Carrie Link

This is the latest exerpt from my memoir...




BEGGING FOR MERCY



Forehead pressed to the wall, shoulders slouched, first the right arm until it tires, switching then to the left, back and forth, back and forth, back and forth...

The crying dies down, almost stops. I slow my swinging down to match. Too soon, the crying amps back up, so do the arms. Back and forth, back and forth, back and forth.

The crying stops fully. "Don't stop the swinging," I remind myself, "just five more minutes and you'll be done. For now."

I bring the swinging down from alarming viciousness with which it always needs to start, to strong, to medium, to mild, to barely a rock. Then I count.

1, 2, 3, WAAAAAAAAA!

"FUCK!" I shout, not caring whom I wake or offend. "FUCK! FUCK! FUCK!"

The cycle begins again, from the top.

Head to the wall. Shoulders slouched. Vicious to strong, medium, mild, rocking... rocking...rocking...

Then I count.

1, 2, 3, WAAAAAAAAAA!

"FUCK!"

Exhaustion beyond exhaustion, sleep deprivation to the point of torture. Hallucinations and complete and utter loss of interest in everything. With no way out. None.

"I understand why women throw their children over bridges," I think to myself. Ashamed at my harsh judgment of them, originally. This is beyond what humans can stand. This is pure hell. I hate this child. I hate myself. I hate my life. I hate my husband and if I actually could spend a minute with my two-year-old daughter, I'm sure I'd hate her too. Right now her mother is named PBS. PBS is doing a much better job than I could possibly be doing.


"I wonder if he is going to think his first name is 'Fuck'?" That would be funny. That would be hillarious. I laugh at my own wit. The laughing disturbing even to me.

"Maybe that will be his first word. Wow. That's what ever mother longs to hear from her baby's mouth." I chuckle again. Sickened at what I am thinking. Sickened by what I have become. Sickened with the thought that this will never ever end.

There is no relief come night. Days and nights all one long blur of swinging. There will be no rocking in a rocking chair, no battery or electric swings, those are insulting to my little guy. He wants ACTION! When not in the child seat he is in my arms, feet jumping, his whole body bouncing vigorously.

"I'm afraid I'm giving him Shaken Baby Syndrome," I tell the pediatrician."There must be something wrong with this child. How can any child cry all day and night, every day and night, and not have something wrong?"

The doctor tells me I've got a fussy baby. Well fuck him and fuck fussy, this isn't fussy. This is so beyond fussy there isn't a word invented for it yet, but all those hours I spend with my head to the wall, I'm coming up with a good one for it. Right now all I know is it involves the word "fuck". The other words are a waste of time. I need the big daddy, the monster swear word of all, this is a dire situation calling for dire action. "Fuck" is the best I've got.

I know I am right up to the edge where one step over and I'll be crazy. I don't care. Bring on crazy, if crazy will get me some relief, I'll take crazy.

"Vivi was misunderstood!" I rant to anyone that will listen to me. The Divine Secrets of the Ya-Ya Sisterhood has just been read by everyone I know. Even I thought, when I first read it, that Vivi was a selfish bitch to leave her kids and go sleep for days in some random hotel. Vivi is my hero. I long for sleep. I fantasize about sleep. I want to check in to some random motel room, too. I want to give a false name, pay in cash, find the bed and never leave. I want out of this life I am in.



To be continued...