When you blame your child for your mental state, it’s really
hard to talk about parenthood.
I know that my son is not at fault for the change in my hormones,
my lack of interest in anything, my inability to concentrate, my lack of
appetite, or my feelings of worthlessness. Those are all just symptoms of a
much bigger issue that was triggered by pregnancy, not by the human that was
created.
However, that still doesn’t stop the demons in my head
telling me that if I had never been pregnant or had a baby, then I wouldn’t be
so messed up. It doesn’t stop me from
hating myself for getting pregnant in the first place and hating my body for
being so functionally feminine.
But you know what it does, it makes it really hard for me to
really bond with my son. Sure, I play with him, feed him, sing him silly songs,
read him stories- but I’d do that with any child. It’s the lack of concern I
feel when I’m far away from him. It’s the frustration that I am just “the
bringer of food” (since I don’t breastfeed anymore) to him. It’s the thought
that if I had the option to just leave him and all his stuff on someone’s
doorstep without any consequences, I totally would.
When I was asked by my doctor if I could take something off
my plate, what would it be?
My answer was Motherhood.
I am not the individual that at
the end of the day just knows without a doubt that they love their
child/children. I am not the woman who thinks that my child “is my whole world”
and “couldn’t think of what I’d ever do without him”. Trust me. I can totally
think of all the things I would be doing without my son. And I am still convinced
that I would be a lot healthier and happier if he didn’t exist.
And so I sit here. And I be the “best”
parent I can be with the way my brain allows me to function right now. I take it
one day at a time and lately one hour at a time. Because it wouldn’t be
socially acceptable for me to leave him on a doorstep and just walk away. Because
my family would probably hate me if one day my son was no longer there for them
to coo at and play with. Because the world keeps reminding me that my son is
supposed to be my “calling”, “blessing”, or “greatest joy that life can bring”
(I hate all of those “inspirational” posts. They just make me angry). I won’t
even go into the expectations of giving my son siblings (which if you’re going
to poke your nose, the answer is: I didn’t know my sex life was any of your
business.)
So what is parenthood like when you can’t bring
yourself to love your child? The demons in my head tell me that loving my child
is admitting that I like being miserable. By loving my child I accept that my
only role in life is being a successful statistic of female reproduction.
What parenthood looks like on the
outside is just doing the basics- feed, change, put down for a nap, and repeat.
On good days, there may be some songs and reading time. But on average he gets
the basics and plays in his walker because I haven’t had the energy to baby
proof the apartment. Perhaps one day we’ll have a good relationship. Until
then, I do what I can so we both survive.
The hardest part is asking for
help, because someone may have offered on a good mental day for me, but on the bad
days, I just feel guilty- because the weight of responsibility is on my
shoulders and I should be better than this. It’s hard asking for help because I
don’t want to be so dependent on others that they feel like I take advantage of
them. It’s hard because I don’t need people judging how bad of a mom I am,
because I am already well aware of that, thank you. It’s so much easier to just
let my son sit and scream in the other room (when he’s inconsolable after a
changing, feeding, cuddling, and pain meds if he’s teething) while I blast my favorite
music on headphones.
Perhaps one day we’ll have a good
relationship. Until then, I do what I can so we both survive.
