with “if you have a girl, she’s automatically going to have more challenges” and then proceeded to mention rape and assault and a few other traumas that women often suffer through during their lifetimes. That saddened me, but he’s not wrong, either. 

However, I’m still hoping for a girl. 

Let me tell you why. 

Raising a Little Girl in Contemporary Times

I should start out by saying that I’m obviously going to love my child regardless of their sex and gender, as any parent should. All I’m actually hoping for is a safe pregnancy and birth. If I could pick between raising a boy or a girl first, though—we’re planning on having at least one more child afterward—I would choose a girl, and there are a couple reasons why.

First and foremost, I know more about little girls based solely on the fact that I was one at one point in my life. Due to this fact, I think I have a better grasp on what they need, what they want, how they change as they grow older, the challenges that come along with being a young woman. I’ve been through it all already and—honestly—I think raising a little girl would be a bit easier for me to do at this point in my life than raising a little boy. Since this is my first child, I really need that confidence booster since I’ve never seen myself as a mother or felt that I have maternal instincts. This doesn’t mean that, if I do have a little girl, she will be exactly as I was when I was a child. Every single child is different and grows on their own terms. 

I just feel that I would have a more solid foundation to work with if I were to have a little girl.

Second, I want the opportunity to raise a little girl using some of the tools and knowledge that I lacked as a little girl and young woman. A few examples include how to give or deny consent, menstruation as a source of power rather than shame, compassion for the self and others, healthy body image, and how to utilize your unique voice. Don’t get me wrong, I grew up in a household where sex and gender norms were constantly being challenged—my mom was always the stable source of income while my dad stayed at home with my brothers and I for a large part of our childhoods—but I want to be able to provide other resources and tools of self-empowerment to my child, as well. 

This is also just as important when raising a little boy but, as my brother noted, a little girl would automatically have more challenges in life purely because of her sex. This is unfortunate and I want to be able to teach my child that those challenges can be overcome and that equal opportunity, respect, freedom, and choice are worth fighting for, particularly if I have a little girl.

I may be new to this role, but I think that the opportunity to teach and empower is a huge part of being a little feminist mama. It’s at least a good place to start.