RealMental

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.

Last Friday, one of my son’s classmates lost his father.

The boy is a kindergartener, having only recently turned six years old. I read the letter the teacher sent home and I immediately began to sob. I do not know much about this boy, other than he frequents the principal’s office, and is well known for his antics.

That isn’t all he is, he is well known for his big and beautiful heart. He shares, he is loving.

As I am wont to do, knowing he was prone to trouble, I want to know more about him. To try and see inside his world, to determine if there is something more that should be addressed other than his negative behavior. It took me some time before he would really talk to me, this isn’t usually the case since I love kids and I always vie for their approval. Over the past few months, he’s warmed up to me.

Through the whole weekend, my thoughts kept turning to this boy and his loss. I am not sure that he will fully understand this situation for a few years. I worried if his Mom had other family, insurance, or anything to help ease her burden. These are times in which I wonder if I think too much about other people and if it really is none of my business. I subscribe to the quote, “it takes a village to raise a child”, and I fully believe in it’s power.

A few years ago, my daughter’s best friend lost her Mother when was only 9 or 10 years old. Her Mother was a friend of mine and we’d just spoken the day before about grabbing sushi at a new restaurant that had just opened in our area. She headed for the bathroom that Sunday morning and an aneurism burst in her head and she was gone. My daughter and her friend began to drift apart after this and we rarely ever see her. I miss her Mom every time I drive past their house.

All of this got me to thinking about my youthful dreams of wishing my Mom would die. I know how terrible this sounds, and I wince a little now when I think about it.

I would design horrible accidents in my head that she could be killed falling down the stairs, driving home drunk, whatever. When I got older and discussed this with my siblings, they too had wished for her to die. She was mean and she beat us. Who wouldn’t want the person who beat them dead? The woman she used to be, is not the woman she is now. She has become weak, fragile, and only has select memories. I am learning to make peace with this, she was always the pillar of strength and self control in my youth.

Putting these scenarios together side by side in my mind; my wishes for death, and the children that have actually had death at their door. I can say that I am glad that my deadly wishes never came true.

These quandries have always intrigued me, turning them all around in my head for years trying to unlock the secret of the why.

Why do the families that actually want children, are capable to raise them and give them a loving home cannot get pregnant? The parents that beat and destroy their children, live on so that the child is constantly reminded of their pain and suffering into adulthood, knowing that the truth will never be revealed.

Why do the good parents die, but the bad ones live? I’ve never solved this, but I have adopted a theory that our children choose us. Even if those children did not come from our own wombs, they choose us.

To make peace with the abuse that happens every day to children, even in my own neighborhood (and yours) I have to believe that on some level the children choose their lives before they are born. For me, it is how I make peace with the fact that I cannot save every child that I come into contact with. Throughout my main healing process, I was always told to watch children to “really” see them and how beautiful they are. This was designed to help me to understand that the abuse was not my fault. A six year old does not “want” to be touched by a grown man.

There were people along my path that reached me, inside where the pain lived when I was a child. I remember them, I remember their kindness and I believe on some level it gave me the hope I needed to rise up out of my experience, not to regret it, and heal. This is why I try to “see” children, to let them know that they are important and beautiful.

That there is more out there that will be revealed, they are not alone, they can survive and then pass it on to those that come after them.

Dear Mom,

I need to let you know that I am no longer mad.

It is possible that you didn’t know I was mad to begin with. Being a mother myself, I could speculate that you may have not known what “it” was, but I’m sure you’ve known that something wasn’t right with us.

When I called you last week sobbing, I wasn’t expecting you to be someone other than who you are. Your way of comforting me can sound a lot like criticism, but this time I heard with ears that are healing. I bristled a little just out of habit, then I realized that this is the way you try and comfort me.

This is how you comfort yourself, you take care of yourself the same way that you were cared for as a child. It is all you know. This makes me sad to know that you weren’t taken care of in the manner that each human deserves, with love and support.

If I was having a particularly hard week emotionally, I would beg my therapist to please tell me how to be around you without becoming sick. Each time I would ask him like it was the first time I’d ever thought to ask, and he somehow held the magic key.

His answer was always the same, “accept her for who she is and not who you want her to be”. This felt like a cop-out, a way to avoid handing me the magic answer that would allow me to be with you free of the knots that would form inside of me in your company.

The therapy work I’ve been committed to for the past two years is all about my relationship with you. The triggers began when I became a parent and took some time to bring itself to the surface enough so that I could begin the work of healing.

This is new territory for me, an area that I will need to tip toe into very gently and with a lot of love and support. Love and Support that I will give to myself. I won’t look to you, or others to love and support me in the way I need to give it to myself.

It’s my job now to take care of the injured one that lives in my belly. I thought being angry with you was the way to rid myself of the pain the abuse left me with. It was the only means I had of processing it all.

This is just a beginning for me, I hope it is a path that I can continue following. Not just for you, but for me. The release and calm I have is something I never got by holding on to the angry.

Just in case you knew I was mad, I need for you to know that I am not mad anymore.

I love you for who you are.

With much love,

Your Daughter

It’s been on me now for months now. It sits in the middle of my head, buzzing like some sort of damned demented tsetse fly.  I am defeated for no reason whatsoever. I can’t smile, at least not for myself, and my eyes are always heavy.
I know that part of the solution is to move around among the living but every time I try panic sets in and suddenly the lights are too bright, the rooms too small, my breathing too shallow and I can’t find my way back to safety. More often than not, I make the decision to avoid movement.

My loved ones want me to get better. They are sure that there is action I can take to get better. I know that they are right. It scares me that they can see it- I am a world class actress after all.  It must be really bad.

I’ve curled up into myself because I know how to take care of me, to keep from falling over that precipice that looms on all sides of my psyche, craving a misstep. It’s hard to explain how withdrawing helps- it just does.

I think that sometimes depression causes so much pain the sufferer’s only recourse is to anesthetise themselves. I used to do that by using drugs and alcohol. Now I do it by drawing myself up into a ball, so that my insides aren’t exposed.

I am starting therapy again and I know that it will help. There’s no magic pill for this, it is something I have to tread through. That may be the hardest part about living with depression and anxiety. When every fiber in your being is screaming at you to keep quiet, keep still, keep yourself safe- to take those steps towards recovery- I am jumping off of a god damned cliff.

Walking the hallowed halls of my son’s school, I am faced with awkward sensations and feelings. As a human, I tend to project my “issues” outward. Therefore, it is no surprise that a much younger version of me comes out and walks simultaneously with the grown up part of me, clomping through the halls together looking like only one person.

In the beginning of the school year, I was angry that I had to experience these sensations and feelings, thinking it was unfair that I could not just walk into the school and enjoy it.

Why do I always have to look for “the dirty“? Why am I always on alert, afraid to miss a “sign”?

An old belief, built within my psyche was that, as a child if I could’ve “seen it coming” I could’ve stopped it from happening. (Or so that belief would like for me to believe).

If we just stay on alert for the rest of our lives, it’ll never happen again. Not to me, not to you, not to anybody. As most survivors know, this sets up some very stringent mental puzzles and maneuvering that make you weary from lack of rest, and close relationships almost impossible to have.

One of my favorite things when walking the halls to my son’s classroom is scanning the pictures/poems/projects that the teachers hang outside of their classrooms on the cold cemented walls. The kids’ artwork, projects, lists of things they love to do, and what they would do if they were president.

Very rarely do I ever see other “grown ups” reading them with the fervor of being at the Guggenheim as I “think” I do. Then I wonder if that means there is something wrong with me, since I don’t see other parents doing it. The voice that tries to tell me once again, I am not measuring up.

Hey voice, SHUT THE FUCK UP!

Sometimes, the kids in his class tell me things that make me want to grab them up and save them from their futures. I watch them with wonderment, and I know I am not looking at them through my adult eyes, but rather the younger version of me that didn’t have the freedom to be a child when I was a child (due to being “on guard”).

I love observing children, it’s like the feeling of awe you get when you see the ocean for the first time.

Some times, the kids in my son’s class tell me things. One child recently told me that he is trying to stay out of trouble because he loses private time with his mom when he gets into trouble. One told me that they couldn’t afford napkins, she is also the one that always grabs me desperate for a hug. These things make my heart break a little, knowing it isn’t up to me to rescue every one.

This is vastly different than what I would have written a few years ago, back then I thought I could rescue them all. Each time I go, it gets better. It is a slow process, right in line with the work I am doing in therapy for this stage.

And, I do know that each one that I hug, praise, smile with or laugh with has the same chance that I did. I still remember those people in my life from my youth that made a point to stand out and listen to me. While they couldn’t save me, they certainly left their mark of kindness on my heart.

Who’s to say that wasn’t rescue enough for me? I am one of the lucky ones, I will keep surviving. Anything less would make it seem that the bad people have won. I can’t live with that.

As a young child, her siblings would tie strings to her legs and exclaim, “when does the balloon take off?” At the time, she was the youngest child in the herd. She was overweight. She was born premature, only weighing four pounds.

Her real father wasn’t around much, he liked to drink. Eventually they found him dead in his home having drunk himself to death. He had been there for a couple of weeks before he was found.

Her step father had a desire for young girls. He touched her. She was abused by her older siblings, and both of her “parental units”. Once, when no one knew she spit on the step fathers pants. It wasn’t too menacing of an act but it was all she had at the time.

Soon, another child was born and she was no longer the youngest. He was the spawn of her mother and “him”. Him is how she refers to this person. He deserves no other name.

She is a good catholic woman, she tried to do all the right things, get good grades and follow the rules. Following rules means you are safe. You won’t be molested, raped or beaten. Or, so we think. This is only a part of her story.

Flash forward to 64 years old. This woman sits alone, in a chair by the door surrounded by her hoard. She’s created a safe place that only requires a few steps amongst her hoard of things she thinks she needs.

These are her walls. She is still protecting herself from bad things. She doesn’t realize those bad things are gone and she can come out.

That little girl still exists in the big woman’s body, telling the big woman that she needs these things in order to keep them both safe. I am trying to reach in and grab that little girl’s hand, to let her know that everything is ok now and that I can help her.

If only she’ll let me.

I’ve decided that my 30th birthday present to myself is going to be a tattoo. To some, it seems like an odd choice because I waited until I’m 30 to do it – not in my early 20s when everyone else was getting them done (though, technically, I’m getting it two days before my birthday. That way, I can say that I did it back in my ‘wild and crazy’ 20s. Not like I was wild and crazy in my 20s, but it’s a good thing to say, I think.)

I’ve just been feeling the urge to mark this occasion – to mark myself to commemorate all that I’ve been through in the past 30 years. The urge is very strong. I guess you can’t help but look back on the past when you hit a milestone such as this.

I once went to a therapist during a stressful time in my life. She asked for my life story and I gave it to her. At the end, she looked at me with wide eyes and said, “You have how many degrees and you work where??”

Apparently, people who have lived through the kind of childhood and adolescence that I did don’t usually make it to where I have in life. They end up with drug problems; they end up on the streets. They don’t get university degrees and good jobs.

“You’re the resilient child,” she said. “They write textbooks about people like you.”

Of course, you can’t live through that kind of a life and end up entirely unscathed. All my scars are on the inside.

I remember when I was 14 and everything that happened in my childhood started sinking in. I suddenly had labels for all that had happened: sexual abuse, physical abuse, alcoholism, dysfunctional family. The pain at that was so intense that I didn’t know what to do with it. I was this peppy overachiever on the outside but no one knew what was going on inside. I remember wanting to cut myself so that I could feel some pain on the outside to distract myself from the pain on the inside. I remember doing just that – scarring up my wrists just so that I could feel something and know that the pain was real.

But this marking – this 30-year-old urge to mark is different. I want something that I can look down on and say, “I made it. And I’m going to keep making it.”

Republished from Saviabella, September 2005.