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Three years ago, I wrote a piece called Through the Screen Door. It was written from a hospital bed, during a long admission that seemed to have no end in sight. Hope felt next to non-existent. I didn’t believe that I would ever get better, or be able to build the life with Kathryn that I had imagined.

That post was about picturing kids playing in our backyard, knowing that some day Kathryn and I would be raising those kids together. It was about imagining a time when mental illness wasn’t the driving force in our daily life, and about using all we had learned through my illness to teach little ones to live with hope deep within them.

We had gone to a fertility clinic earlier that year for an initial consult. We had also spent long hours researching and talking about the pros and cons of anonymous vs known donor sperm. We had not set a specific timeline in motion, but we were well on our way to beginning to grow our family. I remember Friday nights spent wondering how much sperm was being tossed away in houses all around us.

I’ve wanted to be a mother since I was little. Probably since I knew that babies came from mommies’ tummies. I was the girl eager to babysit the neighbours’ kids, always volunteering in the nursery at church, enraptured by the pregnant women and babies that seemed to constantly flow through our community. I remember my grade one teacher, who had gone on maternity leave, bringing in her newborn infant for the class to meet and trying to get as close as I could to see the tiny one’s eyes, her lips and fingers. I was the little girl that imagined my wedding and picked out my kids’ names long before a healthy relationship was ever a reality in my life.

So when Kathryn came along and we got married, it seemed logical to start planning for kids almost immediately. I had a new motivation too – I desperately wanted to see her be a mother, and see aspects of her reflected in our children. I was in love with this woman, and couldn’t wait to nurture her through pregnancy and care for a child together. I probably would have agreed to pregnancy on the honeymoon if she was up for it. It’s a good thing she’s more practical about these matters.

But she was on board with planning for kids within a couple years of the wedding. She had never imagined getting married before she met me, and couldn’t imagine herself as a parent until I showed her what I saw in her. She developed a unique bond early in our relationship with my then ten year old niece. As more friends began having children, she too started to catch the baby bug. It was incredible to watch how children were drawn to her very laid-back approach. Even kids deemed timid eventually found their way into her lap.

And when that long year of hospitalizations came in 2014 and interrupted all our plans, it was painful for both of us. When our second niece was born that fall, my heart simultaneously burst and broke each time I watched Kathryn hold her, care for her, play with her and teach her things. I was so amazed (and still am!) at all the potential in her small body, at everything she had learned each time we saw her – to lift her head, or make eye contact, or roll over. The first time she said our names my heart melted.

But it wasn’t our time. I was ill, and getting better was the priority, and although it was the wisest thing to put off pregnancy-planning, it was still painful. So we actively imagined the future in order to build hope, we put the building blocks together piece by piece so that one day, it would be our turn. We bought a onesie and a teether together as a promise to each other that although the time was not yet, it would be.

Those items have been sitting in our cabinet next to my childhood stuffed bear and Kathryn’s stuffed lion for three years now.

And this spring, after a lot of processing with Kathryn and my therapist, we made the decision to let go of that promise. With the recent relapse of my illness came a realization that we may not ever be able to promise each other the stability that raising children would require.

A few people we have talked to have said, “you’re still young, you will change your minds.” Others have assured us that I won’t always struggle this way, that we can and should look forward to long periods of wellness. It’s also true that lots of people parent, and parent well, with mental illness.

There are a lot of reasons why we’ve made this choice, but here’s the key – even if I could guarantee five years or ten years of stability, the chances that at some point a deep struggle with suicidal ideation will re-emerge seems very likely. I’ve been dealing with suicidal thinking since middle school. And it seems that every time I finally begin to say I am free of the torment, it comes rushing back in to defeat me. I am not willing to put a child in a position where suicide is introduced to them as a way to cope or escape. It’s so fucking hard to reroute that neural pathway. And the stakes are way too high.

In some ways Kathryn has had an easier time accepting this new reality. Of course she has grieved through this process as well. But her world didn’t shatter the way mine initially did. It’s possible that part of the reason is because she had begun to question our plans earlier than I had. She says that her only desire is to have a fulfilling life with me, and that she’s spent a lot less time defining what that means to her. She also didn’t spend her teenage years imagining nursery colours or reading parenting books.

The message of a woman’s role as mother has bombarded me daily through this entire emotional process. The movies we watch, commercials on television, comments from others, and our own damn hormones all seem to reinforce motherhood as the ultimate definition and purpose of womanhood. I weep with all of you who have been accosted and accused by these messages. You aren’t alone in your grief, for whatever your reasons. We’re learning to sit with it too.

I don’t expect others to fully understand our decision. It’s true that things may change in the future, this isn’t written in stone. For now, for us, we decided we had to get to a point where we were okay with not being mothers, that our lives would not be defined by that role. And accepting that has been its own step toward hope. We’ve had to reimagine our future together. We’ve had to take apart all those pieces in order to find out what we have left to rebuild a new life.

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I sit here contemplating the design of this psychiatric emergency unit. The psychiatrist has told me he won’t be admitting me. He said I have a history of being resistant to treatment, and that for people with Borderline Personality Disorder (like me), admission often fails. He’s not the first psychiatrist I’ve heard this from. Stigma still flourishes even among mental health professionals (sometimes most among the professionals). He tells me this while I am literally begging for help. My wife, in tears next to me, voices her own deep fears of the possibilities that come with the depth of this illness anytime I’m alone, while she is at work or sleeping.

He can’t send me home because I’ve stated I’m acutely suicidal. Perhaps, by leaving me to wait for long hours at a time, he is hoping that the design of this place will drive me to claim ‘sanity’ so that I will ask to go home. That way he can be rid of me, with a pat on his back for helping the hospital avoid a costly admission. I recognize this is likely not a conscious plan in his mind, but still am not convinced he hasn’t been trained to respond in such a manner as ‘best approach.’

So I sit here while other patients pace the halls screaming in their own terror and delusions; every footstep, every voice, every set of keys echoing through the empty rooms and hallways. The smell of piss saturates the poorly circulated air. There are no windows, only dingy beige walls marked by the aggressions of others, and heavy doors, almost all of which are locked. I lay on a mat on the floor of an almost empty room (if you have a family member with you, they will give you a chair). The sheets are often stained with what looks like blood and the flourescent lights blare unkindly.

A doctor comes sometime between four and ten hours later to see if anything has changed, if I now want to go home. And damnit, I want to go home so badly – to my own bed, to a clean toilet, to a place with hand soap and towels. Apparently even hospital grade non-alcoholic foaming hand sanitizer is to big of a risk for patients like us. So we take our chances with C-difficle, MRSA, and whatever else others bring in with them. Germaphobia does not combine itself well with other forms of panic.

Yes, I desperately want to leave this place. But I remember my promise to Kathryn, my desperate need for help and my inability to manage the fireball of emotions on my own. In one of my most vulnerable moments, I must find within myself strength to stay when my mind is screaming to flee.

So I tell them I’m not safe. I tell them about the racing thoughts and crushing pain. When asked if I will hurt myself if I am discharged, I answer with an honest yes.

The doctor leaves and says someone will come back “soon” to reassess me. I lay back down not knowing if my wish is for sleep or death. In the room next to me someone starts screaming again and inside, I start screaming too.

This must be hell, coming here is its own form of suicide.

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