week 25 is full

I meant to write last night because I have a lot to say about week 25. But slumber called me so hard around 10 pm, even though I had taken a 2 hour nap earlier in the day. My will to sleep is my second strongest motivator. Money is first. Sex is third. And life still doesn’t matter to me. If I died today, I would be happy.

Where do I start? Well, it’s week 25. Twenty-five weeks since Bo’s been gone. He died on the 25th day of October. He died on the birthday of another important person in my life — the number one person who has helped me through this grief. I dread for when that day comes this year. I’ve been thinking about it for 25 weeks now.

It’s been half a gawddamn year. A whole half of a year has passed without Him. I still don’t want this…time. But I don’t want to feel like I did at 25 seconds (sick to my stomach) 25 minutes (out of my mind), 25 hours (psychotic), nor 25 days (utter despair).

When I did my nightly crazies the other night, I told Him I still didn’t understand why He had to go…and that We never got the chance to know what having a baby would be like, or rather, I would never know what it felt like to have His baby.

Back up. Now I’m going to have to tell the story out of order. You see, I had a vision for the way I was telling this all along. I was going to write about the present grief journey, while recapturing the story from the beginning and how We met. But at the same time, I wanted the memories from last year to be solidified so I was interspersing those here and there. Fuck it.

Back to the baby thing.

Bo and I had teetered back and forth on me having a baby. The desire was strong, an internal, automatic response that was borne of how magnetic our attraction was and how deeply We were connected. I once said that being intimate with Him was like birthing stars. It was a cosmic explosion. I felt like We lifted straight out of Our bodies and disappeared off this planet. Having a baby in our situation seemed to be obviously against any form of common sense. And We played with the idea for months. (Playing is probably the worst word I could use in this situation). But on October 7th, Bo finally decided He had had enough playing. I don’t feel like rehashing the October 7th conversation right now. But it is available below.

So, October 7th was the last time we were intimate. Since I was “breaking up” with Him during/after that time, I had no intentions of seeing Him any time soon after that. I saw Him again about a week later, on October 15th. We didn’t have sex. I had come from the gym and was pretty shocked that He would ask to see me so soon after the “break up.” I don’t want to rehash that day either. But it is available below.

Had We had sex then, I would have gotten pregnant. The intensity of Our relationship at that point combined with everything that was going on: We were missing each other, I was at a new job, We were missing each other, He was going through the stressful home-buying process, We were missing each other, He was having a lot of doubts about things, We were missing each other. But most importantly, I was definitely in my fertile dates that weekend. It was a sure shot.

And that has been one of the main things that has plagued me since Bo died. I could have been pregnant right now. I wanted to have His baby. And He wanted me to have it. I say it like this because it is the most accurate reflection of how this was going to go down. I wanted to have His baby, not a baby. I wasn’t trying to create a family. I was going to go my way and do what I do. My intention was for Him to do what He was doing: be married and raise His son. I wasn’t going to ask anything of Him that He wasn’t already doing. I liked things as they were. In fact, long before, I told Bo that if I got pregnant, I was going to stop talking to Him, and maybe even leave the state to start a new life. Does that sound awful?

I cannot ever know what Bo intended to do, ultimately. I know for certain that Bo wanted more children but that He wasn’t going to get any more from His wife than the one that they had. I know that Bo wanted to make me happy. I know that Bo couldn’t leave His son (I know these things because He told me. These were all conversations that I intended to detail, in order, through my writing.). I know that Bo was happy with me — and by this I mean happy when He was with me, but also happy in His life, in general, because of me. I think this was why Bo told me He needed me.

Anyway, not a week passes in which I don’t reflect on whether I would have been more depressed, or less depressed had I been pregnant with Bo’s child. Part of me thinks I would have actually attempted suicide, instead of playing with the idea as I have been all this time. I think that being pregnant with a dead man’s child is a special type of pain that a woman with my history of depression could not have withstood. And another thing is, I looooove babies. Children? Not so much.

On the other hand, I consider that I would have a unique life motivator. I would be 6 months pregnant. I would have a child that served as a daily reminder of Bo and the way we loved each other — a product of the strongest love I have ever felt. I could imagine myself being completely in love with this child. But I’m not sure how healthy that would have been.

Then I remember that having a kid would have meant possibly postponing graduate and post grad school. It would have put a kink in my career plans. I would have to explain to my child about his/her Father countless times. But more importantly for me, it would have bound me to this world…this uncertain world. And what I mean by this is, when I’m ready to check out, I want to be able to do so without having anything over my head. As I’ve stated before, I do not believe that mothers of young children (children under 18) have the right to check out. I’m not saying that I would be thinking about suicide while raising this baby… I’m just saying…

But even more than that, I have realized how cruel life can be, at any time, to any one. I would not want to have this love child here, and then be taken away from him/her by death. That idea kills me. Bo left His son here at 8 years old. I know I say it like He had a choice in the matter. I don’t know. I know Bo loved His boy and everything He was doing was for His son’s benefit. I have a text from Him in 2014 in which He says He’s trying to be a better father by taking His son to the park. In 2016, He was trying to be a better father again. He reminded me…of me.

So, thinking about how much Bo loved His son, and the fact that an 8 year old boy, who Bo had special concerns about, now doesn’t have His father, it kills me. And I know he is young and kids are resilient and blah, blah, blah…but I don’t want that to be my kid. And I wouldn’t want to burden my parents nor siblings with a child who would have no living parents.

So I guess that’s why I’m not pregnant. I can go whenever.

On another note, Prince died today, a year ago…Bo helped me through that, too.

Also, I finished my grad class. It only took me 6 months. I started the class at the end of September (the class ended in December) after Bo and I had extensively discussed what I was going to do since I hated my current career. Also, the only reason I was able to get all this work done, was because I left my newest job about 3 weeks ago.

Also, I traveled to South Florida, to another college and didn’t have a breakdown like I did when I went to a college in Orlando shortly after Bo died. Bo and I had talked about colleges. I thought of Him the whole trip.

Also, Spring Jam is today. Two years ago, I had gotten my hands on some extra tickets and invited Bo and His wife but they couldn’t attend. I want to go, but I don’t feel like getting “dressed up.”

Also, going back to my nightly crazies: I had an intense pregnancy dream.

Also, Derek finally died. Interestingly, Meredith is pregnant.

I think I’m doing better.