She was momentarily stunned. How did he see her so clearly? “I don’t know, Doctor. I just . . .” She couldn’t say it.
“You just what?”
“I just don’t think I’m getting better.” She shivered, shocked that she had said this out loud. And then the tears started forming. Her nose pricked. She was furious with herself. If she started crying, she wouldn’t stop. She could finally drive herself here and needed to remain composed enough to get herself back home.
“What is it that you are expecting to feel? What will tell you that you are ‘better’？”
She didn’t know how to answer that question. She had expected that things would start to change. That she wouldn’t feel devastated and empty when William was asleep, and then miserable and put out the minute he awoke. She expected her saggy belly to tighten and her bust to perk back up—for her body to be as it was before. That’s what had happened after John and Maisy were born. She expected not to feel filled with hatred for her husband every time he came home from a satisfying day at the store, where he scraped together enough extra money for this therapy that was supposed to be helping.
Nothing had changed, and she didn’t know how she would ever get better if nothing changed.
But she didn’t have the words to say any of this. So instead, she just let the tears take over. Dr. Apter sat calmly, watching her for nearly five minutes. He handed her a box of Kleenex. She felt like a circus act.
Finally, he spoke. “I see that you are feeling very upset. Do you know what is making you cry right now?” Margaret shook her head no. Even though she did. “Are you sure? I have a feeling that you actually do know, you just won’t allow yourself to say it.” He was baiting her. But he was right.
“Fine.” She looked down at her hands like a petulant child. Embarrassed and ashamed. “I feel like I am hopeless.”
“Nothing is hopeless.”
She felt his gaze upon her and looked up to see his brown eyes piercing her, as if trying to look into her soul.
“What else do you feel? You often talk about failure but, I wonder, do you also feel angry? Resentful?”
Her stomach dropped. Yes. Yes. Yes! Could she really admit this, even to him? She nodded her head, a gentle yes. “I suppose.” She took a deep breath. She couldn’t possibly say more.
“Tell me about those feelings, Margaret.”
She shook her head no, shrugging him off as the tears started to well up again.
“Margaret, if you can’t tell me what is happening inside of you, I can’t help you.”
“Fine,” she almost yelled, the dam bursting inside her. “I can’t do it! I simply can’t do it! I had a life once, you know? I was gonna be a nurse. I was gonna help people. But that doesn’t matter, does it? That wasn’t important once I got to do the most natural and significant job in the world. To be a mother. And I can’t even do that right. I am failing at the one thing in the world that no one is supposed to fail at. I thought I would be something, that my life would mean something, and, instead, it just feels like I am tending to a never-ending hole of other people’s need. I’m supposed to enjoy this, but I despise every minute of every day except when I’m sleeping. And sometimes I wonder if I should just let myself slip away forever, if everyone would be better off without me.” She couldn’t believe she had admitted this. Her darkest secret.
“Margaret, it’s all right.” She couldn’t believe he was so calm and unfazed by her tantrum. “What you are feeling is not uncommon. In fact, there is a term for what you are experiencing.”
“Yes, I know, the ‘baby blues’？” She took a deep, ragged breath and looked at him. “It’s not supposed to be like this, though.”