interrogation ovenbird At the intake, I am subjected to a long list of questions. How was my pregnancy with her? (I had hyperemesis but otherwise no complications.) What about postpartum? (No issues. A huge departure from the hell on earth I experienced after my first child was born.) Do I have a family history of mental illness? (Oh boy. How long do you have?) Did she experience any early childhood trauma? (Nothing that would objectively be called trauma but she’s extremely sensitive, she feels things so keenly that it’s hard to say if she’s experienced things as traumatic that might not seem traumatic on the surface.) I know that collecting a history is important for context, but the questions have sharp edges even though they’re asked gently. I hear the subtext simmering, gathering strength, starting to bubble: “It’s your fault.” I hear it, the accusation. I gave her the genetic material that was mine to give and it came riddled with intrusive_thoughts and anxiety and who knows what other latent mental health concerns. I have suffered and now she will suffer too. And maybe I didn’t take my prenatal vitamins consistently enough, and maybe the hyperemesis and the extreme stress it caused imprinted on her embryonic body, and maybe I’m just not a good enough mother, it can always come down to that, the most malignant of my fears. If I was a better mother would she be less afraid? Would she be happier? I pick at my cuticles until all my fingers hurt. At the end of the session the counsellor asks her if it would be okay if I attend future sessions with her. She looks at him with wide eyes, like he’s just said something absurd. “Of COURSE,” she says, “I WANT her to be there.” And I can feel, in the pause that follows, that we belong to each other. Maybe it’s my fault that she’s saddled with this burden, but I’ll also be the person who helps her carry it. 251017 what's it to you? who go blather from