A Fellow Writer and Her Inner Battle

Whether you are a writer or a mother or both, please take a moment to learn more about PMAD (Perinatal Mood and Anxiety Disorder). I should think it’s no surprise that growing children inside and out will impact a woman’s body in negative ways, but we often don’t think about what those ways are. Time to find out!

Click here to read “My PMAD Gets No Respect, Part II,” by Dyane

Roads

Two weeks ago I took a trip to visit “Rachel.” A cancerous tumor had been discovered in my friend’s brain stem, and while the removal was a success, she would need to live in a rehab facility for the longest, toughest phase of physical therapy.

I avoided the interstate on purpose.

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20150623_082913When one breaks from the suburban south of Wisconsin, one enters a clear, open space, where farms still live and die by the land. Because I had no deadline, I paused often on the road.

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20150623_08224320150623_084305I loved how every road felt worth a journey, from the well-tended to the unpainted. The farmlands themselves felt perfect for a hike (trespassing aside).

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20150623_082924And the run-down places begged for a looksee.

20150623_084653I crossed over a heavily-treed river and noticed a small waterfall—manmade, I figured. As was the mill.

A skeleton of a mill.

20150623_083514_HDRAnd it was beautiful.

I watched the water fall and cast ripples, carry sticks and leaves under the bridge, to the other side, and beyond. As a mother of young children, I am often not allowed to admire natural wonders. The blink of an eye can mean a missed mill. It can also mean a missed child.

So when these moments away from family come, and I am allotted hours to lose myself in the partly-tamed wilds, that is precisely what I will do. As a mother, it allows me a moment to breathe and enjoy the quiet. As a writer, I am reacquainted with the quintessential rural setting. Lose yourself in the natural world around you, and discover a wealth of sensual touches to make your created worlds real.

For more images of Wisconsin, please see “Where and Why I Write” as well as “The Need for Place.”

The Machete and the Cradle

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Jason Voorhees first took up residence a few months after my daughter was born. Most think Voorhees = hockey mask and machete. Well, our relationship didn’t start that way. He came as he did in Friday the 13th Part 2, an ogre of a being with a bag over his head, one cut hole for a yellow eye to peer through. He came in, sat on our couch, and stayed there. No machete, just a second bag and some twine. He sat quietly as my daughter and I played, fed, or worked. If I turned to him, he’d hold out that second bag.

One evening, my husband arrived from work to see our daughter in her bouncy seat, bored, and me sitting next to Jason Voorhees with a bag over my head.

“What’s wrong?”

I tried to open my mouth, but the burlap felt coarse and painful against my lips. So I said nothing, sitting there with one eye on my daughter to make sure she was safe, and the other eye lost to woven doubt and self-loathing. My husband undid the knot, took the bag off my head, and handed it to Jason. Jason shifted himself down to make room. My husband held my hand and slowly worked me off the couch back to our family.

This routine continued on for a few months. All three of us grew tired of Jason, sitting on the couch, filling the hallway, losing the books and movies that we enjoyed for a little escape, hiding our daughter’s favorite snugglers so we couldn’t get her to sleep.

I’d show him the door. He’d hand out the bag. I’d take the bag.

In a rare outing where I actually sat somewhere with no baby (but with Jason), a friend revealed her latest endeavor in the classroom: NaNoWriMo.

“Nano-what?”

“NaNoWriMo. National Novel Writing Month. It’s a challenge to write a 50,000 word story in thirty days. My kids are pretty excited.”

Something shifted in me. It had been years since graduate school, where I struggled to write proper literary stuff. If I could write what I really wanted and do my online job and raise an infant…

Jason’s single eye darted between us quizzically, coffee spilling onto his overalls.

I ignored him. “When’s it start?”

At 10:30 on the night of November 30th, I reached the 50,000 word mark. The door to our apartment clicked shut. I found a bag outside my workroom with a small length of twine.

Two years later, I gave birth to twin boys. Within the first month, in the midst of mud and lightning, Jason Voorhees resurrected, and this time, he came with a machete.

How do I describe what it’s like to fantasize killing my own children?

Jason said nothing, but that machete glistened in the softness of the boys’ nightlight. It sparkled like a magical wand. It promised peace with a mere knick knack, paddy-whack. I had to pass Jason nearly every hour of the night to feed one boy, then the other, oh of course one woke up, damn he shat everywhere, which one is this again?

Sometimes Jason held out an oven mitt above a boy’s face. Sometimes his machete pointed towards the stairs. Sometimes I heard a whisper, which could not have been me yet Jason never speaks so…If he wants to scream, give him a reason. Those fingers are so small, no one’ll notice if one’s broken. Drop the little fucker. These could not be my thoughts. But I knew they were me, they sounded like me when I’m thinking about what shirt to wear or what to make for my daughter’s lunch. And with every thought comes a lurch inside, an Honest-to-God turning of the stomach that made me want to take that machete and cut myself open to find whatever was whispering these things so it couldn’t hurt my sons, who in only one month of life had already shown such mischievous spirits.

Then came the colic. Jason Goes to Hell comes to mind.

The lowest moment: driving my younger son to the emergency room. A Wisconsin winter night, bitterly freezing, the road coated with black ice, and my son won’t stop screaming. We called yet again trying to understand why one boy’s colic subsided while the other’s grew worse, and finally a nurse said with a yawn that it could be acid reflux. Of course, there’s no good way to fight acid reflux with infants. You have to wait it out. Fuck you. We’re not waiting it out anymore. Give me meds to shut this kid up or…or…

Jason rode shotgun.

Dump him. Dump him and go home. He’ll freeze fast. He’s baptized. He’ll be happy in Heaven, away from you. You never wanted twins. You don’t want this one. He’ll always be like this. Stop there and dump him.

Silence.

I stopped the car.

My son, asleep. His torso shook up and down to the jerky rhythm of his exhausted breathing. It was, by my meager standards, a miracle.

A few days later, another miracle: all three of my kids napping at the same time.

I opened my novel, the NaNoWriMo project from my daughter’s infancy, and started to read. And revised. Revised some more as I nursed my sons. Wrote notes while I played with them, brainstormed ideas with them aloud. Continued the story in whatever free minutes I could find.

There stood Jason, his machete’s sparkle gone. I came forward with dragons, trolls, shapeshifters, and goblins at the edge of darkness, where my worlds began. I held out my hand, and let the bag and twine fall to the ground at his feet.

My twins are two now, and adorably terrible to everyone, especially their big sister. Jason’s still out there, hacking at the darkness, bursts of spark-light about his face, a fragment of nightmare that will never vanish completely.

The boys climb up my legs while my daughter wraps her arms around my neck. I am bombarded with giggles and toddler tickles. I am armored with a love that no blade can nick.

I am also trapped in the chair.

My daughter bonks me with a hard cover. “Let’s read a story!”

Let’s.