When I was young, about ten, I used to hide under my bed, not because I was scared, but it made me feel like I didn’t exist. A warm comfortable numb feeling.

Years later, I rationalised I did not want to die, I simply did not want to exist, never to have existed. I decided not to have children; I would not inflict life on another.

My dad had always been distant, working late and busy when at home. He lost his job when I was seventeen: “Kick me when I’m down,” I overheard him say.

I asked him about being young, listened to his stories. I told him my resolution never to procreate. “Neither would I,” he agreed, “if I had my time again.” I never felt closer.

With a delayed emotional response, I realised that meant I wouldn’t exist.
That most precious moment, imagining I had never been.