Baby and me and daddy make three!  Dara Ann was her name.  My husband and I had been so convinced that I was going to have a little boy that we didn’t really pick out a girl’s name, but something kept tugging on my heart to have a girl’s name ready just in case.

  I was sitting on the couch watching a variety show one evening.  Neil Sedaka came on with his daughter and they sang the most beautiful song together.  I had no idea it was his daughter until the end when she was introduced.  I watched her speak and move and she appeared as though she could just eat her daddy up.  I thought to myself, ”If I ever had a little girl, I would want her to be as sweet and pretty as this girl seems.”  I loved her name and decided that would be my daughter’s name if I ever had one.  From the moment Dara was laid in my arms, there was a love that emanated from me I had never known was in.  She was sucking her index finger and I thought I would squeeze her to death.  I was now responsible for another human life.  Having her in our home was like waking up to Christmas every morning and unwrapping this beautiful gift.  The feeling was not what I would call weird, yet it was something that shook me to my very core.  I couldn’t take my eyes off of her.   

 I was on pain meds in the hospital and was kept on them for a couple of weeks thereafter.  They gave me a super high and made me feel like I could do no wrong.  I loved being on them.  But, as soon as I took my last one, I started feeling very down, even though I was still on my anti-depressants.  The tendencies I had always possessed were still there; having a baby didn’t make them go away.  The only thing that had changed about me was that I was a new mother.  For a time, she did take the focus off our rocky marriage.  Somehow, and I didn’t know how, I believed we could weather what was missing in our lives and get free of the icky mess we were in. 

 We had been living in our townhouse for about three years, were growing as a family, and we wanted a house.  Buying a home was another diversion and gave us something else to focus on other than ourselves.  With our minds made up, we started searching for just the right house.  During our search, we discovered that the house where we kissed for the very first time (do,do,do,do) was available.  The house needed major attention so we went in and totally renovated it.  It turned out absolutely beautiful.  Dara was a year and a half old by now and she was adorable.

 With our new home looking just the way we wanted and being fairly settled in, what else we could do now but have a party and pretend we were the happy owners of a new home, beautiful child and happy marriage.  All stops were pulled out and we invited everyone we knew.  We had many amenities available for our use that were lent to us by the hotel.  We had a dance floor brought in and set up in the living room.  Two video games were set up on the screened in porch.  We borrowed tables and tablecloths and set up a taco bar in the living room.  We also had all kinds of liquor and a keg of beer.  Everyone had a good time.  All the people we invited got sloshed, including the president of the bank.  My old dance partner showed up and we danced a few dances but the thrill was gone.  I even tried to make time with a guy at the bank where I now worked, but thank God, he said, “Molly, you are married.”  I just existed on this earth hell-bent on my destruction.  In the eyes of others, we had everything you could want but our lives were in self-destruct mode.  It was just a matter of time before the bomb went off.  

  The house was beautiful and I was still miserable.  I was sitting on the couch in my perfect living room one evening.  I was sitting there staring at everything trying to take it all in.  My wedding portrait hung over the fireplace.  We had new furniture and I went in there to contemplate my existence and see if I could gain a new perspective on my life.  Everything seemed clean, fresh, and new in the living room.  I had always liked sitting alone on the front porch and drawing when I was young.  This was a place where I could also go and think my own thoughts.  I always came away from those moments with a renewed sense of “better” and I needed an “it is going to be alright” feeling this evening.  I knew things were bad all the way around in all of our lives but I honestly didn’t know what to do.  I was still in therapy but I really wasn’t getting anything from it but temporary relief.  My husband came in and said, “Why are you sitting on that couch?”  To him, the living room was used only when we had company.  I had grown up having the same thing instilled in me and I understood what he was saying, but it evoked something in me and I stated, “This couch is just as much my couch as it is your couch.  I have every right to sit on it anytime I want.”  Things between us were not good.  We existed in our glass house polishing everything for everyone to look at and having them believe there were no smudges.  Nothing was further from the truth.

“Doing life” set in.  You know, “working nine to five just to make a living.”  At 28 years old, I had what most people strive after their whole lives but I had become very unhappy again. 

 One morning my mother-in-law and I decided to take a walk.  She asked me point blank why I wasn’t happy.  My reply was the same whenever asked that question, which was, “I don’t know.”  She said, “Well, you better get happy or you are going to lose everything you have.”  I said, “I know.”  I couldn’t seem to stop whatever had me bound, no matter how hard I tried or what I did.

 The conversation with my mother-in-law made me realize that I had to do something so I went back into therapy.  Nothing had been resolved for me by simply having a baby and if anything, it made things around the house worse.  The issue of “who works the hardest” always seemed to be hanging in the air.  I was still the same person I had been.  Nothing had changed.  The old ways and feelings were cropping back up; they actually never left.  The new home only helped for a while and then it was back to the same old routine of life and I hated it.  I hated myself for feeling this way.

 My husband’s long hours hadn’t changed and when he came home, I expected him to assume his responsibilities as a father and take over caring for the baby because after a long day, “I needed a break.”  All it did was drive a deeper wedge between us. 

 The name of a Christian Psychologist popped up at work and I just felt like it was the right thing to do so I decided to let him have a shot at me.  Something deep in me felt that if this doctor believed in God, that that could be the deciding factor making the difference in my life.  Perhaps he could get to the root of me and all the crap inside I was feeling and dealing with.  If he could help me get well, then my marriage might have a chance of surviving too.  I explained to my husband that I was going to try to help myself get happy.  He was supportive of this decision and even drove me to some of the sessions.

             The panic attacks started to come back.  I was still taking medication but they barely seemed to help anymore.  I had to continue to check in with my first Psychiatrist as well because I discovered my current Psychologist was not allowed by law to administer medication since he was not a medical doctor.  They knew of one another and agreed to work hand in hand for my benefit.

  After several months of individual sessions, the Psychologist suggested I attend group therapy.  I winced at the idea because I liked having the undivided individual attention from the doctor but I wasn’t progressing in my ability to become better.  In fact, I was having a tougher time with the panic attacks but did not know why.  But, he was the doctor and I had come to him for help so I hesitantly started group therapy.       

 I had lost all of my pregnancy weight because I wanted to be a good-looking, fit mother.  Then gradually, I started eating more and the weight began piling on.  My old habit of getting up in the middle of the night to eat resurfaced.  I would wake up to find empty wrappers lying all around and would realize I had been on a nighttime raid.  I came up with the bright idea of putting a chain around the refrigerator to keep me from ransacking its contents.  It was the only thing I thought would help stop me from eating but I broke through that too! 

 Upon arriving home from therapy, my husband would anxiously ask me when it would be over.  He wanted to know when I would be well again.  Over?  I had no clue!  I would smile, put on my pretend face, tell him therapy was helping, and that I was certain it wouldn’t be much longer. 

 I went to class (as I came to call it) one night and something inside of me felt different.  I arrived that night, walked into the room and noticed everyone in attendance.  There were times, when for this reason or another, one or two would not show up.  We had become a somewhat close-knit group, in a clingy sort of way, caring for one another.  Everyone had issues to deal with.  Some were worse than others were, to be sure.  Hearing their stories didn’t make my life easier but it let me know that others suffered too; I was not alone and it wasn’t all about me.  All of a sudden I blurted out, “I don’t think I want to be married anymore.”  That statement just flew out of my mouth.  I felt scared and yet relieved.  I had been with my husband for about ten years now, off and on, and had been through so much with him I was scared of what would happen without him.  I was unhappy and sick of my life.  I just wanted to be happy.  I didn’t know what the consequences would be if we separated.  I didn’t stop to consider anything, especially my daughter.  I went home that night after therapy but didn’t say a thing to my husband.  On the drive home, I thought to myself, ”Had these years been a farce?”  I held my mouth as I walked in my home that night, keeping the secret in my heart that only mere strangers knew.