Black Milk

tricking him into oblivion. But it didn’t happen like that.

This is not to say that none of the treatments had any effect. I’m sure some of them did. But the end to my postpartum depression came more of its own accord, with the completion of some inner cycle. Only when the time was right, when I was “right,” did I get out of that dark, airless rabbit hole. Just as a day takes twenty-four hours and a week takes seven days, just as a butterfly knows when to leave its cocoon and a seed knows when to spring into a flower, just as we go through stages of development, just as everything and everyone in this universe has a “use by” date, so does postpartum depression.

There are two ways to regard this matter:

The Pessimist: “If one cannot come out of depression before the time is ripe, there is nothing I can do about it.”

The Optimist: “If one cannot come out of depression before the time is ripe, there is nothing depression can do to me.”

If you are leaning toward the Pessimist’s approach, then chances are you are in the first stages of postpartum depression. If you are leaning toward the Optimist’s, then congratulations, you are nearing the exit. Every woman requires a varying amount of time to complete the cycle. For some it takes a few weeks, for others more than a year. But no matter how complex or dizzying it seems to be, every labyrinth has a way out.

All you have to do is walk toward it.

Lord Poton: There is something different about you this morning. A sparkle in your eyes that wasn’t there before.

Me: Really? Could be. I had a strange dream last night.

Lord Poton: I hope it was a nightmare! Sorry, I have to say that. After all, I am a dastardly djinni. I can’t wish you anything good, it’s against the rules.

Me: That’s okay. It was as intense as a nightmare anyway.

Lord Poton (more interested now): Oh, really? Tell me!

Me: Well, we were standing by a harbor, you and I. It turns out you were leaving on a ship that transports djinn from this realm into the next. It was a mammoth ship with lots of lights. The port was so crowded, hundreds of pregnant women were gathered there with their big bellies. Then you embarked and I sadly waved good-bye to you.

Lord Poton (confused): You were sad to see me go? Are you sure? You must have been jumping for joy. Why, I’ve destroyed your life.

Me: No, you haven’t. It was me who has done this to myself.

Lord Poton (even more confused): Are you trying to tell me you’re not mad or angry with me?

Me: I am not, actually. I think I needed to live through this depression to better reassemble the pieces. When I look at it this way, I owe you thanks.

As if I have smacked him in his face, Lord Poton flushes scarlet up to his ears and takes a step back.

Lord Poton (his voice shaking): No one has spoken to me like this before. I don’t know what to say. (His eyes fill with tears.) Women hate me. Doctors, therapists, too. Oh, the terrible things they write about me! You have no idea how it feels to be insulted in brochures, books and Web sites.

Me: Listen, that ship in my dream had a name: Aurora. It means “dawn” in Spanish, safak in Turkish.

Widening his slanting eyes, he looks at me blankly.

Me: Don’t you understand? I am that ship. I was the one who brought you into the port of my life.

Lord Poton (scratching his head): Let’s accept what you are saying for a moment. Why would you do such a thing?

Me: Because I thought I couldn’t deal with my contradictory voices anymore. I’ve always found it hard to handle the Thumbelinas. If I agreed with one, I could never make it up to the others. If I loved one a little more, the others would begin to complain. It was always that way. I had been making do by leaning a little bit on one and then a little bit on another. But after I gave birth the system stopped functioning. I couldn’t bear the plurality inside of me. Motherhood required oneness, steadiness and completeness, while I was split into six voices, if not more. I cracked under the pressure. That was when I called you.

That is when the strangest thing happens. There, in front of my eyes, Lord Poton starts to dissolve, like fog in the sunlight.

Lord Poton (taking out his silk napkin and dabbing at his eyes): I guess it is time for me to leave, then. I never thought I would get so emotional. (He wipes his nose.) I’m sorry-you took me by surprise is all.

Me: That’s all right.

Lord Poton (sniffling): I guess I’ll miss you. Will you write to me?

Me: I’ll write about you. I’ll write a book.

Lord Poton (clapping his hands): How exciting! I’m going to be famous!

A heavy silence descends, rushing into my ears like the wind through the leaves. I feel light, as if something has held me and lifted me up.

Lord Poton: Well, good-bye. But what will happen to the finger-women?

Me: I will take them out of the box. I’m going to give them each an equal say. The oligarchy has ended, and so have the coup d’etat, monarchy, anarchy and fascism. It is finally time for a full-fledged democracy.

Lord Poton (laughing): Let me warn you, love, democracy is not a bed of roses.

Me: You might be right. But still, I’d prefer it to all other regimes.

PART SEVEN. Daybreak