WhitneyTo Be or Not To Be a Mother - Part Three
January 18th 2007 17:16
I know I’m not supposed to feel this way. I know I wasn’t supposed to say such things. But the truth was that I hated motherhood. It’s not that I hated my children. I didn’t. I even thought I loved them. But then again did I really love them? I was so numb all the time I couldn’t know for sure. What I did know was that I hated getting up in the morning. The only part of the day that I looked forward to was going to sleep.
I was a bad person for feeling the way I did. I knew I was bad based upon everything I’d heard. Mothers loved being mothers. Every mother you asked said so. Every advertisement told you as much. Every story on T.V., in the movies, in the news showed you a good person/good mother/woman who loved being a mother (happy, well-liked, good neighbor, lots of friends, volunteer, religious, etc.) vs. bad person/bad mother/hating being a mother (miserable, drug addict, alcoholic, criminal, abuser, etc.) and now I belonged to the latter category.
I was afraid to say anything to anyone. I didn’t want them to know that I was a horrible human being. What kind of monster didn’t want to be a mother to their children? As far as I knew, only the selfish, self-absorbed loser kind. So I kept on trying. I did everything I knew I was supposed to, so no one would ever find out the truth.
And I guess I must have been pretty good at it because one day when I couldn’t take it anymore, after I’d put the kids to bed and my husband came home from work and we had finished our dinner, I broke down and cried.
“I hate being a mother,” I cried, hoping the man I’d been friends with for most of the last thirteen years would already know me well enough to give me the benefit of the doubt. To know that I wasn’t really a bad person. Just a sad person.
“I hate being a mother, “I cried hoping that he would ask me why, but all he did was scream back in that loud, scary, ready to punch a wall-in tone, “no you don’t. You’re making that up. I see with you the kids. I see how much you do for them and how good you care for them. You don’t hate motherhood.”
And then he stood glaring at me while I shook from my head to my toes. I waited for him to hit me, knowing that I probably deserved it for the way I was feeling. But he didn’t (you should know that even though he would scare me with his temper he never once hit me). I cried some more, because I was afraid to say some more and he took that as a sign of my agreeing with him (I knew he thought this, but I was afraid of him) and he hugged me.
I hated him. Hated him for not believing me. It had been really hard to say aloud what I felt. Why would I say something so awful if I didn’t mean it? And he knew me. He’d known me since high school. He’d been my friend them. Why couldn’t he be my friend now? Of course back then I was never afraid of him. I didn’t remember his temper being so hot or scary ( to me). Whatever, it didn’t matter. I let him kiss and hug me (because then his anger subsided) and then I went to sleep. If only I could do that all the time.
I was a bad person for feeling the way I did. I knew I was bad based upon everything I’d heard. Mothers loved being mothers. Every mother you asked said so. Every advertisement told you as much. Every story on T.V., in the movies, in the news showed you a good person/good mother/woman who loved being a mother (happy, well-liked, good neighbor, lots of friends, volunteer, religious, etc.) vs. bad person/bad mother/hating being a mother (miserable, drug addict, alcoholic, criminal, abuser, etc.) and now I belonged to the latter category.
I was afraid to say anything to anyone. I didn’t want them to know that I was a horrible human being. What kind of monster didn’t want to be a mother to their children? As far as I knew, only the selfish, self-absorbed loser kind. So I kept on trying. I did everything I knew I was supposed to, so no one would ever find out the truth.
And I guess I must have been pretty good at it because one day when I couldn’t take it anymore, after I’d put the kids to bed and my husband came home from work and we had finished our dinner, I broke down and cried.
“I hate being a mother,” I cried, hoping the man I’d been friends with for most of the last thirteen years would already know me well enough to give me the benefit of the doubt. To know that I wasn’t really a bad person. Just a sad person.
“I hate being a mother, “I cried hoping that he would ask me why, but all he did was scream back in that loud, scary, ready to punch a wall-in tone, “no you don’t. You’re making that up. I see with you the kids. I see how much you do for them and how good you care for them. You don’t hate motherhood.”
And then he stood glaring at me while I shook from my head to my toes. I waited for him to hit me, knowing that I probably deserved it for the way I was feeling. But he didn’t (you should know that even though he would scare me with his temper he never once hit me). I cried some more, because I was afraid to say some more and he took that as a sign of my agreeing with him (I knew he thought this, but I was afraid of him) and he hugged me.
I hated him. Hated him for not believing me. It had been really hard to say aloud what I felt. Why would I say something so awful if I didn’t mean it? And he knew me. He’d known me since high school. He’d been my friend them. Why couldn’t he be my friend now? Of course back then I was never afraid of him. I didn’t remember his temper being so hot or scary ( to me). Whatever, it didn’t matter. I let him kiss and hug me (because then his anger subsided) and then I went to sleep. If only I could do that all the time.
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