I wish I was the same person I was years ago who still wanted children, the person I was before I got ill and didn’t get better.
I wish this hadn’t made me uncaring.
I wish pain hadn’t made me mean.
I wish this had extended my patience with people, not burned it to a crisp.
I wish I still actually wanted to have my own kids and bring them up to be cool adults that I’d want to be around.
But I don’t.
A few times a week with children for only an hour or two is all I can tolerate. I don’t want my own kids anymore. It wouldn’t be kind to them to have a grumpy, short-tempered mother.
Chronic illness just takes and takes and takes.













