“I’m Fine.”

I needed to let her cry. I had nothing left.

A mother’s memoir, a work-in-progress—chapter TBD.

It was late. Everyone should’ve been asleep.

“Mama, Mama, please, please. Come back.” Babygirl’s sobs bounced off the high ceilings, down the hall, into our bedroom.

“Why is she crying?” he asked.

“Leave her,” I said.

“Mama, mama, come back.”

Babygirl was crying. Crying for me. It was always for me, never him. I needed to let her cry. I had nothing left.

The bedtime routine had failed: reading, snuggling, meditation, homeopathics. Her nervous system was fried; she couldn’t settle. I ran my interrogation. What did I miss? How could I’ve mitigated the assaults? She was a “Sensory Seeker.” Her body, in constant battle, craved stimulation, but the more she got, the less regulated she became. She was eight years old. This wasn’t new. I was drowning.

Jake threw back the comforter and got out of bed.

“Leave her,” I said. I was no longer demanding. I was begging.

He couldn’t bear his daughter’s cries, and his stumble out of bed didn’t hide his disgust at my compassionless response. Fine, go, I thought. Play superhero.

Before I could stop them, the words flew out, “Do you have any idea the horrible thoughts in my head right now?”

My outburst jolted him out of his slumber. His body stiffened and a cocktail of panic, concern, and frustration consumed his face. “Do I need to be worried?” He asked. Dr. Stone’s question echoed in the back of his mind — “Does your wife appear suicidal?” It was a question he’d never entertained. I’d masked my spirals in function. I’d controlled the narrative, controlled everything — better his wife was a bitch than weak.

I never told him. I’d never tell him. I wouldn’t burden him with the thoughts running loose in my head.

They’d be better off without me. I caused pain. I made everything worse. Was I suicidal? No, not suicidal. My thoughts weren’t practical, how-to’s, calculating how many pills I needed not to wake up. My thoughts were how much better their lives would be if I didn’t wake up.

Wanting to be dead and wanting to kill yourself are not the same.

“Should I be worried?” The pull between wife and child paced his words, each syllable more defined.

I had to get it together.

Gripping the edges of the bedsheet, in the shadows nearing midnight, he couldn’t see the truth. He only heard my assurance, my retraction, my veneer. “No,” I said. “I’m fine.”

In his gait, I saw frustration overtake his panic. Good. The burden of annoyance was better than the burden of worry. He could focus on his child. He could do what I, her mother, wouldn’t.

The sharpened nail of my ring finger cut deep into my palm. The pain was a familiar comfort.

“No. No,” Babygirl’s screams found my ears. Jake had reached her room. “Get out! Get out! I said Mama!”

“I want Mama.”

Thank you for coming on my journey. Here’s more you might enjoy.