Labour Paris Paloma

So I decided to kick off my personal reflection on meaningful songs to me with "Labour" by Paris Paloma.  My take on this song is from my relationship with my first husband, the father of my two wonderful.  And while the "Labour" referenced was not excessively labour literally speaking, it was beyond exhausting and has left long-lasting scars. 

Labour - Paris Paloma

Why are you hanging on so tight?

To the rope that I'm hanging from?

Off this island, this was an escape plan (this was an escape plan)

The escape plan—that’s all this was. In retrospect, I only married him to get out of my house. He was my way out; I was miserable living at home with my mom and stepfather. Hindsight being 20/20 as it always is, it was actually a great home life.

My stepfather moved in when I was 18 and I was a typical brat. He was in his 40s and had been a bachelor with little experience with young women. He was gruff and had his own ideas on how we should behave. I was 18 and always strived for independence; I suppose I have always been hyper-independent.

Shortly after my stepfather moved in, my boyfriend returned from Marine Corps boot camp. He arrived on my doorstep unannounced in his dress blues, excited to see me. Knowing what I know now about my AuDHD, this seemingly innocent, spontaneous act threw me into a tailspin. I broke up with him and regretted it the moment after he left. But my pride would not allow me to reach out to rectify this mistake. Guilt also played a factor, as I had already broken up with him once during our 3.5 years together. Unbeknownst to me, my "daddy issues" played a part as well.

My father was a raging narcissist and, subconsciously, I was looking for that kind of man. And my first boyfriend was—and is—anything but. So, what was a young girl with daddy issues to do now? Well, find a man just like her father, of course! And boy, did I ever.

Carefully timed it, so let me go

And dive into the waves below

Who tends the orchards? Who fixes up the gables?

Emotional torture from the head of your high table

Emotional torture that never ended. It was never physical, but I would have taken physical over emotional any day of the week. The psychological damage it inflicts is long-lasting; it affects me to this day. It appears like a ghost, impacting me daily and haunting my relationships. Just yesterday, my partner and I got into a heated argument that lasted half the day, triggered by trauma from this relationship. I am working so hard to move past this, but the wounds are deep. Will I ever be able to move past it?  Time will tell.

Who fetches the water from the rocky mountain spring?

And walk back down again to feel your words

And their sharp sting

And I'm getting fucking tired

 

The capillaries in my eyes are bursting

If our love died, would that be the worst thing?

For somebody I thought was my saviour

You sure make me do a whole lot of labour

The calloused skin on my hands is cracking

If our love ends, would that be a bad thing?

 

And the silence haunts our bed chamber

You make me do too much labour

Apologies from my tongue, and never yours

Busy lapping from flowing cup and stabbing with your fork

I know you're a smart man (I know you're a smart man)

And weaponise

The false incompetence, its dominance under a guise

 

If we had a daughter, I'd watch and could not save her

The emotional torture from the head of your high table

She'd do what you taught her

She'd meet the same cruel fate

So now I've gotta run, so I can undo this mistake

At least I've gotta try

We did have a daughter and, sadly, the same thing happened to her. I watched from a distance and could not save her; I made it worse. By leaving him, I incited his rage, and she became my proxy. She looks and acts just like me. She was my perfect "mini-me" in every way. Even her mannerisms were eerily similar. When he couldn’t control me any longer, he could absolutely control her under the guise of “parenting”. My greatest wish is that she doesn’t grow up to think this type of relationship dynamic is normal. I hope she finds a man who treats her like an equal.

The capillaries in my eyes are bursting

If our love died, would that be the worst thing?

For somebody I thought was my saviour

Saviour: he was supposed to be my knight in shining armor. He was supposed to be my protector but instead became my controller. I had such high hopes for this relationship. While they didn’t come tumbling down right away, after several years, it morphed into an emotionally and psychologically abusive relationship.

You sure make me do a whole lot of labour

The calloused skin on my hands is cracking

If our love ends, would that be a bad thing?

And the silence haunts our bed chamber

You make me do too much labour

All day, every day: therapist, mother, maid

Nymph, then a virgin, nurse, then a servant

Just an appendage, live to attend him

Just an appendage—that’s all I was. He never loved me, only what I represented. I was the trophy wife that showed his status as a man. When that was gone, the love became hate. I caused his perfect image to come crashing down, and someone had to pay for that.

So that he never lifts a finger

24/7 baby machine

So he can live out his picket-fence dreams

He was all about appearances. He took keeping up with the Joneses to a pathological level. Everything had to appear perfect. We had to constantly be “better than,” and that was exhausting. He tore others down to make himself feel better. The constant trash-talking of our friends and family was exhausting.

It's not an act of love if you make her

You make me do too much labour

All day, every day: therapist, mother, maid

Nymph, then virgin, nurse, then a servant

 

Just an appendage, live to attend him

So that he never lifts a finger

24/7 baby machine

So he can live out his picket-fence dreams

 

It's not an act of love if you make her

You make me do too much labour

 

The capillaries in my eyes (all day, every day)

Are bursting (therapist, mother, maid)

If our love died (nymph, then virgin)

Would that be the worst thing? (Nurse, then a servant)

 

For somebody (just an appendage)

I thought was my saviour (live to attend him)

You sure make me do (so that)

A whole lot of labour (he never lifts a finger)

 

The calloused skin on my hands (24/7)

Is cracking (baby machine)

If our love ends (so he can live out)

Would that be a bad thing? (His picket-fence dreams)

And the silence (it's not an act of love)

Haunts our bed chamber (if you make her)

You make me do too much labour