If You Leave
We are all this way now.
Me and my children (my, not our).
If you leave, we are afraid you won't come back.
My (not our) daughter does it. She did it this past week, a few nights ago.
I was going out for a few hours. On a date. Four hours. To see a show.
She cried for 90 minutes.
Did not want me to leave.
I said "have I ever not come back?"
She said "no."
(but you could not come back, mom. we both know it)
I said "I will come back, and you can text me the whole time,
and when I come back I will kiss you and everything will be ok."
(except if something happens. oh god please don't let anything happen to me. please please please)
She cried for 90 minutes.
The last time she saw her father he was sitting at a kitchen table and she was six years old and getting ready for camp with her shorts and sneakers and a backpack with a bathing suit and sunscreen and bug spray and it was a Tuesday. It was just a Tuesday. And we scrambled out the door to get her and her brother to the camp bus on time and I don't even know if he said I love you to her. I don't remember.
My (not our) son does it. He does it all the time.
We leave the room he is in and he follows us, like a shadow.
He cannot be in a room by himself.
He hates to even be in the bathroom by himself.
He finds me and he says "mommy, nobody is staying in the room with me."
And I say "it's ok, I am just in this room, right next to that room."
And he sits down in the room I am in.
(if I can't see you, mom, you may not really still be here)
The last time he saw his father he was sitting at a kitchen table and he was four years old and getting ready for camp with his shorts and sneakers and a backpack with a bathing suit and sunscreen and bug spray and it was a Tuesday. It was just a Tuesday. And we scrambled out the door to get him and his sister to the camp bus on time and I don't even know if he said I love you to him. I don't remember.
My (not our) littlest boy does it.
But he is four and it is sort of normal.
I think? I think it is normal for a four year old to worry that I will disappear if I leave.
And honestly, he is not as worried as the other two.
He was only 18 months old. He doesn't even remember his father's face or arms or voice.
I do it.
I do it sometimes.
I do it more than I ever wish I did.
If I love you, and you leave me, even for a few hours, I will worry about you coming back. I will worry if I am worth returning for.
I will say "when will you be back?"
And you will give me a time. And I will put that time in my head. And I will think about that time while you are gone. I will tell myself it will be ok. He will come back. He will come back. This is the time he will come back.
My mom left us after she had chemo.
My father and I nursed her back to health, watched her hair fall out in the shower, got her dressed, fed her food. And when she was done with chemo, and she had her strength back, she told me and my little sister one afternoon that she no longer wanted to be a mommy.
She said "I want to live my life."
Living her life meant not being a mother.
And she left.
And then she left even more.
The last time I saw my mom she told me she was sorry for what she had done, as I was hugging her bones and her papery, scarred skin, and showing her my three month old baby. She told me she was sorry she did not know how to be a good mother. She asked for my forgiveness.
The last time I saw my husband he was sitting at a kitchen table and he had just raped me the night before and I was getting the kids ready for camp with their shorts and sneakers and backpacks with bathing suits and sunscreen and bug spray and it was a Tuesday. It was just a Tuesday. And I scrambled out the door to get my (not our) son and my (not our) daughter to the camp bus on time and I don't know what I said to him or what he said to me. I don't remember.
And then we left.
And then he left.
We are all this way now.
Me and my children (my, not our).
If you leave, we are afraid you won't come back.
Me and my children (my, not our).
If you leave, we are afraid you won't come back.
My (not our) daughter does it. She did it this past week, a few nights ago.
I was going out for a few hours. On a date. Four hours. To see a show.
She cried for 90 minutes.
Did not want me to leave.
I said "have I ever not come back?"
She said "no."
(but you could not come back, mom. we both know it)
I said "I will come back, and you can text me the whole time,
and when I come back I will kiss you and everything will be ok."
(except if something happens. oh god please don't let anything happen to me. please please please)
She cried for 90 minutes.
The last time she saw her father he was sitting at a kitchen table and she was six years old and getting ready for camp with her shorts and sneakers and a backpack with a bathing suit and sunscreen and bug spray and it was a Tuesday. It was just a Tuesday. And we scrambled out the door to get her and her brother to the camp bus on time and I don't even know if he said I love you to her. I don't remember.
My (not our) son does it. He does it all the time.
We leave the room he is in and he follows us, like a shadow.
He cannot be in a room by himself.
He hates to even be in the bathroom by himself.
He finds me and he says "mommy, nobody is staying in the room with me."
And I say "it's ok, I am just in this room, right next to that room."
And he sits down in the room I am in.
(if I can't see you, mom, you may not really still be here)
The last time he saw his father he was sitting at a kitchen table and he was four years old and getting ready for camp with his shorts and sneakers and a backpack with a bathing suit and sunscreen and bug spray and it was a Tuesday. It was just a Tuesday. And we scrambled out the door to get him and his sister to the camp bus on time and I don't even know if he said I love you to him. I don't remember.
My (not our) littlest boy does it.
But he is four and it is sort of normal.
I think? I think it is normal for a four year old to worry that I will disappear if I leave.
And honestly, he is not as worried as the other two.
He was only 18 months old. He doesn't even remember his father's face or arms or voice.
I do it.
I do it sometimes.
I do it more than I ever wish I did.
If I love you, and you leave me, even for a few hours, I will worry about you coming back. I will worry if I am worth returning for.
I will say "when will you be back?"
And you will give me a time. And I will put that time in my head. And I will think about that time while you are gone. I will tell myself it will be ok. He will come back. He will come back. This is the time he will come back.
My mom left us after she had chemo.
My father and I nursed her back to health, watched her hair fall out in the shower, got her dressed, fed her food. And when she was done with chemo, and she had her strength back, she told me and my little sister one afternoon that she no longer wanted to be a mommy.
She said "I want to live my life."
Living her life meant not being a mother.
And she left.
And then she left even more.
The last time I saw my mom she told me she was sorry for what she had done, as I was hugging her bones and her papery, scarred skin, and showing her my three month old baby. She told me she was sorry she did not know how to be a good mother. She asked for my forgiveness.
The last time I saw my husband he was sitting at a kitchen table and he had just raped me the night before and I was getting the kids ready for camp with their shorts and sneakers and backpacks with bathing suits and sunscreen and bug spray and it was a Tuesday. It was just a Tuesday. And I scrambled out the door to get my (not our) son and my (not our) daughter to the camp bus on time and I don't know what I said to him or what he said to me. I don't remember.
And then we left.
And then he left.
We are all this way now.
Me and my children (my, not our).
If you leave, we are afraid you won't come back.
This is very powerful. As someone whose life has also been affected by suicide, I can identify with a lot of the feelings you’ve described. Thank you for writing this and for being brave enough to post it where others can read it.
ReplyDeleteI don't know if this will help you. But I reacted in ways that really surprised me to my first son's birth.
ReplyDeleteFor the first 4 months or so, I felt great. I helped with feedings, I loved the little kid. Until a severe, inexplicable depression hit.
There I was, a nurse in a stable profession as a nurse. A newborn son who was...well...a difficult infant, even though he had no real health challenges. I had only a year ago started in the ICU, and that is a stressful job, but I was having no real problems.
The depression was deep. It went on for a year. My (now-ex) was supportive in the beginning, but grew impatient and angry and accusatory as it went on for some 9 months. I struggled.
At one point, I had a brand new insulin pen I'd accidentally left in my pocket form a patient who'd been discharged. I thought about it. This could end my pain. In retrospect, having researched further years later, it would have been a terrible and painful way to try to leave the world.
Ultimately, my responsibilities kept me from doing it. It was just sort of like a fantasy I would lean on when the depression was at its worst.
Now that I have 2 healthy boys that are 7 and 9, I often think about how much happier I am that they are older. Men, I believe, do not much care for those first one or two years. We picture trowing basketballs and footballs and frisbees with our boys. We don't think much about how long it will take to get to that point.
My ex turned on me about halfway through that depression, and we never really recovered. Even though she is a nurse, and she has a sister who has Borderline Personality Disorder and a mother who is chronically depressed, and that she is a nurse also, she became intolerant of my state and, IMO, never got over it. She is also not what I consider a "forgiving" person.
I also did a little research, and it is not that uncommon for a man to go through their own form of postpartum depression. We don't all get through it.
I hope this helps more that it might hurt.
Thank you for your bravery. This piece is so sadly beautiful. This is such a small club to be in, we rarely get to hear from other members, and I've read this four times.
ReplyDeleteA couple of years ago, I was lucky enough to talk to David Sedaris. Book signing. His sister killed herself the day before my brother tied a sheet to a pipe and jumped off a chair.
That was the last time.
A couple of years ago.
I know it was fucking hard to write.
Brava and thank you.
Thank you