By Marisa Svalstedt

Standing in the playground, I look down at my daughter who is walking alongside me, and I smile down at her sweet cherub face. Her blue eyes look up at me with the sparkle of life. Her smile as bright and cheerful as the bouquet of daisies she holds in her tiny fist.

It’s a beautiful spring day, and the temperature is that of a lukewarm bath. No better day for a leisurely stroll through the quiet park. A slight breeze pushes its way through my hair, and I close my eyes for a moment, breathing in the freshness of the air.

When my eyes reopen, everything looks different. The world has taken on a look not quite so familiar. The colors are more vivid. The grass is a mass of deep green and burning orange where the sun has scorched its surface. The sounds of the birds chirping rustle of the trees, and the rumbles of the cars in the distance are magnified.

I see my daughter happily skipping by my side, and I’m struck with the idea that none of this may be real.  The world is presented in a dream-like haze. My eyes fix on my daughter as I feel a dizzy spell pass through me like a great wave. I look around, but there is no one near to signal for help. I feel my breath quicken despite my efforts to inhale slowly and deeply.  The panic rises up within, threatening to engulf me.

I fall to the ground, blacking out in an instant. Suddenly, I’m watching from another place. I see my limp body on the ground. Frantic, I look around for my daughter and observe as she wanders away. My heart is in my throat as I watch her on unsteady feet trip off the grass toward the parking lot. No one is there to stop her; we are all alone.

She wanders into the parking lot, twirling in small circles, her eyes on the flowers she holds above her head. I hear a car pulling into the lot behind me, but my daughter doesn’t look up to notice. My chest tightens and I’m filled with fear as I listen to the sound of its tires grinding fast against the crackling gravel. My heart stops.

I blink and find that I’m on my feet. My daughter, still standing on the grass, is holding my now slippery, sweat-filled hand. I look around, squinting, trying to make sense of what is happening. I’m being pulled toward the direction of the playground my child is eager to visit. I muster up a small smile and walk alongside her as she trots toward the slide.

I bite the inside of my cheek, pinching the flesh between my teeth until it stings to make sure I’m completely alert. Once we arrive in the small gated play area, I pull a bottle of water out of my purse, taking a long drink before fumbling for a cereal bar. Hydrate, refuel: a process I turn to in order to pool energy and gather strength enough to focus properly.

We are in the park and everything is fine. I never passed out, the world didn’t turn luminous, and my child hadn’t ventured unattended into the parking lot. Everything I experienced was all in my head.

Sitting down on the sun-covered bench, I continue to guzzle my water and focus on remaining calm. I listen as my daughter lets out her high-pitched shriek as she slides down the blue plastic onto the pile of fresh wood chips. I flash a beaming smile of excitement in her direction, applying it like a fresh coat of paint over a darkened stain. All she sees is happiness, and I intend to keep it that way. Everything I’d just experienced was experienced alone. It wasn’t real. It was just a vision, what my therapist smartly calls “A Daymare.”

I check the time and yell, “Ten more minutes!” to my daughter, who is now climbing into a shaded, green tunnel. I say it more for my sake than for hers as a reminder that soon we will both be within the safety of our home.

I know I can only keep living this way for so long, and every week I work toward freeing myself from my ailment of contorted views. My daughter needs a mother who is fearless, embraces all life has to offer, and accepts the fact that fate is beyond control.

I stand up from the bench and walk toward the tunnel my daughter just disappeared through. Her laughter pierces through the thick plastic. The sound is infectious; smiling and feeling myself once again, I crawl through the tunnel after her. We can stay a bit longer.

It’s been nearly a year since I’ve experienced these daymares. They were the door to a dimension I didn’t want to walk through. For a long while, I thought I was losing my mind. How does one explain a suddenly warped perspective of the world around us while maintaining an air of sanity at the same time? I’d drive to a location and suddenly have a vision of a fatal impact, causing me to pull to the side of the road to reassure myself that everything was fine. I’d take my child for a walk and experience feelings of unreality and pending doom. I didn’t understand it, and I couldn’t escape the alternate universe that reared its ugly head whenever it pleased.

A “daymare” is not a medical term, but it is the most realistic description of an occurrence I experienced during my first year as a new mother. Though it’s not something one finds in a textbook, I know there are many other mothers who have had this postpartum experience.

They are brutal anxiety attacks in the form of a nightmare while awake.  The body’s reaction is just as real as though the vision were actually taking place; skin becomes moist from sweat, muscles tense and ache from involuntary clenching, my breathing quickens, eyes glistening with unshed tears of panic.

Since the birth of my daughter, I’d had many daymares.  I was plagued with the fear of losing the one thing in the world I loved most — my daughter — and was equally burdened by the idea of possibly not surviving long enough for her to remember me.

Having suffered from depression and anxiety, I knew the possibility of postpartum issues would be likely. I’m sure I was not alone in my consistently paranoid worry over the well-being of my new baby. They are so very fragile, innocent and helpless. Being given the responsibility of protector, caregiver, and a constant source of strength can be overwhelming. This may be especially true for those who have experienced the loss of someone most beloved.

My father passed unexpectedly during my fifth month of pregnancy, and I’d never allowed myself to grieve; therefore, in addition to the grief I’d stifled, I had a whole new reality of motherhood to learn.  I think it’s safe to say that following the loss of someone so loved with giving birth to someone you immediately realize you cannot live without is something of an overload to the system. Motherhood can be terrifying, and it’s easy to let anxiety take over while learning how to parent a fragile newborn.

My days are no longer filled with these strange, frightening visions. Finally talking about my grief, my motherly worries, and my experiences brought me back to a place of acceptance. I accept that eventually we will all pass on someday. I understand that fate is out of my hands and that letting go is the only way to move forward.  All I can do is my best in being the loving, protecting, and strong mother I can.

The world is a beautiful place, and I’m grateful for the opportunity to show my daughter all the things that make it so. With the daymares gone, my vision is clear, and what I see is the opportunity to appreciate every moment I have with the loves in my life, keeping the dreams for the day and leaving the occasional nightmares for the night.

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About the Author

Marisa Svalstedt is a stay-at-home mom living in her hometown of Bethel, Connecticut, with her husband, and their daughter. She received her MA in English from Western Connecticut State University. She’s been published on Babble, The Mighty, Suburban Misfit Mom, and ParentCo. In addition to writing she enjoys crochet work, and dabbling in photography. Follow Marisa on Facebook and Instagram.