I was never meant to be a mother

Part one: I wasn’t built for this shit

I firmly believe that I was not supposed to be a parent in this lifetime. I literally do not have a maternal bone in my body. I’d rather watch paint dry than parent. I find babies and young children to be irritating, confusing, frustrating, and – let’s be honest – disgusting.

I hated the pressure society placed on me (on women in general) to see motherhood as the pinnacle of womanhood and their achievements. Like the world needed more humans? Why would I bring small people into a world where women are treated like objects, second class citizens and where rich, white men value the their property, power and prestige over human rights?

And yet, I did. Over and over again. Though, not by choice.

Part two: The day coffee betrayed me:

I found out I was pregnant with my oldest shortly after 9/11. My parents were visiting us in Hawaii while my husband, my step-son, and I were awaiting military orders for relocation. He was dreaming of Europe. I was just trying to keep the peace.

We’d been snorkeling at Hanauma Bay – well, they had. I’d pissed off my husband (what else is new?) and he conveniently “forgot” to pack my bathers (he’d accidently unpacked them), so I couldn’t join in the fun. I felt nauseous and tired all day. But pregnancy didn’t even cross my mind. I was on the pill. He gave it to me every morning. I trusted him. (Stooooopid girl!)

The moment I drank a mocha (despite loathing coffee with every part of my DNA) and didn’t vomit, my mother (who had been a midwife), suggested I get a pregnancy test. What do you know?! Pregnant.

Not happy Jan, not happy at all!

Napoleon was “pissed” for about a month. Then suddenly excited. Me? I was sick. Hyperemesis Gravidarum sick. 24/7 vomiting, can’t-keep-water-down, I-hate-myself sick. I hated being pregnant. I hated being the primary caregiver to my stepson while Napoleon planned our exit to our next duty station. I hated everything.

Part three: My Body. His Rules:

The baby came. I was isolated in a foreign (but amazing country), looking after a baby who refused to use logic (rude) and a pre-teen who claimed suicidal ideation everytime I asked them to do their math homework. Napoleon refused base housing because “we’d be better off out in the economy.” I didn’t drive. I didn’t know anyone. I didn’t exist outside his needs.

After he left the military, he dragged us to Florida to live with his parents. And oh, what a delightful experience that was. His mother was a raging cunt, with two little rat dogs and free-roaming rabbits she refused to clean up after. Her favourite things to do was spend money at Big Lots and emotionally and verbally abuse me when Napoleon wasn’t home.

I had a miscarriage in 2004. His response was to accuse me of cheating and having an abortion. I was a working, exhausted mother trying to survive – when the hell would I have fit that in? He dragged me to fertility specialists. I was diagnosed with PCOS, put on Metformin, and then boom – pregnant again. This time is was Hyperemesis plus gallbladder issues – it was a thoroughly horrendous experience.

Christmas 2005: baby number two. Gallbladder removed on their due date 3 weeks later.

March 2006: Got pregnant again, because Jesus (apparently) told him contraception was a sin. I tried to circumvent the entire thing by getting the Nuva Ring, but he discovered the packaging, and removed it by force. Enter: marital rape. multiple times a week. For years.

Christmas 2006: baby number three.

I might not have wanted to get pregnant, but I gave a shit about this little scrap of humanity. This child, they gave me trauma by causing bleeding and still to this day, I check for blood every time I use the bathroom.

Part Four: He called it marriage. I call it rape:

2007 to 2009 was a nightmare of polyamory, swinger parties, coercion, and sexual violence. I was forced to let strangers touch me. Forced to “perform.” Forced to live with his new girlfriends. Forced to watch him cheat with others, men and women, and some weirdo with a clown mask fetish. While also raising kids. Cooking. Cleaning. Being monitored constantly. Even researching things for him while he sat next to a computer, just so he could maintain control. So I would know he knew where I was and what I was doing constantly. He said he dreamed of the day that the Government would allow him to microchip me, just so he’d know where I was. Delightful.

January 2009: baby number four. I was barely functioning. I loved the baby. But everything else? Hell. I had a baby that had developmental issues, a husband that was abusing me and then love bombing in a never ending cycle and I was getting sicker physically and mentally with no help in sight.

2010: Napoleon coerced me into gastric bypass surgery. I went along to survive. Spoiler: it didn’t “fix” anything. Because I got no support regarding bad eating habits, whilst I initially lost a metric tonne of weight, I gained it all back because bad eating was my emotion crutch and eating chocolate and drinking coke didn’t make me sick. I’m now 48, malabsorptive, and chronically depleted. and pre-diabetic. That’s fun too.

June 2010: I had another miscarriage. More accusations of infidelity and more abuse because a voicemail from from another parent was twisted into “evidence” that I’d held an orgy at a child’s birthday party. Sure, Jan. A great time was had by all, apparently.

When he decided that I had been punished enough, he celebrated by having his way with me before I had been cleared by the OB. At that clearance appointment the OB diagnosed me with HPV and scheduled a cone biopsy. But guess what?

Pregnant. Again. Napoleon was delighted.

Fuck. My. Fucking. Life

Part Five: Scalpels, tubes, and silent rebellion

For the first time in my life, I contemplated suicide. But decided to stay, because if I left, HE’D be caring for them. I hated being a parent, I hated not having my own space, or place to do things, or any capacity for freedom, but I hated the idea of not protecting them from him more. I couldn’t do it to them.

I started planning. I spoke up. Quietly. Carefully. But every time I tried, Child Services got involved. Napoleon would stand behind me and dig his fingers into my kidneys to make sure I’d stay silent, and more often than not, take the blame for his behaviour.

But my OB helped. He listened. He helped me plan.

Napoleon, at the time, had decided that his calling was to become a nurse (Ha!), and was scheduled for his maternity rotation just as I was due. My OBGYN arranged for him to be in the OR during the birth, so my mother could be my support person. This amazing Doctor forced Napoleon to pass him clamps as he tied my tubes.

Best. Decision. Ever. That moment of defiance was sweet, but the consequences…

Part Six: Freedom comes with scars:

The violence escalated.

I was physically assaulted. Sexually assaulted. Constantly accused of cheating. He engaged in affairs, drank excessively, brought strangers into our home. I was doing everything; parenting, therapies, cooking, school transportation, managing every aspect of the family, and I was still being punished. I was told I had to work for 17 hours a day, before he’d consider changing a light bulb.

I took beatings for my children. I took beatings because I was boring, and not doing my whorish best. I took beatings because the 7/11 down the road had run out of his magnum sized bottles of cheap wine. I took beatings because I didn’t answer the phone fast enough. I took beatings because of the way I held my fork. I took a beating once because I only warned him twice that the pot pie was hot, and he burnt his tongue.

I wasn’t allowed to have hobbies, because I had to pay all my attention to him. I wasn’t allowed to go to sleep when I wanted to, because I had to stay up and listen to him tell me how useless I was, how boring I was, how much of a disappointment I was and listen to his favourite songs. I had to wait for him to give me permission to go to sleep, and he wouldn’t give it until after 2am most nights. I had to be available to service him. In any way he wanted, whenever he wanted.

I knew I had to get out. My middle child got sick with a bladder infection and was hospitalised. I used the time to get in contact with my family, who called Napoleon and told him that he needed to let me visit home, because my grandmother was ill, and she wanted to see me. It wasn’t a fabrication, she had active heart failure (she was in her 90s, but she didn’t pass away for another 5 years). He agreed, and let me leave with the three youngest, making me leave the older two with him, to ensure my compliance and make sure I would stay under his thumb.

It was the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do. Watching that man walk away with my children, knowing what kind of man he was, how he was likely going to treat them, that I wouldn’t be around to protect them. I had to get the three youngest out. I had to make a really shitty decision because of his behaviour. Napoleon had already attempted to strangle our middle child multiple times, he had no time for Number 4, and he just didn’t have the energy to deal with number 5 who was just 2.5 years old.

In case you are wondering. Yes, I went back and got the older two, because he was stupid and got arrested for assaulting a sheriff whilst intoxicated. I was supported by my friends in Florida and my family in Australia. For that I will always be grateful.

Part Seven: This guilt has no expiry date:

Here’s what lives rent free in my head every damn day:

I hate that I hated pregnancy.
I hate that I hate/d motherhood.
I hate the nausea, the vomiting, the years I spent feeling like a ghost in my own body and watching it fall apart.
I hate the constant overstimulation, touching, noise that is my daily lived experience.
I hate that I had no escape from him.
I hate that people will say that I should have or could have left him.

I hate that I still dream of running away. I hate that I feel guilty all the time.

I feel guilty that I couldn’t be and I can’t be the kind of mother they deserve.
I feel guilty that I flinch why they touch me.
I feel guilty that I can’t fake affection.
I will never not feel guilty that I had to leave two behind, to save the other three, even for a while.
I feel guilty because my children didn’t choose me. They just got stuck with me.
I feel guilty because I resent them for being here, when they didn’t have a choice about it. They shouldn’t be punished for it.

I didn’t choose to be a mother. I had it forced on me. I survived it. And I’m still surviving it.

I love my children. But, I hate how much I had to endure and how much I lost to have them. I hate that I am the one taking responsibility and raising children I didn’t consent to creating.

And I feel guilty for all of this.

Forever.