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When I Wanted to Die
In 1998 after my daughter was born, I became two people. The mother who loved her child, and the woman who wanted to die. Not forever. Just dead for a little while.
In a quiet, distant voice I tell my husband Mark that I want to die. Not exactly dead I say, but not this.
I tell him not to worry. I tell him love, guilt and duty will always matter more. This is what I am supposed to say. That is what a good mother says.
But right now he has to understand.
“Mark, do you know what I’m saying? I want to die. But I won’t. Because I shouldn’t. Because you and our daughter mean more than anything in the world. And you both need me.”
At night I sing our daughter to sleep, rhyming her name with nonsensical Seuss-y words. I smile. The real kind, reflexive, above the sadness.
Mark listens that morning as I describe my half death wish.
Somehow he manages to bring me back for a moment. He reminds me of the strong woman he married. He props me up with soothing words.
“I don’t know what to say. But it will be okay babe, I promise. You’re an incredible mother.” He looks pale and shell-shocked.