I often have nightmares about a past life. Not in the reincarnation sense of the word, but about a life I used to have that feels very far away and very recent, all at the same time. I’m not old. I’m 36. But when I think about my life only 6 years ago, it feels foreign. My brain has blurred the edges of those memories in such a way that it feels like I’m remembering a dream. I know that the memories are real. That everything did, in fact, happen. But at the same time, I’m so far removed from the person that I used to be that I sometimes wonder how I ever lived like that. How did I survive? I must have, I’m here. But if I had to do it all over again, could I? It seems unlikely.
Then there are days when I’m transported so fully back into the person I used to be that the life I currently live seems surreal. I look around at my beautiful home and my beautiful husband and my ever-expanding pregnant belly and I think to myself, “Surely, THIS is the dream. Any minute now, I’ll wake up and remember that none of this was meant for me. This is just another one of my daydreams; a survival mechanism meant to help me escape the reality of my fraught existence that has somehow gone too far. Any minute now, an alarm will go off and I’ll be jolted back to my reality – a reality of insecurity, of struggle, of too little love.” This is not my beautiful house.
In truth, I don’t really recognize the person I’ve become sometimes. None of this was ever supposed to happen. I was raised to fight, to suffer, to be alone against the world. My mother would be rolling in her grave (if she had one) at the thought of me expecting a child of my own. She hated being a mother, and she loathed the idea of ever becoming a grandmother. Before I was even in middle school, she started telling me stories about how doctors had told her that I would never be able to physically conceive or give birth to a child. That something (I was never sure exactly what) was medically wrong with my reproductive organs, so I ought to just put the idea out of my mind completely. (I spent a lot of time around doctors and in hospitals when I was a child. I was often sick, and it was discovered that I was born with only one kidney, so it actually didn’t seem too far-fetched that I could have other abnormalities. As a master liar, I’m sure she was banking on my believing her because of those reasons.) Not that I even needed her lie to believe that I should never have children. My own upbringing was so incredibly fucked up that I had resolved early on never to inflict the same experience on another living soul. I believed for so long that I was my mother’s daughter. She tried so hard to make me a replica of her, and for many years, in many ways, she succeeded. I was angry, I was vicious, and I was so incredibly alone.
Because I’d been raised to believe that other women couldn’t be trusted, it took me a long time to open up to my friends. Even after I did, I still needed to be the strongest one in the group. I cultivated the perception that I was made of steel, with a Teflon barrier that could repel pain. Sometimes, I still fall back on that persona when I’m feeling overwhelmed or I can’t handle an emotional situation. But I’ve learned over the years that it worked more to my detriment than my benefit. (When people don’t think you can feel pain, they’re less likely to care when they’ve hurt you. It perpetuates a vicious cycle.) And if my methods of relating to friends were bad, my choices when it came to romantic relationships were even worse! I didn’t trust anyone who genuinely seemed to care about me. People who were too kind were automatically suspicious. I preferred partners who were at best, aloof, and at worst, completely emotionally unavailable. In some cases, I allowed myself to endure the same type of emotional abuse from my partners that I was used to getting from my mom. I was so desperate to cling to something familiar that I didn’t care if I got hurt in the process.
Given the circumstances, it’s no surprise that I decided I’d never have a child. Even though the idea of getting married and settling down seemed increasingly out of my reach, I still wanted it. I craved that security. I desperately wanted to know what it felt like to have someone choose to spend their life with me. To be loved that much. But with my obvious lack of qualifications or experience in the area of having a stable family, I figured that while I might some day miraculously get married, I’d still never be a parent. The risk was too great. The responsibility was too overwhelming. My emotional baggage was too insurmountable.
And yet, here I am. How did I get here? It’s a long story, one that I’ve touched on in many of my other posts. The extremely abbreviated version is this: a lot of therapy, a lot of work on myself, several incredibly supportive friends, and just plain being lucky enough to find the love of my life. That last bit sounds corny, and maybe it is, but it’s also true. I found a love that is so complete, so supportive, and so life-giving that I literally wake up every morning thanking the universe for giving me such a gift. I know that it’s rare and because of that, I don’t take it for granted. I know what it’s like to live without love. I know that being loved is not a guarantee in this life, and that not everyone gets to experience it. Experiencing love has made me a better person. I put more love into the world because I understand how important it is now. I love my husband as fiercely as I can because I know he deserves to feel every bit as loved as I feel. My wonderful friends helped me to see that I was worthy of being loved, the emotional work I did in therapy and on my own helped me find the strength to love myself, and the love my husband so freely and abundantly gives to me has helped me to learn to give my love freely and abundantly to others in return.
Because of all of those things, I realized that maybe it was time to confront my fears surrounding becoming a parent. This was neither an easy nor a quick decision. I spent nearly two years in therapy confronting my past and working through my issues surrounding being a mother. It was intense and emotionally exhausting, but also liberating. I learned to let go of so much fear. I learned that I didn’t need to keep holding on to aspects of my old identity that no longer served me. I unlearned a lot of the negative beliefs I had internalized in my youth – that loving others was weak, that being a mother was “giving up” on a better life, that I’d always have to do everything on my own. Perhaps most importantly, when I really reflected on my deepest wants in life, I realized that the desire to be a parent had been there all along. It was there when I chose to be a mentor to children who had similar upbringings to mine. It was there when I cared for and nurtured the people in my life who were struggling. It was there in those daydreams when I let myself imagine my “perfect” life. I had just never been willing to allow myself to say it out loud. I was too scared of what it might mean to want to be a parent. When I finally let go of that fear, it was like a whole world opened up before me. I felt free and excited and ready for a new adventure, one that would last for the rest of my life.
So here I am. I’m embracing my life and stepping up to the challenges and adventures that lie ahead. I feel certain. This is my beautiful house. This is my beautiful life.
Eff That S! 