“No one mentions that you disappear into your own walls. A part of the furniture. Like an old armchair that’s jumped on all day and the last thing you want to do is talk to someone or be touched. We have to be grateful, so we shut our mouths. I’m in silence listening to others say, ‘I never felt like that, I loved it.’ Sinking deeper into our guilt.”
“‘The room looks good!,’ Eric peeked in. I didn’t smile. I didn’t say thank you. Instead, I was short with him. ‘Well, it’s done.’ We were hurting. ‘Come over here and give me a kiss,’ he smiled. I heard him say goodbye to the girls in the living room. He yelled, ‘love you’ and then the garage door slammed shut. Later, I heard my phone. It was a football coach’s number – not Eric’s. I pulled both of our blonde-headed girls to me. I wasn’t sure the words would escape me.”
“This type of behavior should not be accepted.”
“I allowed myself to be a momentary creeper. I just pulled back, parked my cart and watched all the sweet mamas. I wanted to say what all the elderly ladies used to say when they saw me in Target at 8 a.m. – ‘Enjoy it. It goes fast.’ But I resisted.”
“I got a call from my daughter’s teacher. She said there had been a pretty catastrophic incident while cleaning up. I listened intently, but none of this was a surprise to me. I got off the phone and was so mad. That little girl would never ask her to play again; likely she’d run home and tell her parents about the bully in class.”
“I was STRONGLY encouraged to wait for kids. My incision was paper thin. 3 months later, I was pregnant. My little baby was growing alongside fibroids the size of ORANGES. To make matters worse, he was sunny-side up. My life was in danger. In my foggy head, I heard, ‘Amber, we can’t get the bleeding to stop. Do you want your tubes tied?’ I woke up covered in blood.”
“The ‘love of my life’ went to prison. ‘Why?! Finally, I can get away from him! And now I’m carrying his child!?’ I was so scared. Once I had my daughter, I didn’t say a word. Until one night, she was 3 months old, he randomly shows up at my door at 9:00 p.m. When I opened it, my heart felt like it was in my throat. He just stood there and stared at her as I held her in my arms. She was his twin.”
“As I stepped into the room, I experienced something I never could have prepared myself for. The look of absolute misery on his face, the way the tears streamed down his cheeks, the way his eyes pleaded with us to stop. I helped hold him down. It was necessary, yet so horrible. I had tears in my eyes. I went home that day wondering how I was going to come back tomorrow.”
“I called the doctor. ‘It should be ok, sometimes people spot. Just come in when you’re back.’ The bright red spotting didn’t stop our entire beach trip. We get to the doctors, in the same ultrasound room as our last baby. I stare at the same ugly ceiling, look at the same vagina poster. I yearn for baby to be ok like the babies pictured in the hideous Sears-looking newborn photos on the wall. It was not ok. The words came once again. ‘I’m sorry.’ Silence. Again. 5 times.”
“Sometimes, my husband goes to bed before me. He turns off the big lights, and then turns on a lamp for me. It should be literally no big deal, right? Just a nice thing for him to do on his way to bed, in all reality. It has always annoyed me to my absolute core.”
