How It Feels To Know You’ll Never Have A Child

Today is different. In the eyes of a writer, every day is different; every day has its own story, but really, today is different. I am not hurt or angry; today I am grieving. I am grieving the life of the child I will never give birth to. I am grieving the loss of the hope of ever being a biological mother. I am still going through the coping phase I guess, trying to understand the fact that nature messed me up. That apparently I am not allowed to do what women are supposed to do: carry a child, eat ice-cream and pickles at the same time and cry when they can’t see their feet past their whale-like belly.

My mother’s disappointment was maybe the hardest part. I also found out that I inherited my selfishness from her. Before feeling sad for me, she felt sorry for herself, for the fact that she will never be a grandmother. At this point, all I wanted to do was to leave, leave her there and tell her to shut up. Except I didn’t do that, I sat there and nodded as if I understood. How could I possibly understand how she felt when I couldn’t even understand how I felt myself? When I still don’t know how I can go on with the knowledge of being such a disappointment to her, to me, to any man who will ever love me.

So here it is, to any man who will ever fall in love with me, don’t bother. Before I learned I was “broken”, I had a hard time letting people love me, letting them in and really know me. This only made it worse. Whoever you are, if you ever want a life clear of any type of failures, don’t fall in love with me. Because I won’t let you. I will probably push you away until you realize that I am not the one, and eventually, you’ll leave; and I’ll thank you. I will thank you, for escaping the misery I would have kept you locked in. And you will be thankful too. You will be thankful because you would have avoided the tears when all of our friends would have become parents, the useless visits to the doctors to try to fix me, the sorry looks of friends and family, the loneliness of the years passing, lacking children’s laughter and innocence. So thank you, for not making both of us miserable by staying, because let’s be honest, who would really stay with a woman who is useless at her own fucking natural job.

I respect women who don’t have kids and don’t want them. In all honesty, I never thought I would ever be a mother or have a family of my own until this choice was taken away from me by mother-fucking-nature. I used to be pro-choice, pro-whatever-the-hell-you-want-to-do-with-your-body. I still am and I am jealous because you have the choice and I don’t. I envy you for being able to make this painful decision. I envy all these women who even if they decided to end it, carried life longer than I ever will. And maybe I don’t think straight about it, but I do put a hand on my belly sometimes to wonder how it would feel like.

I do cry often when I see kids in playgrounds or going to school. I even cry when I see happy glowing pregnant women. I am part of the ones who will never glow, who will remain the same small shining light in the background at weddings and baby showers. I will always be the one who buys baby clothes for others so their kids would be dressed the same as mine could have dressed. I will live motherhood through others during the day and cry myself to sleep at night because I am not as gifted as they are. I will be the only Christmas family picture card missing from my friends’ fridges.

And yes I am sad and angry and hurt. Yes, I would like to yell at all the women getting rid of their babies and tell them how fucked up they are, without really meaning any of it. Yes, I’d like to tell families, mothers, future mothers and fathers, fathers, what kind of lucky bastards they all are. But I don’t because this is not who I am, and like I often say now, who I am is all I have.