For the past three nights I have found myself on my knees praying to the porcelain gods. My morning sickness is in full swing, and though it is far from glamorous when occurring, I am almost elated to have it at all. This makes the pregnancy all the more real, makes the likelihood that I shall finally, at long last, carry to term all the more real. However, I cannot help but wonder what causes these bouts of regurgitation.
At first I thought it was the mild lactose intolerance that I have had my whole life, but then last night I lost some rice and vermicelli with beef that had no dairy in it at all what-so-ever. Tonight, after puking up two roast beef sandwiches and half a bowl of Nachos Supreme, I realized the link between all of my puking days. I had been upset. Stress, of course, can cause a not pregnant person to vomit, but a pregnant woman predisposed to this symptom and then stressed out is VERY likely to vomit, and so I have.
I do not know why it is called morning sickness anyway, as it happens any random time of day. For me, it is actually mourning sickness. I am mourning the loss of my archetypal image of what a family should be. I always envisioned myself walking down the aisle in a pretty white dress, saying, “I do,” and spending a honeymoon in some fancy hotel making babies come true. I always imagined growing old with that same individual.
As a child, I could never see a face in these dreams. Wake or sleep, I would randomly have them, but never with a face. I could see my whole life in these dreams, but I could never see with whom I was living them. Then in two-thousand-three, I met the man I have come to love with all of my being. Now when I have those dreams, I see his face. Every other boyfriend I have ever had, even after meeting him, has never appeared in my dreams, unless in the form of an antagonist.
Boyfriend is the one waiting for me at the alter; boyfriend is the one making love to me all through the night; boyfriend is the one helping me raise our children, and boyfriend is the one growing old with me on a southern porch swing, but alas, my childe, these are but dreams, figments of mine imagination, for boyfriend is the one who has decided that at this point in his life, he has no use for settling down and being the master of the house.
He wants to be young and free, and he and I irresponsibly chose to make love or fuck or screw or bang or diddle or whatever you may call it without such things as condoms and birth control pills. Do not get me wrong, I am quite happy to have this childe growing inside me. I am quite happy to be the mother I have always wanted to be. I am not, however, even remotely excited about the prospect of doing it alone.
He wanted to be single and free prior to conceiving this childe, and neither of us thought about the consequences and we went to bed time after time without ‘wrapping it up.’ I disillusioned myself into thinking that since I had been having sex since the age of fourteen, mostly without a condom, and had only conceived twice, both ending in miscarriage, that there was hardly a chance that I could have a baby with boyfriend.
He and I had three-and-one-half years, on and off, and in that time I had conceived once with him, and once with another boyfriend during a break period of ours. But this time is different. This time I am going to carry to term. Funny how the times that he and I lived together, had been planning our wedding, during none of those times did a baby try to come along. Both of our conceptions have occurred when he and I were not living together.
This conception occurred when he and I are not even technically a couple. I fear what this might mean to our unborn childe. Will he/she have to grow up without a father? Or will he/she have him on weekends and some holidays? I do not know what to do, and I am frightened to say the least, but I love boyfriend so much, and have faith in him as a man, and know that deep down inside he would never even dream of abandoning his children, so where does that leave us?
I know that though he has hurt me so much over these years, I too have hurt him. We take turns abusing each other emotionally; it is a thing we have…When I go to bed with him, sometimes I do not enjoy it at all, sometimes I am three years old again with my father having his way with me, sometimes I am five or six or seven or eight or nine or ten or eleven or twelve with my stepbrother having his way with me, sometimes I am any random age with any random jackass who has taken advantage of my body in some way.
I cannot get these things out of my head; I find it hard to resolve these issues, and sometimes when he is telling me all these pretty words about love and happily ever after, I find myself any random age with any random man (or even a woman) making promises they will never keep, telling stories that will never come true. I have done the worst possible thing a victim can do; I have become what has happened to me, and how do I take it all back?
How do I become the woman I need to be in order to show him that I am not going to push him away any more? How can I become the mother who will love her children and nurture them without pain? How can heal myself and learn to love myself so that I do not need boyfriend to compensate for my shortcomings, to love me for the both of us? Why am I the way I am? Why am I not free of the chains of my past?
Why are the physical scars I have inflicted upon myself far less vivid and noticeable than the emotional scars that a lifetime of let-downs and heartaches have left behind? Why can I not get over these things? Why can I not stop worrying?
Jewel–If I could tell the world just one thing it would be that we’re all ok, and not to worry, because worry is wasteful and useless in times like these. I will not be made useless. I won’t be idled with despair. I will gather myself around my faith, for light does the darkness most fear. My hands are small, I know, but they’re not yours, they are my own, but they’re not yours, they are my own, and I am never broken.