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So, I'm thinking of signing on for this Healthy Indiana plan so I can get health coverage. I worry that I might be bi-polar or chemically imbalanced or something weird like that. I'm all ups and downs and all-arounds and there are times when I reflect on it and can't really decide what my own motives are anymore.

A few nights ago I brought up some heavy issues with DF and felt as though dismissing the topic was like I was condemning myself to a life of silent servitude. I've been pretty messed up since my fiance began hinting that he didn't think he'd want kids after all. I had started to think of it as an eventuality and to have him suddenly tell me he didn't want them unless it happened by accident–and we're pretty careful, so that's NOT happening–it threw my head for a loop.

Here's the messed up part. I'm usually pretty ambivilant on the subject. There are days when I love the idea of some day being a mom and then other days I absolutely hate children and want nothing to do with them. Some days I'm the picture of patience and others… the sound of a screetching child irritates the living piss out of me. I want to scream "Shut your goddamn kid UP already!!!" Then, other days I take it in stride, musing at the underdeveloped impulse-control of a toddler having a melt-down in a book store.

I like my personal time. So does DF. He echoed my own words and feelings the night of our huge argument: "I'm selfish with my time. Maybe that makes me a bad guy, but at least no one's suffering for it now." I've said the exact same thing myself, except, that night *I* was suffering. I would have rather died than have someone else decide my own fate for me. We even brushed the subject of my eventually tiring of it and packing my bags–which I'm not entirely convinced that I won't–not because I don't love him like crazy, but because I don't exactly trust my feelings not to continuously shift at any given moment. I adore him today and I could despise him tomorrow.

Jesus, who WOULD want to see me with a child? Why would I do that to a child, knowing how futile my efforts to satisfy my own mother felt when I was growing up? Nothing I did was ever really good enough to make her happy. I never saw her eyes light up the way a mother's eyes are supposed to. I can sometimes see that in myself–this inability to EVER be satisfied. He sees it too… ("Goddamn it! Why can't you ever be happy with what we have?") and loves me anyway. He gives me everything I ask for and don't have to ask for.

Except for that one little thing.

And I can't say I blame him, because depite all the aching and tears from the other night–today, I don't even give a crap. Hello, Seasonal Depression–so, we meet again.



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