I don't know why it bothers me so much. Why it matters. *IT* of course being the notion of perimenopause, the notion of the polycystic ovarian syndrome, the notion of never having a choice in the matter of whether I would have had a flesh and blood family of my own. Adoption has been pooh-poohed by him. And the older I get, the less patience I have for things, the more I need to heal myself, and the more I am aware of how very little I have left to give a child... or anyone else. *IT* is all just so incredibly sad. So when one spiral happens, it unlocks that lock... and it all tumbles out, in an uncontrolled, never-ending, and never-comforted, deep seeded, primal wail, which eventually trails off to a noise that only dogs and aliens can decipher.
The rage over never having had a choice, and being oblivious of the point in my life when the option ceased being mine to make... *IF* it were ever mine to make in the first place.
Then the existentialist bullcrap kicks in over, who am I? Who am I supposed to be? If not a mother then who? What is the point of my existence? My purpose? Because at the moment, I vascillate between feeling like a life-support system for my cunt, and the rest of the time, I feel like a 260 pound shit, methane, and carbon dioxide making machine. Surely there is more to my existence than my carbon footprint, isn't there?
And here I sit, in a termite riddled wooden row boat, sans oars, adrift in a pea soup fog of sadness, tears, confusion, and very little else.
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