My sister is being induced sometime this evening. She’s a week late with my nephew, and so by tomorrow morning, the doctor thinks she’ll be ready to deliver.
One might think I would be excited, but then that person wouldn’t know me very well. I’m a huge mass of anxiety and depression, wanting but not wanting to meet him when he gets here. Knowing that his very existence could make my kid obsession a whole lot worse.
Wanting to vow to never see him. But I’m not a cold, callous person. Of the three kids in the family, I have a timeline, six hundred something days now, and of course surrogates don’t grow on trees, so I am most likely never going to be a mother. Because I won’t bring another person into this world, knowing very well that they would most likely be at least partly as sad as I am. My therapist calls this choice not to procreate selflessness. I call it cowardice.
We don’t agree but it doesn’t matter. The night is very long already and there is nothing to fill my time with. There will be no sleeping tonight, I smoked but not enough to take an edge off because I am committed to my bed, my room ice cold, allowing me to cower under the covers like the coward I am. I am responsible for my own pain, this lack of having a child.
Way to fucking go kid. You have to ruin everything. 9 months and maybe then you’d stop complaining. But no, I have to be me. All the fucking time.