She sat in the physician’s office, crying uncontrollably, unable to speak. She wanted to explain to him how small her world had become. To tell him that she was barely functioning. She’d open her mouth, but the reality of it would hit her in the face and she’d choke on the words. She had already visited her OB (twice), spoken with her pastor, another Church counselor, and three different therapists.
Desperate for help, she was begging someone – anyone – to fix her. Finally at the end of her rope, she sat trembling in that cold, sterile room for the second time.
She couldn’t leave the house. She couldn’t let anyone hold the baby. She would stand at the sink for an hour washing her hands. Showering was torturous. It would take so long that before she could finish, she’d run out of hot water, forced to finish in icy cold water.
If anything touched the floor, it was sanitized with bleach or thrown away. Books. Notebooks. Expensive make-up and lotions. Toys. Food. Clothes. Towels. The list goes on and on. Her hands and arms were raw from cleaning and washing. She would even obsess in her dreams, waking up relieved that she hadn’t really held her daughter without washing her hands.
Every day, she would beg her husband to leave her to find a better wife and mother for their daughter, one that they deserved.
To be continued…