No, Thank God

 Today I said "No, thank god," when asked if I had kids. I didn't even think about it. It just popped out of my mouth.

A week after a long session with my therapist talking about if I want kids or not. 

Talking in circles about life choices and regret. 

I still don't know how I feel about becoming a mother. 

And today as I was washing my face and thinking about all the ways I've grown and learned this year and all the years before, I thought, 

"I'm so glad I'm not a mom right now."

And that was it. 

That's how I feel right now. 

That doesn't mean the feeling won't change. But I'm still growing into myself. I'm still learning new things. I'm still experimenting. I'm not ready to give all that up to be a Mom, but I also need to get over my desire to lockdown an answer. 

Life is ambiguous. 

I'm trying to put this decision up on a shelf and out of my head for a few years. I'm not ready yet. Maybe I'll never be ready. Maybe it's okay to not know and just keep living my life. 

In my very early twenties, I posted something about your twenties being your selfish years. I'm so thankful for these years of growth and development for myself. Only in a world in which we villanize a woman who chooses herself over the "selflessness" of motherhood would call those years selfish. 

I can't imagine giving up how much I've changed in order to be a mother. Maybe the woman I'll be in ten years will feel the exact same way. Maybe she will be so thankful and amazed at the extra ten years of growth and development she got all because I decided not to become a mother at this point in time. When I wasn't ready.

Saying not now isn't saying not ever. I don't have the same peace of mind or clarity about motherhood as most other women around me, whether for or against. 

I have a vague sense of maybeness that is quilted in not now, not yet, I'm not done figuring out me yet.

I went to Therapy

 I'd been thinking about it for a while.

All the small issues that had been piling up over the years, all the little things that seemed to circulate in my head over and over again, and the beliefs and issues that hadn't worked themselves out.

I'm fine, I told myself, constantly. This is fine. Your life is good. Be thankful for your life. 

And I am thankful for my life. And I am also unhappy with many aspects of it. It was time to reach out. So I finally found someone that I thought might work for me. I emailed, set up an appointment, signed a counseling agreement, and then spent a week talking myself out of and back into going.

How dare you complain about your life? Who are you to take the time to complain about your privileged issues? Those questions plagued me all week. But I decided to just suck it up and go. The fact that I made the appointment was a good enough sign that I needed it.

I had never been in therapy before. I had never sat and talked about intimate details of my life and how I feel about it with a stranger. Those thoughts were regulated to my husband and best friend. I didn't think I would be able to open up about my struggles.

But then after some small chit chat, she just stared at me. Waiting for me to open up. So I did. I opened up so much more than I thought I would. 

I cried. Of course. Can I get through tough conversations without crying? Throughout my entire session, my voice was in that whiny snivelly state it gets in when you're on the edge of crying. I had a tissue in my hand that dabbed at my eyes every few minutes. I talked with my hands. 

It felt a bit like a weight had been lifted off of me and at the same time, I felt drained and emotional. 

Life in the military community has been incredibly hard on me. It's hit my self-esteem, my desire for control and stability, and my ability to form deep attachments. It has really done a number on me. And year after year, I just keep telling myself that it will get better. And it does, but not because the situation is better, but because I become more resilient. 

Something she said that stuck with me was, 

"Are  you really okay, or are you just really good at coping?"

Am I okay, or am I just really good at coping? Am I okay, or am I just really good at coping?

I think I've come to the point where I've just managed to push down and ignore so many of my own issues that I'm coping at a surface level. I'm just coping. And I want to be truly okay.

Motherhood or Otherhood

I've spent the last five years dodging questions about babies or telling people outright that I don't want motherhood, to please stop harassing me about choosing that life. That I absolutely 100% do not want to be a mother.

I even wrote a post on this blog about being childfree by choice. I pointed out the many talking points about not asking women about having children. Which are all true. You shouldn't ask questions about motherhood unprompted. It's rude and presumptuous.

I tell people I don't want to have children because it makes it easier. It makes it easier to just let them think that the decision has been made so that they leave me alone about it. So that I don't get this external pressure from family (or less of it) and I can figure out what I want on my own. 

But, honestly, not having external pressure hasn't helped. I am still so confused about choosing motherhood. 

I sit directly on the fence between motherhood and otherhood, seeing the realities of both choices.

A choice that can't be taken back once chosen. This decision creates a fork in your life like no other. You have to choose one.

I have these conversations with friends but most of them have adamantly and whole-heartedly chosen to be childfree. They don't feel the conflict that I feel. Does that mean that I want to have a baby if I can't one hundred percent commit to being childfree? If I'm afraid of regrets or if I sometimes feel pulled that way...

I see the childfree life with my husband. Money, travels, free time, less fighting, less hard decisions, less worrying, our dream home... I see a very full life that I think I could be happy with. I'm mostly happy with my childfree life now... Why can't that continue?

But then I see a parent with their child and I see the joy, the love, the experience of nurturing someone into their best self. I think of the bonding experience of creating a little person with the person you love. I think about the relationship that I will have with my child that will be unlike my relationship with anyone else. I also see the guilt, the messy houses, the worry, fear, financial strain, sleepless nights, having to choose someone else over yourself constantly.

I'm at that age where I'm standing at that fork in my life. I'm paralyzed by fear and indecision. What if I make the wrong decision? What if I'm hopelessly unhappy once I've made it?

All the women in my family were mothers by the time they were my age. Most of them much earlier.

I don't have a grown role model who chose a childfree life. Who lived their life on their terms and didn't regret it. 

I try to give myself little scenario exercises to see how I feel.

I recently had a bit of a scare and when I saw that negative test, I felt just as relieved as I was sad.

How can that be? How can I feel equally sad and relieved? 

I ask myself if I would go through infertility treatments if I couldn't conceive naturally... I don't think I would. Does that mean that I don't really want motherhood?

I ask myself if I would leave my husband if I wanted one and he didn't and neither of us was willing to budge. I don't think I would. Does that mean that I don't really want motherhood?

Sometimes I think about just leaving it to chance. If it happens, then it happens and if it doesn't, it doesn't. But I hate not making an intentional decision about such a big life-altering choice. I know a lot of people have children this way. I just don't think it's what I want.

I am still sitting on this fence, looking both ways, and feeling the weight of both choices, with no clue as to what I actually want. 

I think there will be regrets either way. I think if I choose childfree then I'll always think of the child that could have been. I think that if I choose motherhood then I will always think of the ease and joys of my life before becoming a mother.

I guess the question really is, which choice will I regret more?

That Small-Town Feeling

I went on a bit of a rant this week on social media. Not an angry yelling kind of rant.

Just a rant.

Because I got a glimpse into my hometown. I got on Facebook for the first time in ages. Why? I always regret it.

I couldn't exactly tell you why I regretted it before. I just knew it left me with a gross sinking pit in my stomach. What was that feeling? Why did Facebook bring it up?

That feeling is shame. Shame and anger wrapped up with a sense of longing. Longing for a time when I felt connected with my community and my family.

I don't anymore. 

My Facebook is my hometown. It's full of family members, schoolmates, people from church and work that I used to feel close to.

It's a reminder of what most of them are thinking. What they think about politics, god, and people like me.

Atheist.

Feminist.

Liberal.

It's not just Facebook. It's being told that I'm everything that is wrong with our country by my own grandfather. It's being judged and treated differently when you politely decline invitations to church or bring up Black History and Women's History months. It's people talking about people of color in derogatory ways and expecting that you believe the same things they do. It's listening to people blame the working poor or the people on welfare for our country's economic issues instead of the billionaires and corporations that don't pay taxes. It's hearing people who call themselves godly revere Trump when he calls Mexicans rapists, puts children in cages, sexually assaults women, and does nothing but lie. It's hearing people who call themselves godly demean people of color, women, and the poor instead of doing what their Jesus would do. It's having to call my own family out for all the sexist and racist things that they say. And feeling like it isn't doing any good. 

I have become an outsider. I used to be the good, quiet, non-political, religious girl that they could be proud of. 

But I'm not anymore. 

I don't feel connected to my hometown. I don't feel connected to many of the people there, including my own family. It's like my roots have been pulled up from under me and shaken over my head. Where do you belong? Where will you end up? Who will love you for who you truly are?

I've outgrown that area. I can't make myself fit there like a jagged puzzle piece. Cutting out pieces of myself to fit. 

I want to feel connected with people who see the world I do. People who believe in social justice and empathy. People who don't have their noses pressed so far up White Jesus's ass that they can't see that they are nothing like the real Jesus. People who choose the good of society over the rights of the individual. 

I think that our families expect that we'll end up back home when Brandon retires. That's such a long way off that I can't make guarantees or plans. But I do know that the small-town I grew up in doesn't fit me anymore. And I'm not sure I want it to.