The Hardest Phrase I Have Ever Uttered

I am sitting in my car. My phone is charging. It is raining, and I am doing my best to type this post. The words refuse to come to express the emotions I am feeling. Mid-life crisis sounds too cliche. Anxiety, depression, borderline personality disorder: they all sound irrelevant as I work so hard to combat them every single day. No, this is deeper yet more surface. It is dashed dreams, broken promises, and a grief I never knew I could feel. It is a battle for acceptance of a situation that I am uncertain I can win. It is trying my best to believe God’s plan for me is exactly what He wants and knowing that it is so far removed from what I ever wanted that I have no idea what my life will be. 

I will never have children. 

There. I said it. Again. However, this time I am saying it to more than just my closest friends and confidantes. I am saying it to more than God. I am attempting to own it the same way I owned my BPD in the beginning... by acknowledging it out loud. 

It hurts to say it, and I fear this post may hurt others in a way. I have children. I have 4 theatre children that make me the happiest, most frustrated theatre mom there ever was. I love them intensely and unconditionally. I would do anything in my power to ensure their happiness and health in this life. I annoy them. I am overprotective of them. They more than likely hate me for it, but they allow it because they know I love them. They allow it because it makes me happy and fills a small section of this void in my life. If any of you are reading this, please know that my sadness right now has nothing to do with you. It has to do with the grief I feel over the loss of the life I always thought I would have. 

I always wanted children. I always wanted a husband and kids and a dog and a fenced in yard. I wanted all of those things. In my 20s, I started to realize that would never happen for me so I started saying that I hated kids, that I did not want them. It was a lie I told myself because, at the time, it made me feel better. Now, that lie hurts me in ways I never knew it would. Let’s call that unhealthy coping mechanism number one.  

Unhealthy coping mechanism number two has been in full force. See, there was this guy. Love of my life. If I am being completely honest, I am over him. I have been for years. My friends don’t know that. They think I am still hung up on him. Why? Because anytime I get sad, I use him as an excuse. I filter that sadness through the “I miss ______” dialogue I grew accustomed to using. The truth is that it is easier to “miss him” than it is to face a new type of sadness. I know what missing him entails. I know what it means. I know how to survive it. This? This is new. A different kind of hurt. A different kind of pain. This pain has swallowed me whole. 

So, where do I go from here? I am not sure. I keep living. I keep loving my theatre children, but this post allows me to be a bit more open, honest, and real with them. A friend told me recently that my kids are strong and can handle the truth of my sadness... that what they won’t tolerate is the lies. So, there’s the truth. I’m sad because I will never have children outside of my adopted theatre kids... not because of ______. I know it sounds like something stupid to be sad over, but there it is. When I talk about him, know that I am trying to say something else but the words are too painful to speak. 

I will never have children. 

The hardest phrase I have ever uttered.