About ten weeks ago I finally moved In a (New) World of My Own to WordPress 2.7, but a strange problem occured: I could not make a new post or edit an existing one. My real-life upheavals, lack of free time, and simple lack of interest in blogging stopped me from finding a fix, until in five minutes of sheer boredom I solved it (it was a plugin).
Now what? I asked myself. I logged back into World of Warcraft and hit level 80 on Tashrak. Excitement! For about three weeks after that I was so determined to ignore the real world around me out of anger that I just played played played…and found real-life sitting there still when I looked up from Mariah’s laptop. And from where I stand, real-life hasn’t been good. I’ve battled stomach upsets on and off for about a month, which included losing three days of work to diarrhea, a trip to the doctor and lots of misery therein.
I’ve been outright…distraught beyond that. Mariah is pregnant with my child. I’ve yet to feel anything towards it. Love and compassion would be great, Fetus, but I’d even take hate or loathing right now to let me know that there’s something ticking away inside me. I resent what you represent, though. I looked at you kicking and waving on the sonogram yesterday and I nearly broke down crying because you are the manifestation of Mariah and I’s failure to ever communicate – she felt I wanted a child because of jokes I cracked almost two years ago, to ever agree on anything important – birth control and another child, and everything that we have lost – our home, independence, occasional domestic bliss, and our nascent financial security. We were slowly moving back into the black when Mariah felt that she had to give up work and move us back into your grandmother’s home. I loathe this house, you know. It’s filty, cluttered with trash and overrun with animals pissing on everything within reach. I’m upset that my childen, you and your sister Caira, will be raised in this house by a family who is perfectly happy with this squalor. And if nothing else, it upsets me that everyone around me has found joy in their pregnancies, in the birth of their children, and show the ability to plan their pregnancy. Your conception has brought nothing, nothing, not a single thing but discord and misery.
And yet, I feel absolutely nothing towards you you you. I don’t feel love, but I cannot bring myself to hate you. Why?
Your mum is completely uncaring towards my upset. I’m told to shut up whining, and deal with it, Mark if I complain. I don’t act any better by keeping your mum at arm’s length and only ever talking to her with ice in my voice. Aren’t we just a fantastic set of parents? This is the world you’ll come into, Fetus. Mum and dad always at each other’s throats and afraid to just listen to each other.
And there’s nothing between you and I. I gave the gift that started this off, is all. No hard feelings, right?
I wanted to run away, run fast, run hard until I was out of your mum’s shadow. I spoke to my friend. I spoke to my family too, and they all asked me, ”what about the baby?” I told them I could support you from afar. I told them I could browbeat your mum into registering you as an Irish citizen. I told myself I could love you from afar, free of your mum, free of her (your!) family, and free to live my life.
But that won’t work. Your mum would cut off every bit of access I might have had to you. I do not know the full truth of the story with your sister and her father, but I do know Mariah walled off Billy completely. At best, I think I’d be an idol of casual hate. ”Fetus, meet your father. Mind what I told you about hating him!”
It’s a funny thing, that I can bear the idea of not loving you, but I can’t bear the idea of you hating me.