So over the weekend I told my mother.
She is coming for a visit next week, and I just don’t think I could have pretended that nothing was wrong. I told her everything: the depression, the therapy, the reasons why (it’s still hard to type…in-fer-til-i-ty…).
Now she knows I’m broken.
It’s so hard to write these things–on the one hand I want to be accurate about how I’m feeling, but on the other hand there’s that voice inside my head that keeps saying “don’t be a drama queen.” “There’s nothing really wrong in your life.” “Be grateful for what you have.” So I just don’t know what to say.
And I am grateful. I’m grateful for my wonderful husband, for the relatively privileged start I got in life, for my education and my awesome apartment and my loving family.
And then I start to think–maybe this is the way it’s meant to be. Maybe there’s something so wrong with me that it’s better I don’t ever have children. Like when my pregnant sister-in-law said it was a good thing I don’t have kids yet (she thinks we don’t have enough money). Or maybe I would just fail at motherhood, like I’ve failed and am continuing to fail at conception.
And then I get to this place: who am I to think that I deserve to be a mother?
This is well-trodden ground, a path I’ve walked around and around, and I think I may have made it worse by telling my mother. I don’t want her to worry. I don’t want her to be disappointed in me and the continuing lack of grandchildren. I think I should have kept it to myself a while longer.