Actress and author Michelle Langstone writes about her IVF journey in her novel Times Like These. Photo / Supplied
Michelle Langstone is an actor whose credits include 800 Words and One Lane Bridge. More recently she has turned her hand to writing, publishing articles, essays and most recently a memoir, Times Like These. Langstone is taking part in One In Four, a panel discussion about fertility at Escape, Tauranga Arts Festival's biennial readers and writers event, Saturday, October 15, 3pm.
I was such a shy child. Not timid, and certainly not shy around my family, but any time I was outside the nest, I was overwhelmed by nervousness. One of my earliest recollections is of literally hiding inside my mum's skirt. The memory of how the fabric felt between my fingers as the sun shone through it is emblazoned in my first feelings of anxiety.
I realise now that's where it all began, rather than being something that hit me in my 20s. Those worries were always there, seeding away, from when I was really little. Writing the book has helped me see certain patterns of my existence and a lot of things fell into place when I was able to view them from a distance.
I was very lucky to have such a loving family. Their support and enthusiasm, and their ability to make me laugh, helped to offset my acute sense of feeling, because my childhood was a series of amazing highs and deep, deep sinewy lows, but there was nothing in my upbringing that caused it. Nothing was modelled for me that I absorbed, because we come in as we are. In another family, someone with a temperament like mine could've been ruined. I know how fortunate I was to be surrounded by people who were so accepting of my nature.
Since becoming a parent, and in the context of losing my father, I've thought about these things a lot. I've also thought a lot what a very different start my dad had compared to me. He and his five older brothers were thick as thieves but they never had a father figure. Their dad was a shocker, but my dad made a conscious choice to be different. Even though his father never played with him, somehow he knew how to play with his own kids and to take us on the sorts of adventures he was never taken on. That's an extraordinary testament to my father's wonderful nature.
A continuing conundrum in my life is trying to reconcile the deep joy I get from acting with what happens at the other end of a project. I love filming. The camaraderie of sets crammed with people. The relationships formed with crew and cast mates. But I'd much rather set my alarm for 3.45am to dress up and act, than go to an awards ceremony. I most definitely don't like to watch myself on screen. I like to watch other people's work, and I love television and film, but what's interesting to me is the process of shooting, and character building. But all the rest of it that's tied up with shiny bows, I don't feel that has anything to do with me.
Oppositional to that joy I feel for acting is how hard some aspects of it are. To be in work, every time you audition, you have to put in so much effort that no one sees. You have to care so much, and if you get one role in 10, that's considered success. But there are hundreds and hundreds of hours spent learning lines, and doing character work and putting your heart and soul out there, because you love it so much.
I stopped using social media because I'd had enough of all the opinions and self-importance. The constant stream of conversation and information started to lack nuance. I absolutely acknowledge that social media offers equality of expression, because everyone can have their say, but that doesn't mean I want to hear those things. I don't mean that unkindly, as I see the benefits, like how interesting movements have come out of it, and increased awareness of important issues, and how it can be a space to learn but I've also seen how power can be misused. It can also be an incredible waste of time.
I'd quit Facebook ages ago, having joined dubiously in the first place. While on it, I always felt like the unpopular kid in the corner at a party, because for people who get anxious, or worry about being liked, those environments are super toxic. But it was only after I stopped both Twitter and Instagram that I realised my self-esteem had become entangled with other people's opinions, and their mechanical affirmations.
I didn't stop consciously as a parent, but with Instagram, I was sharing pictures of my son Sunny's first 100 days with a group of close friends when we were in lockdown. At some point it dawned on me, that there was a performative aspect to the way I was sharing that part of my life, because I was curating it for others. Before Sunny, my social media was just me and my cat and tweets about cricket, but with Sunny, he'd reach a milestone and while it was happening I'd be sure to take a picture and share it. That's when the mechanism started to trouble me and I decided I didn't want that.
At some point, I realised I'd come to rely on other people's responses to the material I was posting and that was shaping who I was, and how I felt about myself. That's really f***** up. How did I get to that place? It certainly wasn't what I'd intended, so it was a relief to leave, but it was also difficult. When I got back to ground zero of who I am, when no one is looking, it was both lonely - because those platforms can feel like very social experiences - and it was also immensely freeing. I don't think I'll go back.
I don't want to be evangelical about not being on social media, if it makes people happy they can go for it, but the hours I got back staggered me. I saved between two and three hours a day that I wasn't even aware I'd lost. I wasn't even posting that much but, clearly, I was spending a lot of time on it, being constantly stimulated and listening to what other people thought. Since I removed that noise I've become much more aware of the world around me. I keep better time with my son, and I truly enjoy every saturated experience when he steps out into the world of sound and light and experience.
You never hear people say, "hooray, IVF was such fun!" I was prepared for it to be a minefield, and even though we achieved fertilisation, and carried a baby to term, it was a litany of endless worries. Nothing could've prepared me for how political it is to be a mother either. Every single choice you make is there to be examined, or judged, or commented on. About what you should and should not do, and when you are a mother, you can't get away from that omnipotent eye watching everything you do. The moment the algorithm detected human life in my womb I was bombarded with parenting pages, and pop-ups about breastfeeding vs formula, sleep training and co-sleeping, so many things, and it was overwhelming.
The reality of IVF for me, I went to the edge of the earth and I nearly fell off. It was a really lonely place, and I felt that everything was on me. The weight of a life or no life, and people telling you that being relaxed will solve all your problems is like cyanide. So I steeled myself for failure and because we couldn't afford another round, a lot was riding on it, which made the experience even more intense. But we got through and we will never know why we were successful with Sunny, our second embryo transfer, which is lucky for a woman of 42. All I know is, IVF is an imprecise science, and there are many mysteries.
Arun and I have been through a lot in a condensed period of time. We met eight weeks after my father died. We were engaged after 10 months, married after 16 months. During that time Arun also lost both of his grandparents, then we did IVF and had a baby. I wrote a book and we bought a house and now Arun's dad has also died. So in a very truncated period, we've packed a lot in.
One amazing lesson I wish I'd learned earlier, no matter how comfortable you might be today, just wait and it will change. Whatever is going on, good or bad, nothing is permanent. When I was younger I had this fixed idea that things go on and on, but one thing I have learned over time, everything changes. Life is a procession of departures and arrivals and somewhere in between you keep living.
• Escape, Tauranga Arts Festival's "little festival of big ideas", is a celebration of all things literary. Running from October 12-16, the 2022 festival features 22 events and a schools' programme.
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