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Authors: Rachel L. Jeffers
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and when I did, I was met with overwhelming guilt for the woman I had been.
It is his ninth birthday today, and he had asked everyone for money, instead of gifts so that he could save for a camcorder. It came as no shock to me when the family showered him with money because he is the kind of boy you want to give the very thing you love most. He, however, is shocked at his good fortune and says, "Mom, I think I can buy Maggie a Nintendo DS!" "But, Sam," I say, not wanting to discourage his generosity, "that would be half of your birthday money. You won't have enough for the camcorder."
"That's okay, Mom," he says, "I can buy some Lego sets and then I can buy Kirk a game for his birthday, and then I can buy Maggie a DS." I gently suggest that maybe we tuck the money aside and think about it a little later, while telling him that he is a very, very sweet boy. He is satisfied with letting the subject go for the time being, but I know my Sam, and when his heart speaks, there is no stopping the outpouring of love. He simply cannot help himself. He is the kindest person I have ever known, and each day that I spend loving him, becomes another day that I bow my head and thank God that He loved me enough to send this little boy to light my path. I have no doubt, he is the very gift that would lift me from darkness, one scribbled note at a time.
***
It was in those early months after Sam's birth that I cringed while driving over a bridge, or near a guardrail that stood just feet away from a fatal embankment. My fear was not that the bridge would collapse, or that I would lose control and plunge over the embankment. My fear was that in a moment's time, impulse would decide my fate and I would finally have the courage to drive off the bridge or sail over the guard rail. These feelings came over me without warning and I was terrified that without consulting my brain, I might just do the unthinkable.
After all, what waited for me at home? A baby with numerous health issues, a brooding and silent giant who would not acknowledge me when I spoke, and would refuse to talk to me for days, leaving me to guess at what evil I had committed.
Surrounded by friends bouncing happy babies on their hips, watching their husband's careers take off, buying houses, taking vacations, living their happy-ever-after only served to alienate me further. With mounting credit card debt, a one hundred year old reconstituted farm house, no expendable cash, and a husband whose job would be the same job in twenty years that was now, I was alone. My words became less and less, the only one with whom I could truly communicate refusing to acknowledge my existence.
I draw a hot bath in the old-fashioned tub, which thankfully we kept when renovating the house. It keeps the water at a steaming boil for an hour. I sink into its mercy, staring straight ahead at the faucet, watching rivulets of water drop one by one into the vast pool where they seemed to belong. There is only the sound of water as it caresses my body, working to relieve some of the tension of the day. I close my eyes and my face is already flushed and clammy, my hair sticking to my temples. I indulge myself for a moment before reaching for the razor, knowing that after I shave I will want to drain the water. Then, without an invitation, comes the hateful voice.
"It is a good night to kill yourself," are the words that echo in my head, and I sit upright, furious that they have invaded this sacred space. In that moment, I have had enough. Months of plaguing insinuations, temptations, and unbidden suggestions have clung to me like a dirty sweatshirt that one wears every day, not realizing that its seeming comfort and promise of warmth is in fact an ugly mask for the beauty that lies underneath.
I whisper a prayer, and though it is soft, I hear the sound that my words make as they fill the silent space around me, and they are firm. They are strong. They boldly require an audience, and there is no
It is his ninth birthday today, and he had asked everyone for money, instead of gifts so that he could save for a camcorder. It came as no shock to me when the family showered him with money because he is the kind of boy you want to give the very thing you love most. He, however, is shocked at his good fortune and says, "Mom, I think I can buy Maggie a Nintendo DS!" "But, Sam," I say, not wanting to discourage his generosity, "that would be half of your birthday money. You won't have enough for the camcorder."
"That's okay, Mom," he says, "I can buy some Lego sets and then I can buy Kirk a game for his birthday, and then I can buy Maggie a DS." I gently suggest that maybe we tuck the money aside and think about it a little later, while telling him that he is a very, very sweet boy. He is satisfied with letting the subject go for the time being, but I know my Sam, and when his heart speaks, there is no stopping the outpouring of love. He simply cannot help himself. He is the kindest person I have ever known, and each day that I spend loving him, becomes another day that I bow my head and thank God that He loved me enough to send this little boy to light my path. I have no doubt, he is the very gift that would lift me from darkness, one scribbled note at a time.
***
It was in those early months after Sam's birth that I cringed while driving over a bridge, or near a guardrail that stood just feet away from a fatal embankment. My fear was not that the bridge would collapse, or that I would lose control and plunge over the embankment. My fear was that in a moment's time, impulse would decide my fate and I would finally have the courage to drive off the bridge or sail over the guard rail. These feelings came over me without warning and I was terrified that without consulting my brain, I might just do the unthinkable.
After all, what waited for me at home? A baby with numerous health issues, a brooding and silent giant who would not acknowledge me when I spoke, and would refuse to talk to me for days, leaving me to guess at what evil I had committed.
Surrounded by friends bouncing happy babies on their hips, watching their husband's careers take off, buying houses, taking vacations, living their happy-ever-after only served to alienate me further. With mounting credit card debt, a one hundred year old reconstituted farm house, no expendable cash, and a husband whose job would be the same job in twenty years that was now, I was alone. My words became less and less, the only one with whom I could truly communicate refusing to acknowledge my existence.
I draw a hot bath in the old-fashioned tub, which thankfully we kept when renovating the house. It keeps the water at a steaming boil for an hour. I sink into its mercy, staring straight ahead at the faucet, watching rivulets of water drop one by one into the vast pool where they seemed to belong. There is only the sound of water as it caresses my body, working to relieve some of the tension of the day. I close my eyes and my face is already flushed and clammy, my hair sticking to my temples. I indulge myself for a moment before reaching for the razor, knowing that after I shave I will want to drain the water. Then, without an invitation, comes the hateful voice.
"It is a good night to kill yourself," are the words that echo in my head, and I sit upright, furious that they have invaded this sacred space. In that moment, I have had enough. Months of plaguing insinuations, temptations, and unbidden suggestions have clung to me like a dirty sweatshirt that one wears every day, not realizing that its seeming comfort and promise of warmth is in fact an ugly mask for the beauty that lies underneath.
I whisper a prayer, and though it is soft, I hear the sound that my words make as they fill the silent space around me, and they are firm. They are strong. They boldly require an audience, and there is no
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