and goddammit, people like me! Well, neither of those are necessarily true but I am my own therapist. Last night I had the kind of therapeutic breakthrough that only a narcissist with 25 years of psychotherapy can have. You see, when you spend all of your free time thinking about yourself, occasionally something really meaningful bubbles up to the surface. There’s a certain amount of satisfaction in putting a piece of your own puzzle into place and last night I stumbled upon the real truth as to why I don’t want more kids.
Ed. Note: You should probably stop reading here unless you want to get depressed. There’s absolutely nothing fun, funny or entertaining below. Go ahead and head over to LOLcats. It won’t hurt my feelings. Seriously, I am NOT kidding. It’s cheerier to read the Justice section of CNN.com. I warned you. Don’t come crying to me when you get to the end. I just needed to write this out.
First, two days ago I wrote 1600 words on exactly why didn’t want kids but then I erased it. It felt wrong and while nothing I said wasn’t true, it felt kind of nasty. I don’t dislike children (just ill behaved ones, and then it’s really just the parents I have issues with). I love my kid fiercely and I wish I could relive her childhood over again and do it better. I do regret not having another kid, actually. Last night I realized that while I can name 102 reasons why I will never have more kids, it’s really nothing more than lip service. The real reason that I won’t have more kids is this:
I had everything and I lost it. Despite my non-traditional life, I did actually really want the house, kid, husband – the american dream as it were. And for a while, I sort of had it. I had the kid and the partner – both of whom I loved more than my whole being. I had the house and the dog. We went camping every weekend in the summer, did fireworks and BBQs on the 4th, opened presents on Christmas morning. We did traditions that I remembered from my childhood and made some of our own. Things weren’t perfect, my partner was immature and sometimes selfish, we had our differences, who doesn’t? But even after 8 years and a separation, I loved him without reservation. And then I lost it all.
When Mike died, I wish I could say that I died too, but I really didn’t. Even being a hollow shell of a human being would be a blessing, instead I went to hell. It’s a hell that I relive less frequently than when he first died seven years ago, but the pain and grief are with me every day. It’s a rare moment when I can think about him and our life, or see his photos and think of only happy memories. Most of the time what I feel is crushing sadness, despair and regret. When he was dying and I wasn’t by his bedside, I was on my knees in my hotel room praying to God to take me instead because Mike was 100x the person I’ll ever be. His heart was pure and good while mine is black and mean. I meant it too – at that moment, I would have traded places. But that’s not how things work in the world and he died and I lived.
Then I lost the kid. She didn’t die or anything but I suppose to me, she’s as untouchable as if she had. Perhaps it’s almost worse for her to be so close yet I can’t see her or talk to her.
Not too long after that, I lost the house too. A few months ago, I even lost the dog. And here I am, with nothing. I am not now, and haven’t been part of something bigger than myself in a long, long time. I lost the two people who meant the entire universe to me, creating a hideous black hole in my life that sucks all of the light I struggle daily to create into it.
So what it comes down to is this – I could never risk doing it again. I could never rebuild something that I want so badly and lose it because if I did, I would literally die this time.
In retrospect, it seems like kind of an obvious connection to make but it didn’t really hit me until I was watching Modern Family. I decided to check it out because it was nominated for so many emmys. It’s a pretty funny show but after LOLing at each episode, afterward, I felt a deep depression. Even though every time Ty Burrell is on screen, I want to punch him in the throat, I envy their character’s house full of kids. I envy the gay couple’s relationship. I envy the relationship between the stereotypical Latina woman and her son. It depresses me. It reminds me of things I had and lost, things I wanted but never had and things that I’ll never have. It’s the same reason why I loathe and despise all romantic comedies (well, that and they present completely unrealistic portrayals of love and relationships leading to overly high expectations and disappointment).
So there you go. At least with self-knowledge comes a modicum of inner peace. I no longer feel anger when I list the reasons why I will never have more kids (too old, too broke, too immature, too selfish, no partner, blah blah blah).
I read somewhere that the people who suffer from panic attacks and extreme anxiety are actually the sane ones. Everyone else just lives in a sort of ignorant bliss at the uncertainty of life. We actually KNOW that at any point the bottom can drop out and everything you know can disappear in the blink of an eye. Ask the parents of kidnapped children, or the victims of house fires or sexual assault. You want some really scary shit? How about the family who was watching TV in their living room when a sink hole opened up and swallowed them all alive? Or even one day you can come home from an ordinary day at work and find that the love of your life is extinguishing in a hospital 300 miles away and he never wakes up to hear that you love him and that you’re sorry.
