I Don’t Want to Love Anyone More Than I Love Myself

I have spent so many years hating myself that it is now time for me to be the priority

As I said in a previous article, you could ask me ten different times why I don’t want children and I would most likely give you ten different answers.

I don’t feel the need to justify my reasonings to anyone; however, this piece has been lurking in my mind for a few days now. I tried to ignore it, but today I realized it was something my subconscious desperately wanted to share.

I didn’t have an easy time growing up. My father and his wife were both physically and emotionally abusive towards me. They always implied it that the reason I wasn’t with my mother was that she didn’t want me. And at home, they always implied it I was a burden they hoped to get rid of.

My “childhood” was non-existent from the age of eight. Instead, it was part and parcel of my responsibility to look after my siblings and the household. This included tasks like cleaning the house every morning to assist with school runs, packing lunches and looking after the kids when the parents were out at work.

My memories of the past are fragmented. As I wrote in my poem yesterday, it’s like trying to build a jigsaw out of sand. In fact, I dislike writing about the past because I am worried I will tell the story wrong. That somewhere down the line I will contradict myself and look like a liar.

However, at random, there are times I will remember the most unsettling of things. Like how my dad’s wife at the time went ballistic when I bought a dress similar to hers. Theatrics ensued as she told me she had no choice but to throw away the dress. Yet she always tried to wear matching clothes with her daughter.

Or how growing up she was always eager to beat me for every little thing, yet just a few months ago refused to let my younger sister move to stay with my dad and his latest wife in case she tried to ‘touch her daughter.’

I may have forgiven my father for various incidences that happened during my childhood, but I will never trust him again. How is it possible to love someone so much that you will let them harm your children?

It has taken years to realise that no matter what his ex-wife said; I wasn’t evil; I wasn’t unloveable but maybe she was. Yet, hate is a sickness that I will not allow poison me as it did unto her. So I forgave her too.

I would be lying if I didn’t admit that I am counting down the days till I am self-sufficient. Til I can disconnect from my family completely.

I am so excited for the next chapter of my life. Yet for a while, I didn’t think I wanted one. Didn’t believe I deserved one. But now I look at it in optimism.

I don’t see children in that picture.

I grew up with various stepmothers who did unto me things they would kill another person for doing to their own children. How can I birth someone into a world I am uncertain I even want to permanently move into? How can I trust anyone if I couldn’t even trust my father to protect me?

When you have grown up through trauma, you can get dehumanised to the potency of it. It isn’t until you recount it to someone and gauge their reaction that you see how truly fucked up your tale is.

It’s not that I dislike children, I find them triggering. They bring me back to a past I would rather forget. I see how childlike and unwise they are and wonder how a grown adult could think beating me with extension cables was a good idea. That will never be discipline in my eyes.

Their small stature and meekness makes me realise how much I suffered at the hands of others. I wonder, what could have been so wrong with me that my father broke me in like a horse? Children are a magnet that brings the shards of my memory whole. But I say “I don’t like them” because it is palatable. Manageable.

People say having a child re-prioritises your wants and needs. But I don’t want to want to love anyone more than myself. I have spent so many years hating myself that it is now time for me to be the priority. It is time for me to take up space and finally begin enjoying this life of mine.

It’s hard to feel like I am missing out on something I have already done. The thought of having a mini-me with my face honestly horrifies me. It’s time that I chose myself. And I know in my heart of hearts that I would become resentful if I ever became a mother.

So yes, maybe my reasonings are selfish. However, they are mine.

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