I’ve never even blacked out from drinking, and I’ve gotten pretty shit-faced in my day. I remember every one-night stand and stupid drunken thing I’ve ever said. And I have never been dangerously impulsive, except for that one time in fifth grade when I was switching my left and right hands on the handlebars. It doesn’t work, in case you’re wondering.
I wasn’t abused as a child or anything, either. I had two extremely loving parents and I grew up in a caring, upscale community. Aside from my teenaged depression, which I assume was a chemical response to the trauma of moving away from home for college, I have been very stable. I would even describe myself as gentle to a fault—I have never been in a physical fight, I am very careful about what I say to others and can’t sleep at night if I think I’ve offended someone. I don’t even kill bugs. I transport them outside in little jars.
One especially rough night, my husband tearfully admitted that he had a vision of throwing our baby against the wall. It broke him. We cried and cried together. I assured him that he did not, in fact, hurt her—and that’s what matters. I believed myself when I said it. I’m sure every human, when imbued with passion, has imagined extreme things happening. Kids fantasize about having sex with teachers. Some people imagine their worst enemies getting run over by cars. Everyone makes negative judgments at one point or another, whether it’s about someone’s weight gain or haircut or bad breath, but we would rarely come out and say these things to someone’s face.
I want to believe that my visions are simply a product of human curiosity, not some omen of what’s to come. I give my baby nothing but love and care; she’s not been sick once since birth, and she has only earned a handful of injuries from ordinary toddling about. My weepiness is even fading. I will now go weeks without crying.
She smiles and laughs and coos, and I do it all right back.
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