When I was a little girl I had a baby doll so realistic the neighbours thought they’d missed an arrival. Dad bought me cars and taught me how to fix things in the garage but the programming had already begun.
I just expected to be a mum one day. I had a marrow deep certainty. That’s what girls do. You know, have babies. Become mums. Mum, mother, mummy, mama, ma, mom, mere, that’s the goal for the girl with the hole.
Not having fulfilled life’s expectation haunts me. Follows me around like an evil entity taking my energy, my self esteem, my self worth, taking my fucking happiness!
Physically my body was up for kids you know. It tried once without me knowing but something went bang (I went bang) and it was just me again. It tried again a few years later but my head went bang and health and finances won over life. Back to just me I ran.
I’d run back to the clinic if I could. All melting make up and sorry, I didn’t mean it. Please take me back. I’ll be a good mummy I promise.
Too little too late isn’t it?!
I killed my baby and now the man I’m with doesn’t want a child. He already has one!
Guess I need to talk about it…