For most of my life, I assumed I would have children and that I wanted to have children. As you might know from reading some of my earliest posts, having kids wasn’t easy for us. We fought for it and paid for it, though not as much as some.
Now that they are here, however, sometimes I wonder: was I wrong? Was it ever really me who wanted this? or was it the society around me that gave me baby dolls as first toys and told me what I good mommy I would be when I grew up?
I love my children with the fire of a thousand suns and if you even thought about hurting them I would kill you, without a second thought.
But there are days, many days, when I wonder if this was the path I was meant to take.
I don’t seem particularly suited to motherhood. I have OCD, anxiety and depression. Somedays it’s all I can do to take care of myself. Having three small children to care for often pushes me to the edge of my meds and into the realm of self-medicating, which I know is stupid and dangerous, but also sometimes feels like they only way I might make it through the day without killing myself or running away.
On the other hand, I cannot imagine my life without my husband and children. I mean, I can, in a very superficial, I would live in a tiny, very clean apartment alone with my books sort of way. But I can’t imagine a real, full life without them.
My husband and I have been together nearly 15 years. We have a three year old and twin six month olds. We have a very full life. Sometimes too full for my anxiety-ridden heart and mind to take, but I’m doing my best to figure that out. I’m trying to get better, and to not miss out on all the good stuff going on around me in the meantime.
My life feels like a giant pendulum right now. And I swing from side to side more often than I’d care to admit. Some days are good, some days are terribly, shamefully bad.
And so I wonder, maybe I was meant for something else. Maybe I took a wrong step years ago and just kept going until it was too late to see where I went wrong.
It’s been awhile since I’ve felt this way. I think it’s the babies and all of the related pressure and stress every.single.day. At least this time.
It seems cyclical; every five to seven years or so I have a small breakdown and question my entire existence. I guess I can live with that; at least I know what to expect and that it will pass, eventually.