Your weak, feminine body has betrayed you. Not just the regular betrayal of monthly bleeding, shame, and pain. Not just the betrayal of the weakness that will never allow you to be as strong, fast, or aggressively respected as the men your world was made for. But now, a terrifying miracle is beginning within you. You didn't want it. You don't want to want it now. It will overturn your life. It will take away your choices. It will leave you weaker, slower, poorer.
You don't want to want it, but a part of you does. Just as your body begins to nurture this fragile possibility of life, your thoughts and feelings begin to nurture the fragile possibility of motherhhood. Your hormones shift, bonding you to the idea. Your body begins to change, so subtly, yet so clearly demanding your attention. In the recesses of your being, you remember your own gestation, the safety and nourishment of your mother's womb. The miracle of coming into being, the comfort of mother. The encodings of your genetics begin to remind you that you were created for this act of creation, just as you were created to love and be loved.
Could you give up everything for this? Something wonders deep within you. Could you be the mother you always needed?
It's hard enough to be a person on your own in this world. Harder still to be a woman on your own in this world. Not much extra to go around. Extra time, extra money, exra space, extra support, extra joy, attention, availability, love.
Maybe if you had just a little extra, it could work. Someone to support you as your foremothers were supported in their creation of life. Someone to fill your cup, so there was just enough to spill over to a new being.
But there's no support here for you. There's stress and shame and weakness. Love that can't be counted on. A dismal existence no precious new life deserves.
No, it can't be done. You choose termination. You kill the life forming from your own life. You kill the possibility of motherhood. You kill your hopes of the adventure you might have experienced. A surprising grief washes over you for the mother you might have been, the child you might have had, the life you might have lived if you were supported, if womanhood was not weakness, if love was not rare, if the world was not cruel.
Your body cramps and bleeds. You're tired and weak and nauseated. Your heart aches. You don't allow yourself to weep. You hide your pain and bury it deep inside. You push that foolish weak woman aside. You know you, the killer, have no right to your grief.
No right to grieve the life gone from you. No right to grieve the future that might have been, your budding motherhood, the fulfilment of your dna's purpose.
You're now immoral, hated of God, a murderess, an irresponsible fool. You hide the truth. You say you're fine. You work through your gushing injury, or call in for a day. You go back to your lonely life. You hide your loss for a lifetime.
No comments:
Post a Comment