That moment when you realize that you can no longer run from your truth.
I felt an inkling when I cried in the labor and delivery room. When I realized that the medication that I was coerced into accepting failed to deliver its promise. That pain blindsided me. I was prepared for the pain but that pain, I wasn’t prepared for. There were promises. It helps; it won’t be that bad but they lied. They mislead me. That pain jarred me into reality. This was happening. This faceless, voiceless being that has been living inside of me was going to be a person. I didn’t anticipate only seven or eight hours of labor and less then fifteen minutes of pushing. I thought I had more time. I didn’t expect to have a February baby; he was supposed to be a March baby. I thought I had more time.
The fantasy that I allowed myself to live in for a little shy of thirty-eight weeks caught up to me. It wasn’t what I thought it was going to be. It wasn’t what I signed up for. But laying in that bed, wrapped in cords and wearing an oxygen mask, crying and vomiting I was facing reality. This was happening. Ready or not, this was happening.
For many years, I knew that I wanted to be a mother. If there wasn’t anything else that I knew, I knew that. But I realize now that fantasy was just that. I didn’t think of it in terms of reality and I’m paying the price now. Promises were made and those promises formed expectations.
Throughout my pregnancy, I remember being frustrated because I experienced things that no one ever talked [to me] about. I remember being frustrated because it felt like women were apt to discuss pregnancy, childbirth and motherhood in ways that make other people comfortable. I realize now that helps no one. It certainly didn’t help me.
Society suggests that pregnancy and childbirth are beautiful experiences. They discuss these things in hushed, sugar-coated tones. Only after going through it myself have I encountered more honest conversation and I hate that it wasn’t there before. Yes, women glow. “Stretchmarks are war wounds” or “badges of honor”. And it all sounds good, but I felt jipped. I felt ill-prepared for the realities. I had no idea that most couples experience a significant decrease in satisfaction with introduction of children. Who knew? And if you knew, why didn’t you say anything? Are we that commited to the image of motherhood that we’re reluctant to honestly say that it sucks sometimes? Are we that reluctant to honestly say that it’s not always great and beautiful? Are we that reluctant to honestly say that it’s not all cookies, hugs and kisses? Are we reluctant to discuss the feelings of loss that accompany this gift? It makes me angry. It makes me angry because I feel this way and I know so many others feel that way, but we just don’t talk about it. We need to talk about it.
No one told me that I’d cry in dressing rooms for two years after giving birth. No one told me that I might not feel connected to this child for the greater part of his first year. No one told me that there would be days where I felt guilty because I hated being a mother. No one told me… and so I felt these things and I buried these things. If we’re “supposed” to feel a certain way and yet we feel the complete opposite, what do you do with those feelings? Lest you be condemned as ungrateful, considered to be complaining or the worst, a bad mother.
So as my son’s third birthday is quickly approaching, I am feeling it all these days. I feel the resentment. I feel the guilt. I hate that when I discuss the ugly days and the hard days and the days that are wrought with regret, I feel the need to preface and pepper the dialogue with mentions of loving him and cherishing him. I have to make sure that I am clear that I am so grateful that he’s here. But I don’t want to do that here. I want to be honest. I need to be honest.
I have to face myself and my truth. I wanted to be a mother. I wanted a child. I needed a place to put this love. I needed to feel like I had a purpose. I needed to feel like someone loved me and needed me. And that’s ugly. That suggests that I had a child for selfish reasons. But tell me, what reasons are there to bring children into this world that aren’t selfish? You want to share that moment with your partner? You want you family name to live on? You want an heir? You. Want. These kids… these kids didn’t ask for this life. We decided that we wanted to give it to them. Or we decided, after being faced with an unexpected discovery, that we would give them life.
So, despite my feelings and struggles with motherhood, I don’t resent him. I don’t resent my child. I can say that with a pure heart. I don’t look at him with contempt. I don’t. Remembering that I made the conscious choice with my partner to have a child, remembering that he didn’t ask for this, cloaks him and protects him.
After writing and deleting a few times, the truth is, I resent myself. I painted a picture in my head of what this would be. I painted a picture in my head of what my relationship was and what it would be. The weeks leading up to being unexpectedly admitted to the hospital sprinkled wake up calls but I ignored them. I didn’t allow myself to see the truth. I thought I had time to figure things out and get it together, but it was too late. And so, because of this idea of what this would be was so ingrained in me; I was reluctant to face myself and the truth.
It’s tough, though. For years I held on to what I thought it was and going to be with a death grip. My worth, my value, my future, my dreams and me were tightly woven into this vision. But the vision never actually was. I spent too much time trying, crying, fighting, trying harder and crying harder in order to ensure that my relationship succeeded. I didn’t want to be a baby mama. I didn’t want to be a single mother. I wanted to have and raise a child within a relationship that was rooted in respect and love. I still remember writing a poem to my unborn child and telling him that he was born in love. And he was… It’s just that love doesn’t mean the same thing to everyone.
I am coming to realize that I can no longer fear the failure and the judgment. It is a very humbling and sobering experience acknowledging that my relationship, the one that I thought was it, the one that I thought was exactly what I needed and the one that I would be in, ended. I am reluctant to say that it failed because part of me feels like if you learned from a relationship then it wasn’t a failure. But at the same time, I feel like that’s the preachy me. Real me? My heart burns every time I sit with it. My relationship failed. I invested a lot and way too much of me. I put too much stake in this. I chocked it with too much meaning. But aren’t you supposed to? When you believe that this is it? I don’t regret it…not entirely. I’m just angry and resentful, and I can admit that. I am angry and I am resentful.
I can’t imagine being the mother of another child. I truly feel like this child was the person that I was meant to mother. I feel like the universe gave me him for a reason. He in all of his, silly, smart, funny, and weird, glory. He was meant to be my son and I was meant to be his mother. And some days, that is all that I can cling to.
And then some days… It’s not enough.
Some days I feel like I’m suffocating. Some days I fear that I gave too much of myself to this situation. I fear that I don’t know who I am outside of former-partner and mother. I don’t know who I am outside of redundant days and duties. I stopped crying long ago. The dissolution of our relationship was difficult but it wasn’t a sudden happening. It took time and in that time I mourned. I mourned the wreckage and disaster. When it finally came to the light, I had already accepted it. Now, I struggle with feeling like the relationship was a mistake. A mistake in the sense that I invested where I should not have, I gave where I should not have, and I accepted what I should not have. But again, lessons, right? I guess…
When I showed that pregnancy test and saw the smile on his face and remembered the promises, I remember that I felt safe. I know that I was scared when I saw the positive indication despite us working towards it. But when he said, “you’re for real??” and smiled and hugged me? When I remembered the promises? I felt comfortable, safe and secure in our decision to do this.
But time showed me another side. Time told me that promises, even from the person that you love, could be empty.
I feel like I was lead into this dark room, holding his hand and promised that it would be okay. But somewhere along the line, he let go of my hand. I could still hear his voice. I was scared. I was searching for a light switch. I couldn’t find one and I couldn’t find him. I saw a slit of light and wandered to it. It was an alternate exit, a window. I opened it. I could escape, but I didn’t. I looked around the newly bright room and found him. With his hand over the light switch. The confusion, the betrayal, and the hurt… That’s what I found going into my second year of motherhood. While I could escape out the window that I found, I didn’t, I chose to say. I chose to work with him in understanding why he’d hide the light switch if he knew that I was scared and confused. I’ve gotten some answers but the truth is, they’re not good enough.
Lately, it’s almost painful. The feeling of suffocation. The realization of a loss of self. The fear of the unknown. The fear of “so, what now?”
And so, I spend my days mostly quiet. Knowing that there’s a chest of emotions and feelings that I don’t know how to sort through. I put my head down and do the work, finding small moments that remind me that at the very least, I got this awesome kid. But that’s only some days.
What now?
She's ByePoleHer 