Do you ever feel like you’ve irredeemably fucked up your life?
I think that, as a queer parent, there is a certain amount of pressure to be seen to ‘count your blessings.’ After all, we live in an increasingly hostile society that has its ways, both passive and aggressive, of making it clear that it would rather we did not exist. I see the discomfort at the school gates, and when my child holds my hand and that of my partner; I am constantly reading about attempts to remove LGBTQIA+ content from libraries for the sake of the children and their poor, appalled parents. More than this, I am trans, writing on the day of London Trans+ Pride, and I am painfully aware that my existence, especially as a parent, is inherently political. I am an embodied act of resistance, whether I want to be or no. And, right at this moment, I really, truly do not want any of it.
I am a queer, trans, disabled parent to a disabled child, and I am exhausted.
Once upon a time, I loved being a parent, but those days feel long gone. When my much-wanted, long-awaited child was born, my life looked very different: I was in deep denial about my sexuality, hadn’t yet realised that I was non-binary, and had no intention of ever leaving my ex. I have no regrets at having broken free of a controlling, abusive marriage, and of the many boxes in which a cisheteronormative society was only too happy to place me. This does not mean, however, that it has not been at a cost.
Running parallel to the other revelations and revolutions in my life has been the discovery that my child is auDHD, and that I am, too. I have also had to accept that I have chronic health issues that are not going anywhere, and that the younger, lighter (in all senses) version of myself is not going to return. And I am so very, very tired of all of it.
I am tired of the constant struggle to ensure that my child can access the education and support that he deserves, when I barely have enough energy to deal with the day-to-day; I am tired of the Government having declared war on disabled children and adults alike, which leaves me fighting with the Local Authority, on the one hand, and being told that I do not qualify for even a single point when I apply (and appeal) for PIP; I am tired of my ex wreaking damage upon damage, using our child to wield control, and leaving me to deal with the consequences; and I am so, so tired of my child repeating the same patterns in his treatment of me.
It is such a taboo, still, for a birthing parent to express regret for the existence of their children. I find myself tempted to reassure the reader, myself, that I do love him, of course I do. It is true, too, that there are brighter moments, but now it is the summer holidays, and I hate it.
Most of the other mistakes that one can make in life are, to some extent, resolvable. You can leave the spouse you should never have married; you can switch careers, or move elsewhere to make a fresh start; you can seek the support that you need to make positive changes in your life. But children… there’s no way out of that; least of all if you are a carer, the primary one in your child’s life, and the only parent to take proper responsibility. Sometimes, I daydream about leaving him with his father, and insisting that it is his turn to look after him, and face the consequences to his sanity, to his career, to his finances. At other times, I catch myself thinking wistfully of the days when a child such as mine would have been institutionalised.
Are you judging me? I certainly judge myself.
I do not get cuddles; I do not get ‘I love yous;’ I get very little in the way of appreciation. I am told that I am lazy; I am subject to, and the subject of, endless complaints; I am intended to hear muttered, derogatory comments about my actions and character. He frequently treats his peers, and those who love him, with disdain, whilst I am left to feel grateful that he is less physically rough with me than he used to be, and that he no longer threatens me with some form of unspecified punishment ‘when he is older.’ Yet I do not feel at all sanguine that my safety will be guaranteed as he becomes taller and stronger.
Just below the surface is the fear that I am not enough to compensate for his behaviour, and that my partner will justifiably decide to walk away. That fear is, at times, all-consuming, especially when I make mistakes of my own. I live either in overwhelmed survival mode, or lulled by a false sense of security that things, finally, are getting better, only to be confronted with the proof that I am deluding myself.
I am caught in a trap of my own making, I will never be free of it, and I am old enough to be increasingly, painfully aware that my life is a finite resource that is running away from me.
If you feel in any way the same, know that I see you.