Keys, doors and House

Watching the deterioration of my writing is a little disheartening.  I used to enjoy language and take great care over its use.  But now I am reduced to 'write something in half an hour before your brain shuts down in protest at this continual sleep-deprivation you keep inflicting on it.'  And all because I want, no need, to do something creative, to keep proving that you cannot make me give up on the notion that life for me at least, must contain some sort of higher purpose, some vocation.  Even if I never get paid a cent for it. 

I am deeply sorry, however, that I cannot be more like a 'normal person' (whatever they are) and accept relationships (boyfriend, children, good friends) as 'enough'.  This has a detrimental impact on almost anyone who comes into contact with me, because I'm always striving for something that I probably won't ever reach.  All the things preventing me from having a hope in hell of achieving something meaningful affect me more, indeed, depress me greatly.  And that's not fair on people who don't have as great demands or hopes.  (I honestly don't know how they do it.  I wish I had the key to that door.)

As for children, I think everyone knows my feelings on the matter by now, but if I hadn't made it clear enough, I caught myself saying, 'I'd rather die than have children' the other day.  I mean, really, that's how I see it.  Getting pregnant for me, would be like a date for execution.

I brought this up with the architect, again, because one of my meet-ees is pregnant. It terrifies me to think of this sweet, thin, tiny woman having her body taken over by a parasite that will stretch her out of all proportion and make her go through unimaginable pain just to have the 'privilege' of being responsible for another human being besides herself for the rest of her life.  Why does this not terrify other people?  All I can see is how small a frame she has and what pain she will have to go through while her body takes on this little alien.  It's absolutely horrific to even think about it. 

But, apparently, only the miserable Dr. House and I seem to see it that way.