Making My Way to the Water

The desert sun beats down on me, burning me from the inside out. The loose grains of sand work together, trying to swallow me whole. With each step I sink further down, but still, I keep going. I am determined to find her.

I have walked this path every day for months, searching for the woman that I used to be. Every day I expect to start further down the path, but there has been no progress. The rocks are in the same place, and there’s a tumbleweed that’s never been blown. The sand cascades over the dunes like golden waves. It is the only thing in this desert that seems to move, and it is beautiful in spite of its misery. 

The burning of the dehydration should have subsided by now, turned to numbness, but it runs through my veins like metal that has been melted down over fire. My skin is like sandpaper against my bones and my ribs have begun to poke through, begging to taste the hot desert air for themselves. I am a machine that has been run with no oil, but still, I force my feet through the sand until the baby cries and brings me back to reality. 

I always dreamed of being a mother. The laughter of children echoed in my mind and beckoned me toward the idealistic world of motherhood. I dreamed of green-eyed little girls dancing around in matching pajamas and little boys who looked just like their father. When that second line appeared, it was as if the world affirmed everything that I already knew. I was meant to be a mother. 

The day after I found out I was having a little girl I began writing to her everyday. It was a little purple book that I poured myself into. I wrote about my dreams for her and I told her that I would give everything in me to see it all come to life around me. I didn’t know what I was saying at the time. 

I brought my daughter into this world on November 6th at 4:22 AM. I remember looking in the mirror hours after I delivered her and foolishly thinking about how the 27 hours of labor would be the most painful part of motherhood. I scanned over that new foreign body, inspecting the folds of loose skin. I can still picture myself standing there in that hospital mirror. I can see every inch of my body, except for my eyes. I never looked myself in the eyes, maybe because some part of me already knew that I was gone. 

I remember that old saying, that “it takes a village”, but now I wonder if that’s just an excuse for them to make their way through the door. The next few weeks were full of “help”. People oohing and ahhing over this tiny thing that I created, demanding to hold her while I cooked and cleaned. Each time they arrived, I had prepared everything. I took extra ibuprofen so that I wouldn’t feel the pulsing of my swollen ankles or my underwear grinding against the sutures with every step. I stashed away extra clothes so that I could discreetly change when the blood inevitably became too much. I made the world turn while everyone around me tried to mother my daughter. 

Every time I forced myself to hand her over, the people around me felt more and more like strangers. It was as if I was ripping my heart out of my body and passing it around while they acted as if the rest of me never existed. 

Every time the front door opened, we were bombarded by greasy hands and smug smiles, foaming at the mouth with entitlement. With each new visitor I fought to keep the air in my lungs, watching them shift her tiny head carelessly. They stroked the bridge of her nose, pretending they didn’t hear my warnings of what RSV sounds like in a newborn. Images of her lying in a hospital bed, the center point of every tube and wire flooded my mind while they acted as if she were invincible. 

When the room ran out of air and I inevitably snatched her from their arms, I put as much distance between her and them as possible, hoping she couldn’t hear the snickering comments. First time mom. Spaz. —— wasn’t like this. It was those walks to the back bedroom that I started to feel the sand under my feet. 

With every eager visitor I watched as my baby got further outside of me and the sand began to fill the voids. As the months wore on, the formalities became less and less of a necessity. No one bothered to ask how I was anymore. The visitors we did have would barely make eye contact with me, a subtle reminder that my presence had become a burden in my own home. 

They fawned over my daughter, saying how much she looks like some distant family member. “She must have gotten that from Aunt ——,” they would say, or “she acts just like ——,” who she had never met. They attempted to erase me from every feature I gave her, as if this little girl had just appeared for them out of thin air, hatched from an incubator. 

Even now, they come through my door lugging their buckets of sand. They pour it over my head, bucket after bucket, all the while asking me how I could have possibly ended up in the desert. There are days that I wonder if I’ve passed over the water by now, if I would have found it earlier had they stopped covering my world in sand. Those are the days that I remind myself that there are parts of the universe that they haven’t touched, where the sand stops and water rushes for the shoreline. In a way, it’s doing its part to come find me, and I am doing the same.

I have hope that one day I’ll make it further down the path, the wind will break free and the tumbleweed will roll. I’ll feel the rush of the cool water against my face, running down my throat and breathing life back into me. Even on the worst days, I can see her there, the me that is whole. She is free and she is happy. I will keep walking until I find her so that I can bring her back to my daughter, the mother that she deserves. Until then, I’ll keep trudging through the sand. I’ll make note of every tumbleweed and rock so that one day if my daughter should find herself in the desert, I’ll show her the way to the water like I wish someone had done for me. 

Author’s Note: This was written in honor of anyone who has ever struggled with postpartum anxiety or depression. If this finds you while you are still in your desert, I can tell you now that the water is out there and I hope you find it soon.