Seen
By Allie King
@alliehking
I sit in silence, cradling my agitated three-month-old daughter in an oversized glider. My mind feels as dark as the night outside the window. We rock to a rhythm, a failing attempt to steady us both. Thoughts swirl like autumn leaves in the wind. I grasp for them, but the gusty breeze snatches them up as soon as they’re at my fingertips.
Words are always my way out, but I have so few of them right now. Still, I do the only thing I know to do: I whisper prayers into thin air, and I gather the only words I can find.
I am underwater
I cannot find air
I am Drowning
Silenced by the waves
How do I tell you
I am Drowning
If I find air
Then I am not
Drowning
I am only ashamed
Of having
Drowned
***
Three months earlier, the evening before our daughter’s induction date, I texted my husband: “Will you pick up a family meal at Cracker Barrel on your way home?”
His mom was coming into town to stay with our firstborn. I wanted to welcome her with a warm, home-cooked meal, but my feet were swollen up like two oven mitts, and I’d been on the edge of an emotional breakdown all day. Also, I wanted macaroni and cheese. My husband sent me a thumbs-up, and I placed the order.
At 5:30 p.m., I texted him: “Your mom’s here! See ya soon.” At 6:30 p.m., he responded: “Still waiting on the food.” A few minutes later, I called him. I could hear the frustration in his voice as he explained that yes, he was still waiting, and no, he didn’t know why it was taking so long.
Back at home, I chatted with my mother-in-law and tried to contain my hungry toddler.
“Mommy, I go outside?” my son asked.
“Not right now, buddy,” I said. “It’s cold and rainy.”
“I pay in da rain, Mommy! Peeease!” he whined.
I tried to keep the conversation going with my gracious mother-in-law, but my son’s pleas grew louder by the second.
“OK, fine, buddy, sure. You can go outside,” I finally conceded. Some battles are not worth fighting at 39-weeks pregnant.
He flopped around at my feet, struggling to pull on his rain boots. I felt especially tender knowing this was our last night with him as my only child, so I lowered myself down to the floor to help him. He scooted back into me, barely fitting onto my then-miniscule lap. I felt the weight of his two-year-old body. His wispy hair tickled my nose. Without warning, tears pricked my eyes and my mind raced with questions: Would our relationship change? Would he feel less loved? Was I capable of loving two children?
I kept my head down as I pulled his first boot on and tried to keep talking, but my voice caught. My mother-in-law noticed and looked down at me in confusion.
“Oh goodness,” I tried to laugh. “Just feeling nervous, I guess,” I said, my cheeks growing warm.
I wiggled his second boot on and shooed him out the door, excusing myself to the bathroom. I wished it were only nerves, but the panic rising in my chest and the sobs rising in my throat told me otherwise. I closed the bathroom door and flipped on the fan, praying its hum would disguise my cries. My back slid down the wall. My knees pulled into my chest. Inhale; exhale, I demanded, but my breathing only grew shallower and more labored. I recognized the feeling—the pull of a riptide I couldn’t escape—so I let the waves take me under, succumbing to their power until they washed me ashore.
***
I’m driving home from one of many postpartum physical therapy appointments, processing through yet another complication from my delivery three months ago. Obstinate tears blur my vision. Jagged breaths fill my lungs.
This is dangerous, I think. I should pull over until I can calm down. But instead, my foot jams the gas pedal harder. My arms stiffen until my elbows lock. My hands jerk to the right. My mind screams STOP. My hands listen, correcting back to the middle, but then my eyes dart to the edge of the road. A small drop-off and then an open field. My rib cage heaves; my heart slams against the walls of my chest. My eyes fixate on the side of the road, and my mind swirls. I veer to the right again before a sudden surge of panic fills my veins. My eyes jolt forward. My brain screams again: STOP, STOP, STOP.
By the grace of God, my hands obey, and all at once, the raging waters calm. My hand flies to my chest. My jaw hangs slack. A sob escapes my mouth. Horror washes over me, and shame immediately follows.
I come home rattled. But the babysitter has to leave and the children must be fed. So I feed and clean and diaper and play. Outside my head, my world is ordinary, but inside my head, my life is a storm.
A day later, I work up the courage to recount the story to my therapist. I study my fingernails as I talk, afraid of what I’ll find in her eyes if she sees mine. Although I’ve been under her care for postpartum depression and anxiety on and off for the past two years, this specific territory feels foreign.
“This is your body signaling for help,” she says. “Research shows sleep deprivation causes suicidal ideations.”
I finally look up to find her eyes, calm and even.
“You need sleep first and foremost, but you also need support. Allie, you’ve got to talk to the people who love you.”
I don’t know how—but later that day, I try.
“I’m so tired of going to doctor appointments and physical therapy sessions,” I tell my husband after the kids are asleep. He nods, understanding my current life solely consists of medical appointments, a toddler, and a newborn.
“My PT ran into another setback during my appointment yesterday, and I may need surgery,” I say, managing not to cry.
“I’m really sorry,” he says, and I know he means it. His sympathy gives me the courage to continue.
“I think I sort-of had a panic attack on the drive home. It’s like half of me was trying to drive off the road, and the other half wouldn’t let it.”
He freezes, eyes set on mine. “What? What do you mean?” His body is tense, eyes wide with panic. I am mortified. I don’t know why I told him.
“I mean, I knew I wouldn’t. Couldn’t. It just scared me,” I say, trying to back-step.
“Oh.” He stares at me for a moment, and I realize I’ve let him see something he will never unsee. But then his gaze softens, and I wonder if maybe I’m glad for it.
Later that night, he retrieves a bag of breast milk from the freezer and sets a bottle on the counter. We typically save my freezer stash for emergencies or date nights. He sets a pair of headphones by the glider and a pillow on the couch.
“What are you doing?” I ask, despite already knowing the answer.
“Go to sleep,” he says. “I got her tonight.”
***
It’s an ordinary Tuesday, but regular weekdays still feel like triathlons right now. My newborn daughter still nurses throughout the night, and my two-year-old son still resists every change his sister causes.
I fix my son a four-course snack plate, hoping my charcuterie skills will buy me enough time to lay my overtired daughter down for a nap. I slip out of the kitchen and into the nursery, bouncing and swaying. Her eyelids are flickering when my son busts through the door.
“Mommy! Need you!”
My daughter’s eyelids fling open. I motion my son out of the room, trying to scoot him out with my knee, but that only turns his plea into a cry. His cry elicits her cry, and now they’re both screaming.
I am paralyzed, not knowing how to help them, not knowing how to help me. The tidal wave surges. I put my crying baby in her crib and walk past my toddler out of the room. I scream into the nearest couch cushion, digging my fist into a throw pillow. This feels oddly calming, so I try again, a little harder. I am punching my sofa like I’m at the gym when I realize someone’s standing at my back door. I stop and look up. My mom and dad, both wide-eyed, stand bewildered watching their calm middle child assaulting her couch in the middle of a Tuesday afternoon. I forgot they were stopping by.
My eyes meet my mom’s as she flings the door open.
“What happened? Are you OK?” she shouts, rushing to my side.
“I can’t get her to sleep,” I cry. “And he won’t eat lunch,” I mumble, ashamed of myself.
My mom scoops up my baby and my dad tends to my toddler.
I collapse on the couch, focusing on deep, steady breaths. Something washes over me in the place of embarrassment, but I can’t quite name it. The heat trapped in my chest evaporates. My heart rate slows and my shoulders soften. My mind settles like a wave that’s found its way to shore.
Words are always my way out, but I have so few of them right now. Still, I do the only thing I know to do: I whisper prayers into thin air, and I gather the only words I can find.
Thank You, thank you, for seeing me.
Guest essay written by Allie King. Allie is a creativity enthusiast who’s spent much of her life dreaming up DIY projects and writing about interior design. Now, she’s a full-time mama learning how creativity exists alongside dirty diapers and spilled smoothies. As an Enneagram 4, she finds solace writing about life’s most emotional trials and triumphs—and the way faith shapes them. She lives in Knoxville, Tennessee, with her husband, son, and daughter. You can find more of her words on Instagram or on her website.