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Betty Draper, tragic semi-heroine of Mad Men, needs an anti-depressant. At no time am I more grateful to live in our current era than when I watch her alone in the middle of the day, angry, bored, and depressed to her core. I just want to jump into a time capsule and deliver Mrs. Draper a bottle of Prozac and a copy of the Feminine Mystique. Unfortunately, Betty pre-dates both, although not by very long. The televisionary blog says Betty is immature and asks, “Will Betty grow up and become the mature, responsible, and intelligent woman we know she can be?”
I think Betty is sad and angry. She looks at her life and thinks, “how did I get here”? It’s especially poignant that she is so beautiful, an idealized young mommy. Sometimes when I watch Betty I project her emotions onto my own life. Sometimes I’m angry because my husband isn’t home from work yet and I’m feeling lonely, or I’m worried if I will feel trapped once I become a mother, or if I will lose my shot at relevancy in this world. And then I turn off the TV and do some work, catch up on client billing, and remind myself that I am not a 1960’s housewife.
But similar issues persist through the generations of American middle class mothers. Because it’s not just depression that drives Betty’s grief. It’s anger too. Her Bad Mother writes so movingly of this potent mix of depression and anger I almost can’t read it.
It was in one of those moments where the boundary between sleep and wakefulness is so blurred that you're not sure whether you're awake or dreaming - are you lucid while dreaming, or are you dreaming while awake? - is that a baby that you're holding, or a kitten, or a bundle of straw? - is that crying you hear, or the wind, or music? - and I was groggy, confused, disoriented as I held my squirming baby in my arms. He fussed, breathing heavily through a stuffy nose, truffling for the breast and then pushing it away. He squirmed and kicked and protested and snuffled and grabbed and pushed and with every kick, every push of his fierce little legs and arms.
I struggled toward wakefulness, needing to be awake, needing my strength and my composure but wanting oh so badly to just let the darkness overtake me and to slide back into oblivion. But he wouldn't let me, he was too uncomfortable, poor thing, hungry and snuffly and demanding, he would not let me let me go and he would not let this be easy and in a flash, in one moment, I felt the frustration course through me like a current and there it was, for a split-second - a split-second and an eternity all at once - ANGER - sharp and hot and as I felt the tears prick my eyes and a sob burble in my throat I was overwhelmed by the brief flash of an urge to just drop the baby, just drop him to the mattress and throw myself off the bed and stomp away into the night.
It was over almost as quickly as it had begun; the violence of the emotion woke me, woke me completely, and I froze - there's no other word for it - with fear and I'm certain that if anyone had been watching at that moment they would have seen my eyes flash open, wide, and I caught myself, mid-breakdown, and stopped. I laid him down and pulled myself into the corner of the bed and took a breath. And was afraid.
So tomorrow we go to the doctor. Tomorrow I get some help. Pills, talk, anything: whatever it takes. I need some help with this, with the sleep, with the emotions running amok. Tomorrow I get some help.
Luckily, Catherine could get pills and talk therapy. And I’m so grateful that Catherine can write about these things and I can share her journey with her, not passively watching on screen but able to ask her questions and watch her real recovery. I think both Betty D and Betty F would be impressed. The value of mommyblogging has finally hit home for me, after all these years of watching it. As has the import of safe, reliable antidepressants. The tools of modern motherhood, perhaps.
And because the election is never far from our minds
