Or more like the tell-tale heart. I believe one of the biggest blocks to my writing (other than my ever active self-censor) is an incident that happened at the beginning of this year. This incident has been weighing so heavily on my mind and conscience that I was unsure of how to tackle it - or whether I even should - in a blog post. I came to the conclusion that since I am attempting to write honestly about my battle with postpartum depression, I need to share the story of this event since it represents my lowest of low points during my long (and arguably still ongoing) battle with this disease.
We flew home to Illinois in January for a belated Christmas celebration figuring it would be less chaotic for Maggie's first flight. We were very nervous about traveling with our perpetually screamy infant, and my gut was in knots for fear of being "those people" on the flight. We talked to a lot of other parents to get tips for our trip, and decided to fly out on a red eye. It seemed like a brilliant idea at the time (and it probably is a brilliant idea for people with non-colicky babies). The theory is that you're working with their natural sleep rhythms and the airports and planes are quieter, darker and more conducive to sleep. Without going into great detail, I can tell you this plan failed miserably for us. Our Peanut DID NOT SLEEP. I think we finally got her to drift fitfully off for about an hour during the flight, but the entire time before and after that she - WE - were miserably awake. Then we had jet lag to deal with...
Once we arrived at our final destination, Peanut seemed to adjust well to all the commotion - thanks to awesome grandparents, aunties, uncles and cousins all more than willing to play, coo, read, sing and swing with her. I now know the trip was a lot harder on me, partly because I had wound myself up about it for so long before the trip even happened. I was already cranky, and then had the misconception that I would be able to hand the baby off to all the willing family members and have some personal time and get some rest. This was not the case. Though Peanut did quite well during the day, sleep - whether naptime or nighttime - was even more challenging than it was at home.
On our second day there, I was trying to put Peanut down for a nap. It was not going well. She was obviously tired and in need of a nap, and I was trying desperately to create some semblance of schedule while we were away from home. She screamed and cried and carried on... I normally would swaddle her and walk her around (and around and around...) until she'd fall asleep. I was attempting to do this, but she was fighting it - screaming, wriggling, protesting. I could feel myself losing my patience - quickly. My anger was accelerating. That feeling of losing control - of never really having had it to begin with - was making my brain spin. That's when it happened.
I bit the baby.
Like an animal.
As my teeth were encompassing her sweet, soft cheek flesh, I was even thinking, "Oh my GOD. I am BITING my child. What the HELL is going on???" She screamed and wailed even louder, of course. But this time the scream was not one of fatigue or frustration. It was the scream of pain and hurt, and I had caused it. I was instantly nauseous.
My grip on her softened, and I kissed her face and apologized over and over and over again. Shame swelled within me as tears streamed down our faces. Surely I am the worst mother to ever walk the face of the earth. I rushed downstairs with the baby still cradled in my arms to where my mother-in-law was. My husband was out, so I just asked her to send him up to me as soon as he returned which was mercifully soon afterwards.
Speaking the words of what I had done was by far one of the hardest things I'd ever done in my whole life. And it didn't get any easier having to repeat it. I knew I had to tell my mother-in-law, too, in large part because the following day she'd scheduled a photo shoot for all the cousins. AND I HAD BITTEN MY BABY. On her cheek. She had a big reddish purple ring on her cheek that would be preserved for all photographic eternity so I will never be able to forget what happened.
My husband and mother-in-law took over baby duty from me and I called my therapist. It wasn't any easier repeating it to her, either. It didn't help my guilt that my husband and mother-in-law helped concoct a story to tell the rest of the family about what happened to Peanut's cheek so that I wouldn't have to recount the atrocity: "She fell on a toy." God, it sounded just like the bullshit story the abused wife tells her friends, "I lost my balance and fell down the stairs." Even though I knew that my act of aggression had not come from a place of hatred or disgust for my child, it felt disgusting. I guess spousal abuse is not really about hatred either. It all comes down to power and control.
Part Two of this will deal with how I worked through the aftermath of this incident.
To be continued...
