Truth be told, I’m a mess.
I had a dream the other night, there was a beautiful baby laying in my chest. I could feel someone stroking my hair and admiring what I assumed was our child. I closed my eyes and fell asleep. I felt such a peace wash over me. Then, I woke up. I woke up because my husband was stroking my hair and I looked down at my chest and there was no child lying there. I started to cry and he asked if I had a nightmare, “of sorts” ; I replied and laid my head back on the pillow. Then, I woke up a second time to realize that I was actually alone.
I’m still alone.
I’ve wanted kids since I was eight or nine years old. I started taking notes on what I liked and disliked about the way my parents raised me for my potential children. I’ve been writing them letters since I was in college, just in case I pass away before I get to talk with them about teen stuff. I’ve always wanted to adopt or start an orphanage. I’ve always wanted kids to know that they had someone who wanted them.
Instead of working on that, I find myself wrapped up in something that’s holding me away from those dreams. Something, someone is making me not want to make that commitment. I start hoping that I am not pregnant again, because being pregnant means I must fully commit for life. There can be no exit strategy. There will be no more wondering.
Yeah, I took a break and I started to feel that I really do want my dreams. That I don’t want to give them up. But now that break is over and I’m just not sure again. What if I want a new life? Children aren’t compatible to dropping everything and starting over.
At least I get to drink once a month. Every time I get my period, rather than moping, I buy some really nice drinks and have a ball. This week it’s gin and juice. It’s very yummy. A small consolation to knowing I don’t have something I only think I want anymore.