I’m troubled by the tattoos because I worry that they are not an expression of artistic sensibility but of a compulsion for self-harm. Or, if I’m going to be really honest, that they are an expression of maternal failure. Surely, children who feel beloved and well taken care of don’t mark their bodies with ugly things. I know this is nonsense. Whereas I see them as ugly and poorly drawn, she sees them as beautiful. They have nothing at all to do with me. They are hers and hers alone, an expression not of unhappiness or depression but of style. Her style.
This tattoo, however, was something else entirely. It was not only ugly to me, but it was on her lovely, perfect throat, where only the highest of turtlenecks could hide it. Even though I’d spoken to my daughter as recently as yesterday afternoon, even though she’d sounded fine, cheerful if a little stressed about her finals, I flipped out. A person who thinks she might one day have a job in the “straight” world, who anticipates meeting and wanting to impress people older than herself, who imagines a range of future selves doing a range of exciting and interesting things, would never get a giant black tattoo on her neck, would she?
And then my younger daughter pointed out what I had missed. (Because, yes, by then I had gotten out of bed, with Instagram open on my phone, and my freak-out had woken her up.) The tattoo depicted an emoticon. It stood for “meh,” signifying indifference.
Forget imagining a job in the straight world. A person who feels such existential apathy that she inscribes “meh” on her body does not anticipate any future at all. A person who wants one of the first things others know about her to be that she does not give a shit, is not a stable and well person. That person is depressed. That person is at risk. That person’s mother needs to change out of her pajamas and get on a plane and swoop her up and bring her home and wrap her in cotton batting and protect her from everything in the world, including herself.
I am, I know, particularly anxious when it comes to my eldest child. This anxiety is based, unsurprisingly, on guilt. I have forced upon this child a Ph.D.-level expertise in her mother’s mental illness. Her studies began almost as soon as she popped out of the incision in my belly, eyes wide and watching, perfect bow of a mouth ready for a kiss. A few days after we brought her home from the hospital, after the adrenaline had faded and the Vicodin worn off, I started to experience disturbing images, fantasies as vivid as dreams, though they overtook me when I was wide awake.
I would be nursing her with perfect contentment, and then, suddenly, I would see in my mind’s eye an image of me smothering her. I would be walking through the house with her in my arms, humming a made-up lullaby, and as I passed the knife block on the kitchen counter, I would imagine myself grabbing a blade and slitting her throat. I would be bathing her in her little tub, and I would imagine letting go and watching her sweet face slide beneath the water.
The more I tried to suppress these horrible intrusive fantasies, the more vivid and frequent they became. I was convinced that there was something terribly wrong with me. I wondered if I was suffering from postpartum depression. I wondered if I was evil. I wondered if I was a mother or a monster.
This was in 1994, when the Web was in its infancy. Had it even occurred to me to search the Internet, there would have been nothing there to find. I didn’t go to the library or consult a therapist, either. Instead, I kept mum about what I was seeing in my head, even as the images influenced how I dealt with my baby. I was fearful, worried I’d lose control and hurt her. I was anxious about being alone with her, clingy with my husband. Even after the images faded, I felt their effect on my mothering. I lacked confidence. I didn’t trust myself.
The intrusive images came back again, even more intensely, when my second child was born. By that time, however, I was confident enough in my capacity to love my baby to ignore them. When they returned after the birth of my third child, in 2001, Google was finally there to help.
Surely, one of the greatest benefits of the Internet is its capacity to create community among strangers. No matter how bizarre your symptoms, you can find fellow sufferers. Convinced your skin is extruding tiny fibers? Welcome to the Morgellons community, with Joni Mitchell to sing your anthem. Find yourself imitating everything that surprises you, including the barking of a dog or a passerby’s fart? You probably have Miryachit, a disease also known as Jumping Frenchman of Maine, and you can find others just like you online. None of us need ever again feel isolated in our pain.
When I turned to Google, I found out I was one of many women who suffer from the disabling, intrusive, obsessional thoughts of postpartum obsessive-compulsive disorder. Mothers with postpartum OCD do not spend their time scrubbing their houses clean (oh, how I wish that were the case). They share common ghastly, unspeakable fantasies. They imagine stabbing their babies, drowning them, throwing them out of windows. In extreme cases, these thoughts cause mothers to avoid their babies, for fear of harming them. Fortunately, those who suffer from this awful disorder don’t harm their babies; tragically, they are at high risk of suicide.
The syndrome, luckily, is very responsive to treatment with SSRIs. I was on Zoloft when I had my fourth child, and I never once thought about killing him. Or least no more than any other parent does.
My firstborn bore the brunt not just of my postpartum OCD but of my inexperience and lack of confidence in dealing with it, and this pattern was repeated throughout her childhood. Besides my husband, who was an adult when we met, she has lived the longest with my untreated shifting moods, and benefited least from my efforts to stabilize them. And so I am on high alert for any sign of emotional pain in her.
I stared at the photograph of the horrible mark on her neck for a while, fighting tears. Then I sent this text:
Hey honey. Are those new tattoos on your throat?
The sub-text to this text? DON’T HURT YOURSELF. DON’T HURT YOURSELF. DON’T HURT YOURSELF.
She didn’t reply.
So I sent this text:
We love you honey. And we really want to hear from you. Please call us.
Subtext: I CAN BE AT THE AIRPORT IN FORTY-FIVE MINUTES.
She didn’t reply.
“One of us needs to get on a plane,” I said to my husband. “The last flight’s in an hour.”
He pointed out that it would take me nearly that long to get to the airport.
That’s when the phone rang.
My husband resisted my attempts to pry the receiver from his fingers. He listened for a few minutes and then wordlessly passed me the phone.
“Look at the geotag,” my daughter said.
“What?” I said.
“On the photo. Read the geotag.”
“Print shop 1 AM,” I read.
“Print shop,” she said.
“Print shop?”
“I’m in the print shop. What is in the print shop?”
“Prints?”
“Ink, Mom. There’s ink in the print shop.”
“You made a tattoo with print shop ink?” Stealing! Also, toxic!
She texted me another photograph. It was of her hands, stained blue.
“I’ve been working for hours on my final prints. I’m covered in ink stains.”
“It’s…an ink stain?” I whispered.