I’m torn. Did you know that Natalie Imbruglia’s version of Torn is a cover? I didn’t. I can’t unsee the entire music video. It’s seared into my memory from the sheer amount of times I’ve seen it. Just like Titanic. Choir killed that Celine song for me. Grade 7 is a prime age for repetitiveness. Add in the ADHD and wow.

I’m rambling.

Back to the task at hand. I’m torn between two paths. I thought giving up on the idea that I’d be a mother would solve this but it did not. Well, okay, it did, but what ended up happening is the childfree path split into two.

I have so many options open to me right now except none of them feel safe. Being an entrepreneur doesn’t feel safe at the beginning though. At least I don’t think it does or should. The fear of failure either squashes the start or fuels it. I’ve experienced both. I know I can do what is needed, but do I want to?

Social media is so confusing. Add in the everchanging rules of capitalism. Advertising is inherently manipulative. Marketing isn’t far behind. There is a way to be ethical in these industries but it comes at a cost of a smaller audience with a higher pricetag. I sound jaded. It’s because I am. That’s not a really great way to be while in said industries. It’s a great disrupter though.

I waffle between putting my entire life out there on the internet or saying nothing online. Both are strange. Both feel weird. I grew up without social media. I was 23 years old when Facebook opened to the masses. I knew what it was like to gossip in real time and not read about it in someone’s vaguepost the next day. I was still getting pictures printed at London Drugs. I didn’t have a LiveJournal or a MySpace page. I was an Early Adopter, not an Innovator. It has taken over all of my friendships. It’s taken over how I share my life with people.

My love/hate for the internet is detrimental to my career. My career is based on the internet. I have to be here to make money to survive. I also have to decide on how much I’m willing to sell myself for. My productivity needs to come with a cost. Do I continue to share parts of myself, my life, for views? Or do I focus on the products and services I can offer and sell?

I used to love sharing my life on social media. It wasn’t for views or likes or to sell something. It wasn’t riddled with ads and the need to monetize every little thing. Consumer fatigue, there’s always a term for these things.

I’m tired.

There is a path in between these two paths I’m stuck in front of. It’s obviously the one that needs to be carved out.

cats, not babies.

Content warning: Infertility.

This is hard to write about because I thought I was over it. I had convinced myself that I was so why am I crying?

I’ve written about this before and from the content warning above, you already know what I’m about to say, except not. These are new emotions for me. I’m older, I’m at the end of the biological motherhood road. It feels like I took a million years to get here and yet, I was 18 just yesterday, holding my nephew and wondering about my own.

I’m not going to mention how my husband feels in this post. I can’t tell you how he feels about all of this, only he can and he won’t so, sorry. Just guess and know that his babies would be the cutest babies you have ever seen.

A lot happened last weekend at the conference I volunteered at. I noticed that my feelings and attitude towards pregnancy, babies, and children were jovial. I was genuinely happy to see my pregnant friend and I wanted to hear all about everyone’s kids. None of their stories made me sad. I was even asked multiple times by different people if I had kids and my answer didn’t hurt.

I have cats.

I say cats, plural because multiple cats make people feel better about me being childless somehow.

I’m pretty sure the reason why I was so calm and collected was that I was secretly hoping my period wouldn’t show up on Saturday. It didn’t. It didn’t show up on Sunday either and when Monday rolled around and it hadn’t made its presence known, I took a pregnancy test.

Not Pregnant.

Just like all the other tests. I told myself to wait until today. I knew my period was coming, I just like to torture myself with hope sometimes. I tried the whole “stop trying” thing. It was supposed to work. Everyone tells me it works. The thing they don’t say after is that sometimes it doesn’t work. Never say never except when it’s never.

I want to go back in time, pick myself up and drag her to my husband. Plop her down in front of him and say “Here! He’s right here! Have his baby before it’s too late!” I wonder if his past self would have been on board. So now what? I guess I have his houseplants that are actually mine, his coat rack, his fancy knife, and the clothes he leaves in the hamper when he goes away for weeks at a time to make our ends meet.

I want to stop trying. The disappointment of it all is too much for me. Annie gets what Annie wants* isn’t always true. And I know what you’re thinking. AH HA! That will be the moment you get what you want but that kind of hope is soul-crushing.

Please don’t stop telling me about your children. The way your face lights up when you tell me how you picked their name, your exasperated look when you explain that the blue cup is to never be used. You have their tiny shoes, their little dimpled hands to hold, their teeny voices saying “I love you.” Please share with me.

*There is a story here, of course, but that is for another time.