I Almost Hurt Arthur—Until That Afternoon's Security Footage Told Me Otherwise.-5
The Therapist’s Words
The room held only the therapist’s calm voice and my ragged breath. I laid it bare: the terrifying thoughts, the panic, the… hostility towards Marianne? She listened, hands steady in her lap. "These intrusive thoughts," she explained clearly, "are very common, particularly postpartum." She offered a tissue; I hadn’t noticed my tears.
"They are *not* your intention. Quite the opposite. Because they violate your will, they cause such distress. They signal profound anxiety." "And… her? Marianne?" I wiped my eyes, voice thick. The therapist’s gaze remained serene: "She may be the concrete target onto which you project your immense, unexpressed anxiety." Her eyes held mine. "You feel your role is being usurped."
A Target for Blame
Leaving the therapist’s office, I felt lighter. Those thoughts had a name: intrusive thoughts. They didn’t mean I’d harm Arthur. Pushing open our door, the living room stood empty. Marianne’s high-pitched chatter filtered from the nursery.
I approached. The door was ajar. I saw her holding Arthur, gently swaying. "…it’s alright, sweetheart, the needle’s quick. Grandma’s here." She was soothing him. About his vaccine appointment. She scheduled it. Without asking. The tightness returned. Chest clenched. Throat closed. Yes. Her. Always her. Blocking me from my son. My nails dug crescents into my palms. At least this pain was clear. At least I knew what to resent.
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The room held only the therapist’s calm voice and my ragged breath. I laid it bare: the terrifying thoughts, the panic, the… hostility towards Marianne? She listened, hands steady in her lap. "These intrusive thoughts," she explained clearly, "are very common, particularly postpartum." She offered a tissue; I hadn’t noticed my tears.
"They are *not* your intention. Quite the opposite. Because they violate your will, they cause such distress. They signal profound anxiety." "And… her? Marianne?" I wiped my eyes, voice thick. The therapist’s gaze remained serene: "She may be the concrete target onto which you project your immense, unexpressed anxiety." Her eyes held mine. "You feel your role is being usurped."
A Target for Blame
Leaving the therapist’s office, I felt lighter. Those thoughts had a name: intrusive thoughts. They didn’t mean I’d harm Arthur. Pushing open our door, the living room stood empty. Marianne’s high-pitched chatter filtered from the nursery.
I approached. The door was ajar. I saw her holding Arthur, gently swaying. "…it’s alright, sweetheart, the needle’s quick. Grandma’s here." She was soothing him. About his vaccine appointment. She scheduled it. Without asking. The tightness returned. Chest clenched. Throat closed. Yes. Her. Always her. Blocking me from my son. My nails dug crescents into my palms. At least this pain was clear. At least I knew what to resent.
NEXT >>