When I was fourteen, I was diagnosed with epilepsy. That was a pretty big fucking deal. After a couple of concussions and a broken nose, the doctor finally got my meds all straightened out. So for two years, I continued to take a very high dose of a very new drug, and when I turned sixteen, I was diagnosed with Polycystic Ovarian Syndrome (PCOS) which occurs when cysts form on a woman’s ovaries and occasionally burst which is wildly painful. I went to my neurologist and asked him if it was the meds I was on that might have caused it. He assured me that these meds, though they made my hair fall out, caused me to lose nearly thirty pounds, and seriously slowed my cognitive processing, of course, had nothing to do with my lady problems.

            Being the wise teen that I was, I believed my doctor and continued to take my meds until I turned twenty. At that point, my doctor decided to wean me off the meds to see if my epilepsy had resolved itself which sometimes happens in young people. Low and behold, no more seizures. So after 6 years of taking large amounts of drugs, I was finally off them all. The truth is, that wasn’t all that long ago. I only just turned twenty-two, but what I have now discovered is that, likely due to the drugs I was taking, I am no longer able to have children.

            As a matter of fact, I have developed even more issues with my lady bits. My cervix is turned inside out, I bleed uncontrollably even after the most vanilla of sex, and worst of all, I have endometriosis. The last one is the worst of all. Endometriosis means that the lining of my uterine wall that forms over a cycle and is then shed during menstruation, grows on the outside of my uterus. All over the place in fact. On my ovaries, my fallopian tubes, and could eventually get to my bladder, my kidneys or even my lungs. It is also wildly painful and makes conceiving nearly impossible.

            Now one might think that that is the worst possible thing in the universe. And the truth is, for a little while, I thought that it was pretty terrible. And it is. Because I was given meds that were not thoroughly researched on young (and still developing) women, I will never even have the opportunity to have children of my own. I have said for a long time that I don’t want to have any kids, that I hate them, that they drive me up a wall, but sometimes I think the truth is that I don’t want to admit that I wanted to have children of my own and now I will never have that opportunity.

            The truth that no one wants to seem to say out loud is that infertility is traumatic and painful. I hear all the feminists screaming now that not having children is not traumatic, that it’s a woman’s choice, that many women are happy and fulfilled without them. And all of that is true. But that middle reason: that it’s a woman’s choice, is why I’m writing all of this down. The truth is, I think that a woman should be allowed to choose whether or not she wants to have children. I believe that it’s a personal choice and it’s not right or necessary for everyone, but with all of that being said, I don’t have a choice.

            I will never be able to sit down with my partner and even have the discussion of whether or not we want to try to have children. Instead, I have to have a very different conversation: one that I am terrified of. My current partner and I have been together since I was fourteen. Our eight year anniversary is in just a few months, and he has been with me from the start of all of this mess, but he’s been away on training with the Army so I haven’t been able to tell him about the latest set of diagnoses and prognoses. When he comes home, I have to find away to explain a lot of things to him.

            I have to find a way to tell him that I’m giving him an out. That he always says he doesn’t want to have any kids, but if he thinks that’s even a little bit untrue, that I will never be able to give him a child of his own. I have to find a way to tell him that if he wants to leave me to preserve that option, to find someone who can give him children, that I won’t be angry or bitter. I don’t know if that last bit is true. I want it to be true. I hope that if that’s his choice, I will understand, and I won’t be angry. But I will sure as hell be hurt.

            Chances are that I will have a long life ahead of me. Full of opportunities and struggles. But there are many opportunities and struggles that will never be afforded me: pregnancy, labor, breast-feeding, sending my child off to school, the teen years, grandchildren. Some people might say that infertility is not traumatic, it might be painful, but it’s not nearly as bad as some other things. And that might be true. I’m sure it’s not the worst thing in the world, but I still think that women like me should be allowed one opportunity that I think has been denied them: the opportunity to mourn. It seems strange to mourn a possibility, but I think that it’s something that women should be allowed to do. It’s something women should be allowed to do without fear of judgment from society, from men or from other women.

            And I know there’s always the chance that with several thousand dollars it is possible that I could get pregnant or adopt, but that’s not really what I want to hear right now. What I want to hear is silence. I don’t want to hear, “I’m sorry for you,” or “I understand what you’re going through,” or “God has a plan.” Fuck that. Don’t be sorry for me, don’t pretend to understand, and please don’t tell me that God, if he is even out there, has a bigger and better plan for my life that just doesn’t include children. If anything, I want to hear someone say that I didn’t deserve this, that it’s not my fault.

            Being a woman is not easy. Things have definitely gotten better over the last several decades, but it still feels like a daily fight to me. Living in a world where men think its okay to comment on my body or touch me without permission is painful in a completely different way. But I believe that’s something most women can relate to. Infertility is a completely different animal. I’ve witnessed one of my aunts who is in her mid-fifties, asked what is wrong with her that she wouldn’t have children. I’m afraid that that’s the future waiting for me: people looking at me and pitying me from afar or other women wondering what’s so wrong with me that I don’t have any children. I suppose that’s a fear for another day. Today I have to find a way to tell my partner that I can’t give him children, and I think that’s enough terror for now.