I don’t want kids.
Because that’s easier to tell people than to explain that I’m scared of passing on my mental illness to my children. That I don’t want them to have to suffer like I do. That I don’t want them to have to go through what I’ve gone through. That the feeling never goes away, it’s always there. No matter what. No matter how much therapy, no matter what coping skills you learn. No matter what concoction of pills the doctors place you on. It just masks it. It’s something I wouldn’t wish on someone I hate. So why would I wish it on someone that I love? Someone that I’m supposed to protect?
I don’t want kids.
Because it’s easier than explaining that both times I’ve been pregnant my body failed to do what it was supposed to do. That they both ended in miscarriages. It’s one of the worst feelings knowing that the life inside of you is gone. If I can’t even protect you in the womb, how am I supposed to protect you outside it?
I don’t want kids.
Because it’s easier than explaining that the universe isn’t fair. That life isn’t fair. That the choice was stolen away from me long ago by the hand of cards I was dealt. That seeing everyone around you have children and be happy and content stabs you deep down. But you continue to smile through the pain and never let them know that it hurts you. Each moment is bittersweet. You get to see them announce their pregnancies, and gender reveals. See the child be born and start to grow. And that is something you’ll never have happen. You’ll never have that experience.
I don’t want kids.
