The water in the tub has gone cold, my body trembles. Salty tears make their way down my blotchy red cheeks and neck.
I can hear my newborn daughter cry from her crib in the next room. I embrace the flesh on my lower abdomen, which houses my hollow uterus. It’s emptiness overshadows everything in my life. I miss sharing my body with her; I miss never being alone. I know my misery has never been good for her but she gives me reason to care for myself, she is the only thing in my life that helps hold me together. I long for her to be back in me so I will never have to suffer alone.
I am repulsed and overwhelmed by the feelings of loneliness that dominate every day I see. Bewilderment from so many mixed thoughts defeats me, my chest grows tight, and I find it hard to catch my breath. Panic attacks have become so frequent; I scarcely notice them anymore. Yet I still do not get up. I can not fight it, I don’t think I want to.
I may stay in this bath forever, with the freezing cold water and worn out gritty tub bottom. So many nameless questions in my head with no answers, I can’t even comprehend the thoughts. I try to think of solutions to the problems I can not identify. I encourage myself to believe I am a strong, respectable mother
I tell myself I have a good marriage. Thoughts of my husband, who has gone back to live with his parents, rush through my head. I have driven him away. I have projected all my insecurities on to him. I know sitting here that he has not done all the things I loathe him for, yet I can not extinguish the hate.
I am brought back to the moment by my baby who still screaming. I cover my ears with my hands and strike the back of my head against the tile wall. I don’t feel the pain, but scream out in misery over something I don’t understand. I am not sure how much more I can take, how long can this go on before I break.
My husband says I am crazy, nuts, and psycho. He did nothing to help me, except to leave. He never tried to understand what it is like. How can I do this by myself, raise our children and care for our house?
Blood has begun to run out of my nose and over my shivering lips, I can’t figure out what I’m doing. The baby is quiet, I pray she has fallen asleep. I touch the blood that is now dripping onto my chest, it is warm, and I rub it into my skin. I look around in disgust at my bathroom. It has been weeks since I have cleaned in here. I despise the mess, yet find it impossible to complete any housework
I have forgotten what happiness feels like and have long since giving up hope it will return. I have spent many days lying in the fetal position on my bedroom floor, trying to convince myself that it may be a good idea to cut the soft tissue off my face, so maybe then others would understand my hurt. I consider it again. It could make no difference; my face is old now and so weak looking. The weight of pregnancy has changed my appearance to almost unrecognizable. I know my husband could not be attracted to me any more.
I hate this selfish act I play, I think sometimes I do it for attention. Can medication be an option, would that not mean that I am weak? If I accept I am unable to care for myself then I would also be admitting I can’t care for my children. My insanity could just be due to stress, or maybe finical problems. The source is all I need to fix these tears. I can’t even remember yesterday let alone when this all started. I sleep all day and stare all night. Something has to give.
I close my eyes and touch my face, my skin is icy, and clumps of my long dirty blonde hair are trapped in the dried blood. I think of my baby, sleeping safely on her bed. I have to get better for her. I have to recover before she thinks spending your days weeping is natural. Her beautiful face always gives me hope of a superior day tomorrow. She never judges me, and has a smile for me in every circumstance. I sit in this filthy bathroom when I could be with her, protective, and kind.
I have fallen apart, physically and mentally. I am weak and insecure, yet my exquisite baby sees me as perfect. How could someone that was made and carried in my body be so different, happy, and beautiful?
While I stand up and reach for my towel, I know I can change this, I can get help to recover. Knowledge of a problem’s existence is not enough to understand or fix it.
Little Miss Sylvia, lovely and sympathetic, I thank you my beautiful baby.
