Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS WRITER.
I never wanted kids. I told my mum and anyone who would listen that there was no way in hell I was ever procreating. Never. Ever. The world was too fucked and under no circumstances would I voluntarily bring another living, breathing human being into this world.
Then, Saturn return hits. Or that’s what mum says. Time to grow up. Stop faffing around. Be a grown up. Late 20s. That’s when it hits you – apparently. Or maybe it’s my biological clock ticking away. Tick. Tock. 28. Fucking Saturn and fucking biology. They have a lot to answer for.
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What the fuck was I thinking. It was all just some bullshit, delusional quest. A quest to … what? Raise my kids in an intact family? What the fuck even is that? An intact family. Whole. Better. Is it better? When does it stop being better? When I’m a shell of a person because I’m forcing myself to co-habit with someone I can’t stand? Year after bloody year? But how’s that different to loads of other couples? Does it stop being better when all too regularly I find myself snapping at the kids because I’m really bloody angry with him? So much anger. It comes and goes. But it’s always there, just below the surface waiting to rear it’s god-awful head. So much pushing down. Down. Down. Down. Stay down. Letting go. There’s plenty of that too. Letting go of dreams. Of hopes. Dreams and hopes. Dreams of living a rich and full life brimming with love. Love beyond that of a parent and child. Love shared with someone there’s a deep and enduring and intimate connection with. A romantic and fanciful notion? Who the fuck knows. All I know is that I want with all my being to demonstrate to my kids – and to me – that this is possible. So what the hell am I doing here? Treading water. Day after day. Some days not treading, but drifting down. Down. Down. Down. Immersing my two little people in a world of seething anger. Never-ending undercurrents of frustration and despair. For what? Because I’m too stubborn to admit defeat? I don’t think it’s that. It’s lots of things, some of which is certainly based in stubbornness. But it’s this absolute commitment to never asking of my kids what I would not be prepared to do myself. It stops me from taking that step – that dreaded step. I know I would hate living in two homes. I love home. My home. My bed. My pillow. My books. My desk. Who wants to live a schizophrenic life of two homes. Two beds. Two toothbrushes. I sure as fuck don’t. And I’m pretty damn sure they wouldn’t want to either. I mean, how does that even work? How do you get a rhythm in life. A sense of continuity. Stability. Flow.