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Once a month, I am painfully reminded of my emptiness.  It hurts everywhere, not just in my empty womb.  I mourn for the loss that never was and never will be.

When I was little, my mother asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up.  It’s a common question posed by adults everywhere.  At 8, my standard answer was that I wanted to be a writer and a mommy.  Most adults, parents included, laughed and told me that wasn’t really a career path.  They always encouraged me to think bigger.  I stopped answering the question after that.

As I get too old for these things, I mourn.  I know there are woman everywhere that don’t feel the need to have children, and I wish I could be like that.  I know for some women they are also physically unable to.  They are still beautiful amazing women, they still have a purpose. So why can’t I let myself off the hook?

It’s getting harder every month.  With more and more of my friends becoming parents and my parents strongly hinting at grandchildren as they watch all their friends become grandparents.  They’ve had 37 years of marriage and aren’t getting any younger.

But is this desire for children really my own?  Is it societal?  Hormonal? Pressure from family?  We aren’t even trying, because other than once a month, I’m convinced that it would be a bad idea to pass on all my fucked up genes.

I’m struggling to find meaning for my life.  I’m struggling to find a purpose for why I’m here.  It sounds overdramatic and whiny but I’m in so much pain, physical and emotional that I’m typing this out on my phone on the bus just to get the words out. 

My body feels like it’s punishing me for my failures.  And moreover, I feel like I deserve it.

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