Disappear.

“I just want to go to my room,” she cries. “I’m not mad at you, I’m mad at me!” And she’s melting now, my exquisite internalizer. She’s steeping in shame and self-doubt. I usually try to talk her out of it, but not this time. This time I was also deep in the well, so I couldn’t reach down and pull her up. So this time I just hold her, and we cry together. She tells me she wants to disappear, and I wonder if she read my mind. I share my stuffed lamb, and she cries into its fur. Maybe my moments of depression have a purpose after all. Maybe she won’t grow up feeling so alone.