(no subject)
I felt like writing today.
Sometimes, I look at my children and I wonder, who would I be without you? And I know the answer. I wouldn't be anyone at all. I would be in a wooden box, under six feet of dirt. I would be nothing but a pile of decomposed tissue and grey bones. I would be an obituary in a newspaper, yellowing in the bottom of one of my mother's drawers.
And then I get very, very frightened, because I know I could never live in a world that didn't have my children in it. There are so many ways they could just disappear. Vanish, right in front of me, like they were never really there at all. A thousand different accidents, tiny choices throughout a day that could set something terrible into motion. Strangers that could take them right out of their beds, or grab their little hands at a busy store and lead them away from me forever. Anything could happen, anything at all.
I think back to the time before my daughter came, when I wanted her so much but she was not yet with me. It took so long to concieve her. Endless months of waiting and waiting and wanting so badly that it was like a fever that I burned with. I always thought it would be so easy. It was something I never imagined being with-held from me, it was my birth right as a female. The one thing my body was supposed to be able to do without question. But it didn't, and that was the worst thing that I have ever felt. It surpassed the agony of losing friends, of having my heart broken, of family members abandoning me. It consumed me completely. The reality that my body was keeping me from the only thing I had ever been absolutely certain I wanted in my entire life made me want to divorce it completely. I wanted to destroy myself for the betrayal.
But then she came. And I was born anew. Life came into sudden, exquisite focus and I found worth in myself. The body that I had hated so much for as long as I could remember was suddenly the one thing tethering me and my daughter together. It was the thin line between her life and death, and I had to learn to trust it. Ever since then, I have realized I cannot starve and drug and drink myself into oblivion, because my life is bigger than just me. It's not easy, I still struggle. There are still some days when I look at my reflection and want to burn myself straight to the ground.
Some nights I stay awake and just stare at them, let the morbid, sadistic part of my mind torture me with all the what-ifs. What if they get sick and they die hooked up to tubes and machines in a cold hospital. What if someone hits us when I'm out getting coffee and they die right there in the back seat of my car. What if I don't get to say goodbye. What if they're scared or hurting or alone or calling for me but I can't reach them or kidnapped or lost. What if what if? I've kept myself up more nights than I can remember, hands shaking and tears streaming down my face from imagining all the possible futures that could destroy me. I don't know if other mothers do this. They probably don't. Being a parent has always been wonderful, but it's also filled with bone-deep fear. Loving people this much is absolutely terrifying.
I know motherhood is not like this for everyone. I don't expect it to be, this is just a little bit of my experience. I'm sure I sound a little unbalanced. Maybe I am.