Patricia Grisafi

I was afraid of the world getting its hands on my kid. How could I protect him? How could I raise him to be a good son? What if I couldn’t?

The first time I was inspired to injure myself was when I was thirteen. I had just read Reviving Ophelia: Saving the Selves of Adolescent Girls, an advice book my mother had hidden on the shelf between some garish ceramic dancing girls, books on cocker spaniels, and her and my father’s decaying wedding cake topper. In the book, a well-meaning psychologist told stories about teenage girls acting out, and self-injury was just one of many ways. I wasn’t the type to climb out the window on a rope made of bed sheets, so self-harm made a lot of sense.

My mother and I may never see eye to eye on politics, and our value systems may seldom align. Sometimes it feels like we try to breach this divide; other times we dig a deeper rift.

When my husband and I began trying to conceive, I was anxious about how my antidepressant medication would affect a pregnancy, especially after reading terrifying pseudo-scientific articles and judgmental, paranoid commentary lurking in The Seventh Circle of Hell known as mommy boards.

Perhaps more than other cultures, America is obsessed with the illusion that if we prepare, we can avoid. Instead of learning to be resilient and cope with hardship, we drive ourselves dangerously close to madness trying to come up with ways to prevent catastrophes.

When my boyfriend broke up with me my sophomore year of high school, I was inconsolable.

Miscarriage steals your ability to prepare for the future, to trust your body, your mind, and your support system.