Matters Of The Heart
I have gotten a great deal of “push back”, when I say that it’s my opinion that not everyone is supposed to be a parent. I don’t state this lightly. There are so many childhood traumas that a great many of us go through, that inhibit us from being mentally and emotionally healthy parents.
I find that some women have children because it’s the next “logical” step in their evolution. There are some that have children because they genuinely want to nurture and raise another human being. Still, there are those that have children because they think it will solidify a relationship, or some other selfish reason. Perpetuating the species, to me, falls under this same selfishness; though I am told that perpetuating the species is hard-wired into every living thing.
Having children, just to have them is just an “accident” waiting to happen. We need to ask ourselves, “Do I like children? Am I prepared to stop coming from a “me-me-me” place; or, am I ready to sacrifice my whole identity to raise a relatively healthy and productive member of our current society?” If you can’t answer both of these questions in the affirmative, then you should probably not breed.
I am a survivor of childhood sexual abuse. At 6 years old, I was molested by a family member. My childhood stopped there; stolen from me by this violent and reprehensible act. I had no say in deciding to whom I would lose my virginity. My view of sex was skewed and altered in such a way that the confusion and turmoil of my puberty were forced upon me at a time in my development when it is unnatural to have these feelings. I had been forced, for lack of a better term, to skip my childhood.
I have a son. Through the grace of God and Nature, and the help of some truly beautiful souls that the Universe has placed in our path, my son has grown up to be a relatively healthy and productive member of society. Sure, he’s a bit on the spoiled and selfish side, but that’s because he is an “only” child. You might ask if I had anything to do with raising him and I would answer, not so much in the important and impressionable early years, but certainly as he approached adulthood.
During his childhood, I was there in a pragmatic sense. I made sure he ate; I made sure he saw the pediatrician when necessary; I made sure he was clean, and that his clothes were clean and presentable. I made sure he went to school and I was an active parent in making sure I knew his teachers. I even took it upon myself to have him examined with regards to finding out if he had any learning disabilities when I saw a disturbing trend in his grades. Yet, emotionally I wasn’t there for him. I can remember times when he would come to me and practically beg me to play a game with him. I can only remember the rare occasion when I would say, yes. Most of the time, I was too tired from working two jobs or, just plain uninterested in playing with him.
My point is that I skipped his childhood, mostly because I had no idea what it is to be a child. My formative years were stolen from me, therefore I could not identify with my son’s need to play and wonder and question. Sure, when he got older (say, 12+), I was there for him because those were years to which I could identify.
This is how I can say, without hesitation that for me to have had a child was not something for which I was prepared, emotionally. I have been able to, through many years of therapy, recognize and address my horribly skewed view of sex and its place in my life; yet, too late for these revelations to have been of use while raising my son.
However, if I look at this through the eyes of someone who believes that some things happen for a reason and that God and the universe have a plan, then how could I have written this blog with such conviction and with the hope of it being of help to others if I had not gone through the very same situation from which this missive was born? …Mysterious ways, indeed.