The other night I had a dream that I was pregnant. We were so happy, so uncontrollably excited. We had just found out and had gathered my family to share the news. I can still feel the nerves and joy fighting in my stomach. I woke up and disappointment flooded me; it’s still lingering. The next day I started my period. It felt like a defeat, expected but crushing nonetheless.
I know that if I was pregnant, part of me would be ecstatic, but I’d mostly be freaking out. Money, space, time, money, money, money – all of the usual practicalities of expanding a family. But there’s also the boys to worry about, how would they react, adapt. And me. I have some health issues, both physically and mentally. I’d probably have to go off of several of my medications. I can’t imagine that would end well for anyone. My biggest (to this date irrational) fear is post-partum psychosis – that step past depression that ends with something very very very bad happening. It’s terrifying to know you have that potential locked in your mind.
I get asked if we’re planning on having a baby at some point. I never know how to answer. I say no because it’s easier. The long answer is: I probably can’t, at least without medical intervention of some sort. That was a horrible thing to hear from a doctor years ago, when I knew I didn’t want children. Now? It rolls around my mind continually. And I can’t take birth control. We’ve lived together for a year, not trying, but not not trying and it hasn’t happened, so I’ve dropped that “probably.” It makes every period a reminder that I’m broken in some way, which is a whole other bag of crazy that doesn’t need to be opened right now.