I’m childless by choice.

Some prefer the term “childfree”.  Which term do I prefer?  A little of both.  Sometimes I feel deliciously, wonderfully, blessedly free from the demands and responsibilities of parenthood.  And sometimes I regret that my life is less for having missed out on the richness of raising children.

Yes, I chose, and still choose every day not to be a mother.  (I’ll be 37 in a few days.  The window of opportunity is closing fast.)   

I love children.  I volunteer at my church nursery once a month just for the chance to cuddle other peoples’ warm, adorable little ones.  I love being there, holding them, even when they scream in my ear, even when my arms are burning because I’m not used to holding a 15 lb. child for a whole hour.

I choose not to have children because I don’t believe that I could be a mother and maintain my mental equilibrium.  I would definitely have to be medicated to survive the experience, and since I’ve never been on medication I don’t really know how it would affect me.  What I do know for sure is that infants and small children, given any long-term exposure, create the ideal conditions for me to lose my grip.

Here is my formula for a life that allows me to function:  I must have 8 hours of sleep per night, and more on the weekends.  I hate to be touched too much or grabbed by someone who doesn’t respect my boundaries.  I have a very low tolerance for being interrupted when I’m concentrating on getting something done.  I need a lot of “Me Time” to decompress after a stressful day at work.  And I need to be able to negotiate with other people about how we spend our time together.

There have been times when I’ve been forced out of my formula.  And in very short order, a few weeks at most, I fall apart.  The joy leaches out of life.  I want to say “NO” to everything.  I start fantasizing about my kitchen knives.  When I hear about someone completing a suicide, I feel jealous.

I burst into tears in public without provocation.  I can’t cook or shop for food.  Every problem seems enormous.

I want everyone to go away and leave me alone.

My mother spent most of my childhood severely depressed, and enraged.  I’m not sure if medication would have helped her.  Her sister, the only family member who actually takes medications for the condition we all carry in our genes, has never been helped enough by her pills to pass for normal.  (She doesn’t have kids either.) 

I don’t believe that I have the emotional, mental, and physical resources to enjoy being a mother.  Fortunately or unfortunately, my husband feels the same way about being a father.  Sometimes I wonder what my life would have been like if I hadn’t chosen to marry someone as fragile as myself.  Would I be raising happy children with a strong partner by my side?  Or would they simply not be able to understand why I was always falling apart under the pressure?

Sometimes I feel deep, aching regret at having missed out on one of the most fulfilling experiences a human can have.  Most of the time I can accept what is.  But the worst, the very worst, is when other people don’t understand.  And they hardly ever do.

I present such a tidy exterior to the world that most people can’t believe that I’m really walking that close to the border of a breakdown.  They can’t or don’t want to see that the edge of the cliff isn’t that far off, and it wouldn’t take too much of a push to send me over.  I know where the edge is, because I’ve found myself over it, clinging on by my fingernails, too many times.  No matter how much time it’s been since my last fall, I musn’t confuse chronological distance with any kind of actual progress away from the edge.  That’s how I end up pushing myself to far, and ooop!  I’m under a blanket crying through a whole box of tissues again.

When I try to explain that I couldn’t be the kind of mother I’d want to be, and the person I’m speaking to says “Oh sure you could!”, it hurts.  It hurts so much I get a lump in my throat and the bottom of my stomach falls out.  Because what they’ve just said in a nutshell, without even thinking it through is a) they have no idea who I really am inside, and b) they think I’m exaggerating my mental condition and generally copping out.  There’s usually a certain amount of condescending reassurance to their tone, as if to say “You poor dear, you’re just afraid to grow up and take that responsibility.  You’ll be ready one day.”

It doesn’t help that I look at least ten years younger than my actual age.  People feel very comfortable giving that message to someone they see as just a girl, who might not even be out of college yet.

Even if I didn’t have a biological clock ticking, I don’t think there’s enough time in the world to make me “ready” to have a child.  My way of taking responsibility is living within my limitations and not re-creating the nightmare of my own childhood for another generation.