The Opposite of Faith

A heart-rending reflection on the gap between motherhood's hopes and its sometimes fraught realities.

You break my heart every day. You lie to me and then call me a liar. You yell and scream at me and then tell me to shut up. You call me stupid. You tell me to leave you alone. You say that you hate me. That you wish I had never been born. That you want to kill me. That you are going to kill me. That I should kill myself.

  Sometimes you pull me, sometimes you push me, sometimes you punch me, and sometimes you throw things at my face. And every time, I ask myself what I did to set you off, what I could have or should have done differently, how I failed this time.

Occasionally you apologize and tell me you didn’t mean the things you said or did. Occasionally, you kiss me or hug me. Occasionally, you tell me you love me. And occasionally­ –rarely – you even do these things without asking me for something in the next breath.

  No one has ever hurt me this much – physically or emotionally­ – but I know that ultimately I am to blame. I just need to do better, try harder, be more patient and more understanding, show you how much I love you.

I tell myself that it is possible for you to love me and hurt me at the same time. And that you must love me. Because you used to. Because you should. Because everyone else thinks you do. Because sometimes there are glimmers of evidence that you do – in your own way.

I know that it is not your fault that you cannot control your rage. That I should not take it personally, even when it’s directed at me. That life is overwhelming for you at times and I am just the closest and easiest target for your frustration. I know that your several disorders make you different – and seemingly incapable of loving the way I do, or even the way you used to. I know…

But I do not believe.

I do not feel loved by you anymore. I feel rejected and devastated and hollow, and I find that I can no longer convince myself that you love me. This must be the opposite of what those who have religious faith experience. They believe without knowing. I know without believing.

You are not a god, though. You are a child. My child. Which means that this really is all my fault. And your daddy’s. And maybe no one’s. But definitely not yours. This is not what I imagined motherhood would be – or even what it was a few years ago. But it is not your fault.

So I read you your bedtime story and then cry myself to sleep – again. And in the morning, I will muster as much of the unrequited love in my desperate heart as I can. I will look to therapy and pharmacology and the stories of others for help and for hope. And I will try, again and again, to regain my faith.

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L.S. Taylor is on an extended break from feline shelter medicine. She is currently a stay-at-home mom whose other "jobs" include selling her late father's copious collections on eBay for her mother and editing and proofreading her husband's short stories.

Image:

Empty Swing by Radu Prodan