A moment that changed me: I was in my 20s and depressed – then my mother moved into my bed
The evening after returning from the hospital, I made a conscious effort to hold back my tears. In the dimly lit room, I strained my eyes to glance at the wall clock. The thick, black hand neared the three. I positioned myself with the support of pillows and towels, cradling my baby who radiated heat and restlessness. Her tiny head rested in the palm of my hand, yet I couldn't shake the feeling that I was doing it all wrong. I believed that if I could only find the right way, she would feed, rest, and grow into a healthy, resilient child. But my grasp felt feeble and unsteady. Perhaps it was because of the C-section I had undergone, cutting through layers of my flesh, or simply because I tended to be clumsy. Regardless, she continued to cry and cry.
In that moment, I contemplated how much love I held for her and the uncertainties I had harbored about motherhood. Struggling with aches, bloating, and exhaustion, I questioned whether I had made the right choice. These doubts had nothing to do with her and everything to do with my own insecurities. I felt ill-prepared for the challenges of being a mother, despite having the support of my family and the generous paid leave my partner received from work. I entered parenthood with as much safety and stability as anyone could ask for. Yet, despite these advantages, I found myself unable to provide my daughter with the two fundamental necessities: nourishment and sleep.
My nipples were cracked and bleeding, and I wondered if she could taste the faint trace of blood as she suckled. Earlier that evening, I had affectionately referred to her as "our little vampire." How peculiar, I mused, that milk is essentially transformed blood within the body. However, this ordinary miracle seemed to be faltering. My milk supply was insufficient, and I struggled to produce enough to meet her needs. I had been advised to persist, with the hope that it would eventually improve. I'm sorry, I thought to myself. I'm so incredibly sorry.
I had attempted to prepare myself by reading about the advantages and disadvantages of breastfeeding, pacifiers, baby rockers, and even co-sleeping—a concept I had been uncertain about. From my understanding, co-sleeping had its risks, but when done correctly, it could be safe. We had purchased a bassinet, but I was open to the idea of sharing a bed. Little did I realize that we might end up sharing tears instead.
From the darkness, a memory began to seep into my consciousness. When exhaustion reaches its peak, thoughts and memories become strikingly vivid, almost superimposing themselves upon reality, like waking dreams. I saw my mother lying beside me in bed, her hair cascading over her face. I could hear her sighs and observe the furrowed brow as she slept, as though she were pondering something important.
This recollection did not originate from my childhood but from my early twenties. I had experienced a relapse of the depression that haunted my teenage years. Although I had attempted to conceal its return, I was discovered. It was then that my mother chose to share my bed.
There was no discussion or room for disagreement; I lacked the strength to resist. Yet, I couldn't help but find the situation ludicrous. What purpose would sharing my bed serve? For years, insomnia had plagued me, becoming an inspiration for my third novel, "The Sleep Watcher." I had spent countless nights wandering my childhood home, isolated in the darkness. Even in my twenties, sleep remained a struggle. So, I lay awake and observed my mother's slumber. She couldn't erase my sadness. She couldn't grant me sleep. She couldn't even ensure my safety—I was an adult who had to face the world alone during daylight hours. Nonetheless, she slept beside me until she believed I was well enough to spend nights on my own.
As this memory replayed in my mind, I realized that my mother and I had been co-sleeping. Unable to provide any other form of assistance to her grown child, she had chosen to be there through the night. And though it may not have had an obvious or immediate impact, it did provide solace. Her presence served as an anchor, assuring me that I was loved. Proponents of co-sleeping argue that separation occurs naturally—that you won't end up sharing a bed with your adult child. Yet, I suppose there are exceptions.
Shrouded in darkness, I made a promise to my daughter: I would do everything within my power to alleviate her pains and alleviate her sorrows. And if all else failed, I would remain by her side for as long as she needed me.
In the months that followed, there were nights that were easier and nights that were more challenging. There were moments when I questioned my own worth and strength. I would be dishonest if I claimed to have solved the complexities of parenthood in that one instant. However, when I find myself overwhelmed, I recall that particular night and the vow I made to her. The shame I feel for not being an adequate parent begins to fade because I know that at the very least, I can offer her this.
Recently, she has been peacefully sleeping in her crib. However, friends caution me that this may change at any moment. I am aware that the world may present her with new sorrows. Unfortunately, a mother's kiss cannot heal every wound. Co-sleeping did not cure my depression. Nevertheless, it held significance. It took nearly a decade for me to comprehend what my mother had done for me. Her love provided me with a secure haven within which to battle my struggles. I will strive to offer the same to my own child. I hope that even when my efforts seem futile, the love will permeate her being, fortifying her in years to come.
