A Mother, a Soliloquy

The best compliment I have ever received is, “You’re going to be a wonderful mother one day.” I adore the idea of having children, treating them with love and kindness, nurturing and caring for them even when it’s hard. I daydream of dancing, playing, laughing, crying, and everything in between. In the very midst of this daydream, it crumbles. How could I possibly gift my children their own version of the hell I can never escape? I have no right to bring a human being into this world, simply to trap them in their own mind. The worst part of all of it, what truly hurts most, is that it’s personalized. Day after day, my brain attacks me, pointing out my flaws and insecurities, pouring salt in my wounds, and twisting the knives that are stuck in my throat, stomach, and back. My only hope is to be good enough to help them cope with their nightmares, all while struggling with my own. My mother is kind and sweet, with a heart of solid gold. I wonder how I could possibly compare, she helps me through my hell, but not while struggling through her own. Of course she has struggles, she has persevered through so much, but her mind is not her enemy. She is not overwhelmed by internal hatred, tearing at her hope and joy with every cut and scrape. If I myself am corrupt, how can I expect to provide my children the life they deserve? To live a life of simple, neurotypical bliss, without the confusion and suffering of a cage that you have built yourself. I used to love being different, and I still do, but this world is not built to allow the bold and unique thrive. This world has been built for those who can fall in line, who can blend in and bite their tongues. How I wish for a life where I can stay silent, but I simply can’t. I was born and built to fight, to sing, to be loud, to cause trouble. My children will be blessed with being different from their peers, but this world has made it into a curse. Those who dare to be different are scorned, not simply for being different, but for somehow doing it wrong. You have to be unique, but only in the way everyone else wants. I couldn’t bear to watch my children be outcasts, I couldn’t bear to bring them into this world of hatred. Although I long to be a mother, even though I dream of building a family, deep down I know that I am my own curse.