A novel drawn from lived experience
A raw story of postpartum depression and what happens
when the mind becomes a place you can no longer trust.
↓ Read an excerpt
Milk Fever is an unflinching portrayal written from lived experience about the ways postpartum depression can unravel identity, self-worth and families — and the long, quiet work of finding your way back.
Written for every parent who has had a thought they were too afraid to confess.
There's a lookout not far from where we live, with a rusted rail and a track worn into the grass from years of ordinary people walking up the hill to experience an extraordinary view. The ocean does something to people.
I've been here dozens of times before. Before Hudson.
I don't remember deciding to come here today. Only that I've walked and walked to try to placate his crying and I'm here now. Standing by the railing, I hold him in my arms, with a hand gently supporting the back of his head, where soft blonde hair is now replacing the thick dark hair of his newborn days. His fontanelle is still open but smaller than it was at birth, and I can see the diamond-shaped flesh beating in time with his heartbeat.
A cool gust of wind lifts off the ocean. It's the kind of day where the sun is out but the air still smells like winter. Down below us, the ocean roars. The edges of the waves look like white horses, and they ride in together wildly until their foamy manes crash against the face of the cliff.
I adjust my hold, moving Hudson to the opposite hip, and as I do, I feel his warm breath brush against the exposed skin of my collarbone. And then it happens. He begins to loosen from my hold. My arms give way somehow, slowly and clumsily, and his little body tips backwards. His legs dangle free, and then gravity takes over.
He is falling. Over the edge of the rusted rail, through the air, his little, pale limbs flailing, his bib flapping in the wind. Down he tumbles, towards the deep water and jagged rocks, where the black waves will swallow him.
A scream rips through the salt air. It's mine, I think, but I'm not sure.
Then it's over. Saliva pools beneath my tongue, carrying a sharp metallic tang; a warning that I might vomit. I'm convinced when I look down at my chest, I will see the fabric of my grey shirt lifting and falling with the rapid thumping of my heart.
I tilt my chin downwards and there he is. Hudson. Just as he was before. I wrap my arms tightly around his small back and take a deep inhale, breathing him in, drawing in his baby scent. He smells like soap with a hint of sweat, iced with vulnerability.
But the thought has happened. It lives inside of me now. Taunting me, like a bruise under the skin. I stare out at the water and try to forget it.
I fail.
— from Milk Fever
Written by Coby Sullivan — journalist, community builder, and someone who knows exactly how dark the first year of motherhood can get.
Milk Fever is on its way. Check back soon.