450 children are killed every year by their parents. More than a third of all victims are under a year old and were killed by their mother.
When mothers kill, they are far more likely to kill children under the age of 1 than children of any other age. Nearly 40% of all children killed by their mothers were less than a year old.
Psychiatrists and criminologists say parents who kill their children tend to fit one of five categories:
1. A parent suffering a psychotic break.1
I brought twin infants home to a two year old and if that doesn’t sound stressful enough, shortly after, my mother’s (and special education teacher’s) intuition told me my son was disabled.
I didn’t know I was carrying a special needs child. There was never any indication anything was wrong until I reached my 37th week. After the ultrasound, which looked just like all the others to me, the doctor took my hands in hers.
Doctor: I’m going to preface this. He’s FINE. Do you hear me?
Me: Yes
Doctor: Good. He’s fine, and he’s going to be just fine for another 48 hours, but your body has shut off the oxygen supply to the boy so you’ll be having a C section immediately.
Me: What about the girl?
Doctor: She’s fine
Me: Why is this happening?
Doctor: I don’t know.
I do. Now. There is a reason women miscarry. When the female body grows a fetus that is in any way imperfect, the moment that imperfection is detected the fetus is expelled. That’s how nature works. It took my body a very long time, but once it detected Kevin’s “imperfection” (a chromosome deletion diagnosed 5 years later), my body tried to suffocate him. If it weren’t for that ultrasound Kevin would have been stillborn.
I didn’t know any of this when I brought him home. I was told he was perfect. He certainly looked perfect to me, that is until he started projectile vomiting after every feeding and screaming 12 hours a day non-stop. And not just any scream, the scream that signals your child is in abject agony, and I couldn’t make him stop. “It’s colic,” the doctor said. “I know it’s hard but hang in there. He’ll stop in a few weeks.” But he didn’t stop. He got worse, and so did I.
I spent the following year drowning in depression and anxiety. The sleep deprivation alone landed me in the hospital twice with chest pains and as you can imagine, I lost A LOT of weight in a very short time. Most of the time I weigh 165 pounds, but by the time the twins were 3 months old I weighed 130 because the stress was so intense I couldn’t digest solid food.
“It’s post-partum,” the doctors said. “Here’s an antidepressant, sleeping pills and Xanex. Good luck!”
I took the pills for a while, but for fear of becoming addicted I switched to vodka because, after all, alcohol’s not addictive. Yeah right. By his sixth month I was drinking half a bottle a night just so I could sleep. Didn’t even bother with a glass, I drank it right out of the bottle.
The worst part was, on the rare occasion I left the house, people I barely knew would stop to tell me how fantastic I looked. “There is no way you just gave birth to twins! What’s your secret?” everyone asked. Now I can’t remember what lies I told but I can remember thinking, “How can you not see I am rotting? I am utterly, emotionally dead. How can I look so great when I have never felt so ugly?”
I think a different type of woman would have thought, “Oh my God they don’t see it. They don’t! I look happy on the outside. The agony doesn’t show. I can hide it and no one will ever know!” But not me. Each time I accepted a compliment on my appearance I sank deeper into the abyss. As I said “thank you!” over and over again I thought, “Please see through me? I’m dying. I don’t want to live anymore and I don’t want him to live either. For months I’ve been lying him down at night thinking, Please, please don’t wake up.”
He could not sleep on his back no matter how long or hard he cried but the doctors insisted I could NOT put him on his stomach because of SIDS. Finally my mother said, “All four of you slept on your stomach and you didn’t die. He’s exhausted Rachel for Christ’s sake put him on his stomach!!” So I turned him over, and he fell asleep instantly. I can remember feeling euphoric in that moment. I’m certain my mother thought it was relief she saw on my face but it was pure joy at the thought he might die peacefully in his sleep, but he didn’t.
I didn’t know it, but by the time Kevin was four months old, I had become psychotic. Terrifying thoughts swim around your head when you are psychotic but because you’re psychotic they sound perfectly reasonable. Thoughts like:
“Maybe I should suffocate him. I’d be doing everyone a favor right? I’d go to jail and it would be hard for Chris to raise the girls alone but at least Kevin and I would be out of his life and he deserves that. I can do this, it’s the right thing, for everyone, even Kevin.”
I can’t tell you how many times I walked over to that bassinet, determined to push his head down into the mattress, only to scoop him up in my arms and beg his forgiveness.
“I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry!” I’d cry. “Please forgive me, please!” And then I would rock him as tenderly as my withered arms could. “You deserve so much better than me. I don’t know why God sent you into the arms of such a monster. That’s what I am: a monster. You’re so unhappy and it’s my fault, if I loved you enough you’d be happy. Everything would be right for you if only you hadn’t been born to me.”
One night I cried so hard I vomited onto the hardwood. Nothing came out but a pool of bile and I can remember staring at it as my tears and snot mixed in. I ran my finger through this mixture (which felt like paint) and started to draw with it as I talked to Kevin. “Want me to paint a pretty picture? This is a mommy, a good mommy holding her baby. She doesn’t want to die this mommy. She loves her baby. She doesn’t think about killing him. It’s not your fault Kevin it’s mine because I’m nothing like her.” Then I felt my head rush so I put him back in bed just before I collapsed.
This happened to me nine years ago. Today, I understand I wasn’t suffering from postpartum depression, I was being eaten alive by postpartum psychosis: a debilitating mental illness. I knew I was sick, but I didn’t recognize the severity or understand the danger of my condition so I hid it, well, from my husband, family, and friends. Some of the greatest actresses of our day don’t have a gold statue, just a life they think they have to lie to protect. I’m a good liar but I’m an excellent actress and for 14 months, I put on one hell of a show.
At 12 months, when he still couldn’t crawl, walk, or make sound, Early Intervention agreed to assess Kevin and he qualified for speech, occupational, and physical therapy. He was finally getting the help he needed and at long last so was I. Once he was able to move Kevin became a much happier baby and I could leave him with a babysitter once a week to see the psychiatrist who saved my life. I stopped drinking. I stopped taking pills. I got a little better every day, and so did he.
And I’ve forgiven myself for all of it. I know now it wasn’t my fault and if you’re thinking the terrible things I was 9 years ago it’s not your fault either but you MUST get help. I could have saved myself a year of anguish if I’d been honest with my family about what I was feeling, thinking, and considering, but I was terrified. Please be braver than I was.
Make no mistake: I am NO better, NO different, than any mother who killed her child as a result of untreated mental illness. Kevin is alive because I had a husband who loved me, family, health insurance, and I live in a state where Early Intervention Services are virtually free. I was lucky, that’s it, and most women aren’t.
Someone loves you. Call them, now, and tell them the truth about what’s going on in your head. Take that first step for you, and your baby, in honor of the 450 children who are killed every year by their parents.
Amazing! I cried as I read this because it really hit home. I love your writing. You bear your soul. You are honest and real. Thank you again for having the courage and heart to share this with other moms who desperately need to know they are not alone
Thank you so much. That's all I ever wanted to do, help people