I’m kind of a weirdo.
Most people want kids. They want birthday parties for pint-sized humans. They want soccer game goals. They want to bathe this thing, this baby they created in a sink, for the first time.
And I get that, I do. Part of me wants those things too. It is part of being I woman, I believe – these maternal instincts. But what I think might be a good idea for me, is not a good idea for a child.
You see, this is how it would go. First of all, we would have to change my meds because many of them are harmful to a fetus. Well, changing, in fact, harms me because I will become unstable. Instability could lead to suicidal ideation and worse, acting on it. Then there are two of us at risk of losing our lives.
After the birth, I would be more likely than the average woman to suffer from post partum depression. How am I expected to take care of an infant when I am in a hole so dark I cannot see the light.
And, what kind of life, in general, can I offer another human being as I go through my episodes. How does a five year old understand that mommy is sick and had to go away for a while? How does a thirteen year old watch as her mother brings home man after man to eat breakfast with them and to never be seen again?
How is it fair to do that to a child?
And how is it fair to bring into this world someone else who could suffer like you do. They say bipolar disorder runs in families. What if I was the one to pass it on?
it is a very personal choice and I know many of you will disagree with me. But for me instead of having kids, I will live vicariously through photos on Facebook, stories from friends, and little ones I know.