GUILTY 5

BEFORE Danniella Waters December 5,2015 They’re calling it Postpartum Psychosis. It’s the only explainable answer they have for my behaviour and feelings as of late. It all started during the first week after Emerald was born. I knew something wasn’t right from the time she was conceived. From that very moment that I held out the stick that read positive. But Winston was so ecstatic, he’d always wanted a baby. We had talked about it briefly in the past. I made it abundantly clear that I didn’t want children. That my career would always come first in my life, and I planned on keeping it that way. Around the time that we found out, I had just been promoted to top ranking Project Manager, which meant higher pay and more responsibilities. The pregnancy couldn’t have come at a worse time. But despite our conversations in the past, Winston never took me quite seriously. No one did. I was used to my feelings being disregarded. Oh, you’re still young, you don’t know what you want yet. Or, You’ll change your mind. All women are meant to be mothers! Winston felt that way as well - that I would eventually change my views on child rearing. I tried to laugh off his ignorance and politely warn him - before he married me - that children were not in my foreseeable future. He was convinced that I’d change my mind one day. I guess he remained hopeful for that very thought. I came out of the bathroom crying. Once I saw the pink double lines, I broke. Aware of the fact that tests can sometimes reveal false positives, I took another. And another. And they all gave me the same result - Positive… You’re probably wondering what happened. Most women in my situation would have gotten an abortion. Most women wouldn’t have been persuaded by their husband’s sweet eyes and persistent cries. But whatever strength I had on refraining from child rearing seemed to dissolve as the weeks progressed. I began feeling Guilty for wanting to have an abortion. I was raised in a religious home - abortion is murder! Pro - Life! So the very thought alone, no matter how hard I tried to disregard my mother’s voice in my head, just seemed wrong to me. And with that guilt, and Winston’s persistence and excitement, I somehow came to the conclusion that I would keep the baby. That was my first mistake, deciding to keep an unwanted child solely for the sake of another person. There were a number of reasons why I never wanted children. The first and foremost was that I simply had no desire. I never felt ‘motherly’ feelings towards anything before. I’d watched my friends gush over babies over the years, dreaming of the day they’d have their own. I’d cringe and think, God help me if I ever get knocked up. But somehow even condoms and birth control couldn’t prevent my Emerald from being conceived. Maybe I wasn’t held enough as a child. My father used to tell me how much I hated being held. Said I was never much of a cuddler. Liam loved to be held, they said. Relished every minute of it. But every time they placed me on their laps or tried to hold me, I’d cry and squirm, trying to get away and be on my own. As a teenager I despised children, though I’d never make that sentiment obvious. I babysat a lot. For neighbours, teachers, my mother’s friends. I did it because I needed money. Teenagers buy a lot of things that they don’t need. I’d put on a big, fake smile, get real close to kids, tickle them, laugh with them, pick them up, anything really. Parents loved me. Said I was an angel with their children. An Angel. When the parents were out of sight, I couldn’t be bothered with the children. Thank God for the television, which became the easiest escape from my duties. Sometimes I’d find myself babysitting infants who were constantly crying and needing attention. I think that was what initially put me off from the idea of having children. They were so much work. And quite frankly, I felt neutral towards their existence. But it wasn’t just infants I despised. It was any small creature, really. I’d be sitting in the backyard, lounging in the sun or playing with Collin, when one of those strays would wander in. Collin loved the cats. He’d run inside and fetch them some treats. He loved petting them and spending time with them. But I was a different story. When they’d approach me, I’d glare at them until they got the hint to leave me alone. Clearly feline intuition isn’t as sharp as a humans, because they’d come over, rubbing their heads against my legs, purring. I’m not sure why my body lacked such empathy and compassion. But regardless of that fact, I sure as hell was good at faking it. If others were around, I’d smile and pet the cats, forcing giggles each time one of their whiskers brushed against my cheek. But as soon as I was alone again, I’d push them away and head inside. In the 11th grade I had to take a mandatory class called Parenthood and Family Planning. That is where I witnessed my first childbirth, onscreen. It was the single most graphic and volatile thing I ever saw. After that day, I swore I would always use condoms and vowed never to get pregnant. As if it’s something we can honestly control. My friends were a bit put off by the graphic footage, especially after viewing the birth of the placenta. Yet that still didn’t deter them from wanting children. My friend, Melanie, would go on and on about her perfect future family and the six children she would have. Six! Who in their right mind honestly plans for six children? Some families have accidents or don’t believe in contraceptives, but to actually plan for something of that capacity was downright impractical. I specifically remember this one conversation we had where Melanie was going on about the inherent need to have a baby and be a mother. To hold her baby’s fresh, naked body to her chest after giving birth. I remember thinking how strange that was. I suppose she must have thought the same thing about me. I mean, what kind of woman doesn’t want a baby? The second reason I didn’t want children was also simple. They were a burden, both financially and mentally. Winston and I make plenty of money, but this ideology of mine originated back when I was young and didn’t know what I was going to do with my life. I knew that my parents struggled sometimes, financially, and I always pinpointed the cause of their struggles to the fact that they had three children. I vowed I would never do that to myself - put myself through that kind of financial strain for a child. I also knew from early on that I wouldn’t be able to deal with a child, mentally. I witnessed first - hand the madness we brought upon our mother. She wasn’t an angry person, and rarely did she raise her voice. But there were times when she would get so angry that I regretted misbehaving. She didn’t deserve that. I must admit, we were a rambunctious bunch. People would call us the Crazy Cruze kids. But nonetheless, I knew that we weren’t the only crazy children on the planet. All children are crazy. And before they are crazy, they are whiny, and smelly, and constantly needing your undivided attention. You can’t leave the room without whining and tears. You Can’t go out for dinner without organizing a sitter. You Can’t live your life without worrying about another life first. I knew I wouldn’t be able to do it. Right from the get - go of our marriage, I made it clear that I did not want children. But Winston didn’t listen. So now the doctors are saying I have postpartum psychosis, which is a tad bit different from postpartum depression, because I’m not just depressed - I’ve gone fucking mad…. It’s not as simple as, ‘oh this new mom thing is tough,’ but rather, ‘I cannot live with myself right now. I can’t be a mother.’ At first it was the feeling of unease and anxiety. I felt from Emerald, as though I wasn’t actually her mother. I kept having second thoughts, like she wasn’t real, or that she wasn’t mine. I would think, Did I really give birth to her? And then, I can’t do this. I question myself, why did I become a mother? How did I ever let that fucking man talk me into this? The tears fall day and night. I can’t stop them, they come uncontrollably. I’ll be sitting at the kitchen table eating cereal, and then I just break down, sobbing over the bowl. Because I can’t fucking do this. I feel so disconnected from her. I never bonded with her like new moms are supposed to. When they cut the umbilical cord and placed her in my arms, I felt emotionless, detached. I didn’t smile or cry tears of joy. I felt lost. Confused. Swimming in a sea that is constantly trying to swallow me whole. Aside from this feeling of disconnect also comes constant feelings of aggravation and anger. I’m not a snappy person. I’m actually quite surprised how calm and patient I can be at times. But lately, all I want to do is yell and cry. A magnet falls off the fridge and I’m cursing. Someone accidentally bumps into me and my blood pressure rises. The house will be quiet, Emerald just settled down in her crib, and right before I can relax, she’s screaming and crying again, And then I’m screaming and crying again. And then I’m screaming and crying and ripping the hair out of my scalp. Winston had had to take the past few weeks off work so he can stay home and monitor both me and the baby. I feel weak. I feel hopeless. The feeling that this darkness will never end. As though the light at the end of the tunnel has died out and there is no hope of it ever being lit again. That the depression and the mania have taken over my life, moved in and declared permanent residency. That s the worst part - feeling that there is no hope. No, the worst part is that I don’t even feel guilty. As though I should somehow feel bad that I’m feeling this way. That I should want my baby daughter, and willing to do anything to get better so that I can be with her and help her. But I can’t. I don’t want to. The guilt isn’t there. I don’t even feel bad. I couldn’t care less. Emotionless, Numb. I don’t want her. She’s not my daughter. I don’t want this. I never wanted this…