She was two months old and I was still calling her “the baby.” I actually remember how weird it felt the first time I called her “my daughter,” both because of the newness of the sound and because of the surprise I felt realizing it was the first time I had referred to her as such: as mine.

All the things—holding, feeding, touching—all these things a mother is supposed to be able to do to soothe her child were experienced as suffering by the baby. How can you help but begin to wonder if you’re the problem? How can you help but judge yourself for growing tense alongside her? How can you help but feel you’re failing to offer her the comfort she needs? How can you not feel selfish that you need comfort too?

I had suspected that motherhood was going to betray me before my baby was born.

It seems little and stupid to think of it, but I began feeling suspicious of what was in store for me when the baby was late to arrive, day after day after day. Their lateness was so unlike me, I was an on-time kind of person. I actually knew the precise day they were conceived, but they were late even by those baking standards.

I know, I know—most people’s first comes late. But each day that ticked by, I felt a kind of panic bubbling, simmering inside. To me this lateness was the first sign that something was afoot, the first clue of a certain disconnect between me and my soon-to-be babe.

I’m not entirely sure when the breaking occurred. But I did break.

The first weeks were spent constantly trying to soothe a baby who was so tense she whimpered at all times, hands clenched, jaw tight, flinching at touch, startling at the slightest disturbance. She was on such high alert that she would be awake for sometimes ten hours straight during the day, she could not nap. Her cries were always laced with pain—I think she cried actual real tears from her second week onward. I remember thinking, I thought the tear ducts aren’t supposed to work yet.

Our breast feeding (and later bottle feeding) sessions were a nightmare. She would grunt and pant and hit me and lose suction and click her tongue and choke and her eyes would water and she would cry and I would cry and we would have to take break after break and we would both finish completely exhausted and broken.

Burping was impossible, she fought back every one and those that did manage to escape were accompanied by a shriek. She scream-cried between feeds as she digested her food and was unable to bear any pressure on her belly whatsoever, including lying on our chest or being held to our shoulder.

Desperate for solutions, different approaches followed hours upon hours of research, advice followed guidance, lactation consultants followed sleep consultants, chiro followed physio, family doctors followed midwives, anti-reflux meds followed tongue and lip tie releases, face massages followed tongue stretches, belly rubs followed bath after bath after bath, formula followed breastfeeding, Good Start followed Similac, and so and so on and still nothing really worked.

After weeks and weeks of relentlessly trying and failing to soothe my baby—to hold her, to feed her, to touch her—I still felt like I was hurting her. It was unbearable.

And, at some point I broke.

When the lactation consultant came to watch me feed my baby and help me do it better, she was kind and empathetic. While listening to me recount the rough start we had so far, she looked at me and my daughter and interrupted, “but look at you, you two are so connected, you are so connected to her.”

What a fucking preposterous comment.

The minute she said it, I just wanted to scream at her. Right in her stupid kind empathetic face. Like really, really scream at her—and then scream at the sky and then just scream and scream until my voicebox blew out.

How dare she act like she can’t see something so utterly obvious as how hopelessly disconnected I was from my baby.

It’s 4:14am and l’ve finally gotten her down again. I lie beside her and open my phone to return to what l’ve been doing every night after each of her wake ups: scrolling Reddit and What to Expect (and anywhere else the internet would take me) to try to determine what the fuck I was doing wrong.

When I open Google, my search history auto populates “why does my baby hate?”

The feeling of being unable to provide the very things that are supposed to define you as a mother, the things meant to bond you to this human you created, the feeling of being helpless while you watch your baby suffer, was a special kind of hell.

It unearthed a kind of self-loathing that was lurking only in the furthest, darkest corners of my insecurity. This newfound self contempt watered itself with every one of her cries and fertilized with mine. It grew wildly out of control.

It made me beat myself up. First mentally, and then eventually, literally. This monster contempt began leaving a bruise on the inside of my left thigh, a literal target for me to aim every ounce of the failure I felt coursing through my veins. It taunted me.

Encouraging me to keep it as sore and dark as I felt.

And I did.

I messaged a nurse friend of mine to ask in earnest if it was possible that my baby had simply developed a negative association with me, given she spent 100% of her time in discomfort and 100% of her time with me. Could it be possible that she was totally fine now and had simply developed a Pavlovian response where mom = pain.

My friend told me it broke her heart that I had to ask that.

Which was nice but … like for real, couldn’t I be the actual problem?

I must be the problem.

Maybe it was inevitable that the emotional pain I felt would begin to physically leave its mark. Her tears tore through me. I was never upset at her for crying, but I raged against myself. Against how pathetic and helpless I was to stop her cries, to ease her pain.

It started small. First, the rage left its mark on items throughout the house: a broken set of blinds on the floor (from when I lost my temper after they jammed); a knocked over laundry basket (that I kicked unnecessarily); a dent in the wall at the bottom of the stairs (that my husband has yet to notice—from where I kicked it after another failed attempt to help her stop crying).

And then it grew, leaving its mark on me: a quick ringing in my ears (from slapping myself); a dent in the wall beside a painting in the kitchen (that my husband has yet to notice—from where I intentionally banged my own head against the wall); a soreness in my jaw (where | hit myself in the face); and then, it nestled in as a recurring bold black bruise on the inside of my thigh (a perfect hiding place: within hitting distance).

Some days it would shock me how large the bruise had gotten—how hard or how many times I was able to hit myself. It looked like I had been in a car accident or a serious fight. But hiding it was easier than I thought. Dressing in the dark, avoiding doctors appointments—simple.

Sometimes I would go days letting it heal, only to attack it once again, leaving it bigger and better than ever.

It was as though the mental anguish needed an escape, a release. It was impossible to contain. And though I would never, ever want anyone to do this to herself—I began to crave the release it gave me. The experience of physical pain and the tangible visual representation of the turmoil I was feeling was satisfying in a way that nothing about motherhood had been to date. It was satisfying in the way revenge is satisfying. Or in the way you feel when your enemy gets what they deserve.

She smiles for the first time.

Not at me.

I cry a lot that evening.

I hear about someone else whose daughter has reflux and a tongue tie. They seem to be doing great. I think to myself: See? You are so dramatic. This is just a normal baby experience and you are making a huge deal out of it. Many people have it ten thousand times worse than you do. You obviously just aren’t cut out for this. You are weak. Why did you think you could actually do this?

People keep telling me to be kind to myself. That it is tough. That I’m doing the best l can.

Obviously, my best just isn’t good enough.

I take her to be weighed by a public health nurse.

The public health nurse listens to my long list of my questions about formula feeding and then puts her hand on my arm and says “I think you need to take a breath. I don’t know you, but I can tell you are very, very worried. You don’t need to be. Look at her—she’s healthy and happy. You need to try to let go of some of this so you can begin to enjoy being her mother.”

I feel a deep sadness at her words.

“How can I start to enjoy being her mother?” was secretly my biggest question.

I sit on the toilet with the door closed most days to ensure my husband can’t see the pain on my inner thigh. I often stare down at the black and blue hues. Sometimes they are dark and potent. Some days they are fading, leaving a yellow-stain.

When I look at this abstract painting of my experience-to-date of motherhood, sometimes I feel a sick sense of satisfaction—like l’ve given myself exactly what I deserve. Sometimes I look and I feel disconnected, zoned out. And many times when I look, I feel a deep sense of grief. I feel a sense of mourning and sadness for how I’m failing myself. For how I feel I am failing my baby.

She’s been so lost in her pain and l’ve been so lost in mine, that I feel like while she’s been here and we’ve been together, we’ve also not really been together—at all.

All I want is to feel that she is here and that we are here together.

All I want is to feel like l’m helping her ease her pain.

All I want is for this bruise to fade for good.

—Anonymous