Use Your Words

What. The Fuck. Do I want?

There's been alot of talk lately about 'putting it out into the universe'. I'm getting it from all sides. Put the idea, the desire, the hope, the wish, put it 'out there' and somehow, someway, that positive energy will manifest itself into actuality.

But in order for me to do any 'putting out' 'there' of 'it', I'd better first decide what 'it' is and maybe even where I'd like to put it.

I've been on this kick lately of saying 'if' about children instead of 'when', for instance. Correcting myself whenever the habitial 'when' would slip out, and promptly and firmly replacing it with the ambiguous, the evasive, the non-committal 'if'. Not the magic 'if' like in theatre, but the soul-crushing, hope-smothering, ice-water-dousing 'if'.

Because where once I'd felt so confident about the family we'd have, where once upon a time I'd been so damn convinced, I now feel as though I've been maybe jinxing it with all that optimistic certainty. I mean together 14 years or something with no offspring? Maybe it's time to start saying 'if' right? Because maybe, just maybe, this 'it' ain't gunna ever come to fruition. Maybe 'it' isn't in the fucking cards.

I guess people noticed the change. The change in my attitude. And far from thinking it was reasonable or prudent, they have been growing concerned. Where's that 'can do' spirit? Where's that little-engine-that-couldery? Where's the 'I think therefore I am going to be the mother of wonderful reardon-waite babies'???

Well folks, and well universe, I put that particular 'it' in a deep, dark, intensely private corner of my heart and locked it away. Then buried it below layers and layers of cold hard reason, beneath unyielding rationale, and sealed it up with the key labeled 'tempting fate'.

And then I mourned it. Grieved for it. Wept bitterly. Resented it. Asked 'Why God, why?!?!?!?!', and finally said good-bye to it.

But imagine if someone you loved died and you had to process it all alone because no one else even knew about it. Imagine going through the whole grieving and healing and accepting process while other people blindly prodded into the tender wound of it, cheerfully bandied it about like any other topic fit for conversation. Not their fault mind you, how could they know? But painful. And so much more difficult. And frustrating.

Imagine, too, that you carry a certain unshakeable guilt about this death because even though maybe the person was weak and ailing when they finally died, imagine that it was your decisions that finally killed them. Yeah, tough right? Imagine you pulled the plug or something.

And now imagine that your partner never got a say in it.

And that now he's ready to entertain, for real, the idea of having that loved one come live with you at long last. Meet this incredible person, finally! But it feels too late because you've already killed and buried them.

Yeah. It got weird, I know. apologies. But I'm just trying to give you some idea of what's been going on in my severely riddled psyche.

And Aaron's telling me to stop insulating myself from the possibility of failing to have children. He's telling me to openly want children, if I want children. To go balls to the wall and 'put it out there' out in the universe that I want kids, and not worry about whether or not we actually will. He says that if I 'put it out there' that I am ambivalent about it or even that I don't want kids, then that is how the universe will respond. So go ahead and want kids, if I want kids. "If you don't really want kids, well, then, that's a different conversation."

So do I really want kids?

I don't know anymore. I think I've muddied the waters by all my fretful thrashing about. I feel a bit like a tightly wound new england sea captain's wife, doomed to pacing up and down the widow's walk, looking out to sea, knowing the hope I bear is more than likely a fool's errand, but unable to completely abandon it and move on; never able to heal, never able to fully grieve, never able to trust the hope and faith and possibility that things will work out for the best. I'm on the widow's walk of my biological clock or something. This is feeling like some dali painting or artaud film. Fucked and full of horrid imagery.

Too, there's this issue of sacrifice. If I am onehundredpercent sure that we're going to start a family in the next 2-4 years then it is time to buckle down and sacrifice and do the awful sould-sucking things one has to do to scrimp and prepare and save and plan for baby. But if I'm not sure? If there's no reward at the end of the bleakest tunnel I could imagine? Well, then, fuck that shit, you know? I almost wish I could 'just say no' to the idea of babies and finally relax and enjoy this time of my life. But everything feels like a trade-off at this point. Well, you can do this thing that makes you happy, but it might cost you a year or two in the baby department. Or, oh, you want to explore other career options after all this time? Go ahead, but throw another rose on that grave you're digging for 'potential offspring'.

So what, i repeat, the fuck, I emphasize, do I really want?

Because whatever it is, the new year is fast approaching and I'd like to take some initiative here. I want to take the proverbial bull by the horns and start focusing, with single-minded determination, on putting 'it' out there, or more proactively working for 'it'.

Do I want to publish a fiction book? Do I want to be a drama teacher at a high school somewhere? Would I rather be an english teacher? Would I rather not teach again, but find some high-paying alternative (hah. the impossible dream.)? Do I want a house? Do I want to move far away? Do I want a doctorate? Do I want a baby? A Family?

Sadly, all I can think right now is I want a break. A vacation. A chance to get healthy and whole and relaxed. Because it is almost friday, I go back to work in just a few too-short days, and this has not felt like a vacation at all. I'm tired and stressed and feel like throwing myself on the floor, pounding my fists and kicking my feet, and sobbing until someone finally gives in and gives me what I want--whatever that may be. Think the universe responds to full-throated two-year-old tactics? Or does it, like a patient parent, want me to 'talk to me in a reasonable volume and use your words'?