Your baby is boring. (I don’t really mean that. It’s just the title.)

That’s the meanest thing I (almost) said to someone who dumped me during my struggles (see the ”Brownies of Judgment” blog. Brownies had a baby).

In my angsty states i think “80% of babies all do the same things. Some are better looking than others. That’s not interesting. It’s beautiful, but not interesting.”

In reality, I’m not that cold of a person. I love babies. I tell myself these things to convince myself I’m not missing out.

I’m very maternal, which is why I’ve had to grieve the fact that I shouldn’t be a mother. I could go on for days. It boils down to the fact that I do not feel emotionally quipped to take on another heart, let alone another life. That’s also why I’m single.

I try not to pity myself for what mental illness has robbed me of. I romanticize it at times. Pity is easy but doesn’t seem like too much fun. Romanticizing is the second easiest coping strategy. Who doesn’t want to be beautiful? And if sickness is all I feel I have, then that will have to do. Right? (Wrong.)

That’s the thought process. It’s not a mature one. I’ve still grown in many ways despite the fact that I haven’t always tried.

At the end of most days I love myself and see tremendous value in my weird world. It‘s never been incomplete. I’ve never been incomplete. I might have missed out on many experiences and will forever have limitations. My survival is the only victory that matters. I don’t care if I had a good winged eyeliner day. I have no warm inner feeling about anything superficial.

I have to stay sweet. That’s my next hurdle. Throw a fire extinguisher over bitter thoughts that poorly disguise jealousy.

Your baby isn’t boring. My books and writing aren’t boring. My cat isn’t boring. The cool drawing you made isn’t boring. The speech you made at work isn’t boring.

Anything loved, conquered, or created isn’t boring.

Don’t let anyone make you feel otherwise - note to self.