I had therapy this afternoon. And even though I’ve been doing pretty well these past few days, I found myself sitting on the couch and fighting back tears as I recounted the story of Saturday night. I felt stupid. Angry. Exposed. Frustrated that I had let the hope surface in such a way again. Feeling as though I had once more let myself down.
And then I described the shear and utter terror I have over going into this next round. How frightened I am that it will fail and that I will not know how to cope. Fear that another failure would be the straw that broke the camels back; the final piece that would push me over the edge down a path where I become someone I don’t want to be. Someone that I don’t recognize.
Someone very different from the girl I have been up to this point. And, not in a good way.
It was then that the good doctor stopped me and asked me what the real fear there was. I told her; the fear is never being a mother. Never having a family of my own. Never feeling complete or fulfilled or… right. Always having a hole in my heart where my children were meant to reside.
I explained to her that I simply cannot imagine being happy in this life without children. I cannot even begin to fathom what that life would look like, because it is the exact opposite of anything I’ve ever pictured for myself.
And so, she asked me to do just that. To picture it. To imagine it. To think about a life without children now, while it is still an abstract idea rather than the only option available.
She said that she feared I have let my identity become so wrapped up in this idea of motherhood, that I’m not allowing myself to be anything else. To feel anything else. To fulfill any other roles.
And, she would probably be right. I have done that. In my stubborn mind though, that’s exactly what I’m supposed to do. Cling to and fight for this life I know I’ve always wanted.
It’s just that, in the interim of it being a future I saw for myself from childhood, and one that was suddenly on the brink of not existing; it’s possible I’ve lost a piece of myself in the fight.
I can’t imagine being happy without children. I can’t imagine ever recovering from that pain. From that festering wound that would never cease to ache. I would of course adopt (or kidnap and steal) children before I ever let it get to that point of nothingness. I would never let that become my life.
But, she didn’t want me picturing adoption. She didn’t want me picturing motherhood at all.
She wanted me picturing who I would be, if motherhood wasn’t an option.
And so I did. Or I tried. Attempted to picture the “What about if…” that centered on never becoming a mother at all.
(community discussion in need of your input right now: What would your life look like without children?)
First and foremost, I don’t think I could stay here. I don’t think I could keep living my cookie cutter grown-up life if the quintessential piece of that grown-up life I had been hoping for was no longer a possibility.
In all reality, I’m just not a 9-5 kind of girl. Having a mortgage and bills and responsibilities? Yeah, that’s all part of the grown-up life where I also picture kids in the mix.
Without the possibility of children? I don’t want the responsibility.
So, the first thing I would likely do is sell everything I own. All my “stuff”. All the “things” that I really don’t need. My house, my car, and all the extras. I’ve lived with all my possessions fitting into one suitcase before, and I could do it again.
In a heartbeat.
Then, I would take all my money and pay off every last cent of debt I’m currently in. All of it. I wouldn’t owe a dime to anyone.
Finally, I would get out of dodge. And not just this town, or this state; I would bust out of this country.
I've wanted to join the Peace Corps for a long time, but there was always a part of me that held back on that; fearing that giving up 2 years of my life to such a worthy cause would mean 2 years where I wasn’t meeting the man of my dreams and planning our baby making futures together.
Without the babies, the man could wait. I would immerse myself into a life dedicated to others for a while. To teaching children in other countries. To building homes in poverty stricken areas. To giving so much of myself, that I had no time at all to focus on what I’d lost.
From there, I would travel. For the rest of my life. Never staying in one place too long. Always learning, growing, and writing. Moving on when I stop doing any one of those 3 things. Constantly seeking out the wonder in this world, without attempting to figure out my place amidst the chaos.
I would remain unattached and unhindered. Free to roam the world and see it all. Free to do what I want, when I want, how I want.
Free from responsibility, and bills; from expectations, and disappointment.
I would run away.
And, I’m not sure that’s the answer the good doctor wants to hear.
Especially when I tell her, that even if I never had another hard day for the rest of my life (even if all the pieces lined up perfectly); it still wouldn’t be enough.
I would still feel that hurt and ache and loss. I would still long for more.
I would still wish I could trade my carefree and untroubled existence for one with responsibilities and babies…
I could do it. I could make it a life where I still smiled and laughed and forgot, but; it wouldn’t be the life I wanted. It would be second place. Runner up.
The first loser.
What about if; I genuinely do not know if I could be happy without a life as a mommy?
What about if; anything less would feel like a devastating loss?
What about if; nothing else could ever be enough?
What then?
