The night was a nightmare, a series of nightmares, really. When she awoke screaming the third time it was only 1:45 am. Clearly it was going to be a long night. Bleary eyed, George held her again, told her again that it was just a dream, then picked up their youngest from her cradle, and rocked her in his arms. Gradually Karen's shaking abated, and Jennifer's whimpers changed into peaceful baby snores. George put the baby back into the cradle, and turned back to her. "You ok?"

"I guess. I keep seeing Dad in my dreams... good Dad, bad Dad, but always Dad. I can't shake him! He won't leave me alone, even now! Even dead!" Karen's voice rose as she spoke, ending in the terrified wail of a child.

George held her again, rocking her in his arms, comforting her by his presence. "Your father is dead," he repeated. "He's been dead for months now. He can't hurt you any more."

His logic was impeccable, but it couldn't phase the emotions that were overpowering her: Grief, terror, regret, guilt, despair, and an overwhelming sense of inadequacy and futility. Even as he spoke, George's words were drowned out by the echoes of her father's scornful voice. Karen sighed, and moved out of her husband's strong arms. There was only one thing for it tonight.

"I'd better move downstairs. Otherwise none of us will get any sleep tonight."

"You sure you'll be ok?"

"Probably not," she sighed, "but at least this way you and the baby can sleep." She pulled on the old terry cloth robe she'd had since high school.

"You've been taking your medicine?" He always asked that. She hated that he always asked it.

"Yes," she answered. "Twice every day. Without fail. It doesn't help, though. It just makes my head feel groggier and my stomach nauseous."

"Damn!" George shook his head in frustration. "Complain when you see the doctor on Monday, okay?"

"Okay." She'd already complained, repeatedly, that the medications weren't helping. The doctor had simply increased the dosage. The additional dosage of medicine wasn't helping either, but it was making her even more groggy and nauseous. 'Sometimes it takes a while to take effect,' he'd told her. Cripes! How long was she supposed to wait? Except for the 8 and a half months while she'd been pregnant with Jennifer, she'd been under treatment without let up since the birth of Richie. The depression had gradually gotten worse, instead of better. It took a nose-dive when her father died. Now her diagnosis was no longer "post partum depression"; it was "post partum psychosis". She closed the bedroom door behind her, and headed down the hall.

Her screaming had awakened 7 year old Scott and 6 year old Timmy too. They were huddled together on the lower bunk, looking worried. Timmy's eyes were red. She stopped by their room to reassure them.

"Mommy just had a nightmare, guys. It's ok. Just a dream."

She was trying to comfort herself, really. The image of her enraged father looming above her was still vivid. His words were still resounding: 'You are so worthless! You should kill yourself! You should never have children, because they'd surely inherit your flaws, just as you inherited everything bad from your mother!'

"Just a dream," she said again. She rubbed her hands over their tossled heads, gave them each a kiss, boosted Scott back into the top bunk, and tucked the boys in, again. Since she was already in the room, she checked 4 year old Andrew on the cot; he was in that deep sleep that made him look angelic at the same time it built up the energy he used to careen madly about the house all day. At two years of age, Richie still slept in the crib in the corner. She pulled the sheet back, and checked his diapers. Still dry. 'You should kill your kids!' the voice told her.

"Sleep well," she told her children, and softly closed the door to their room.

Downstairs, she didn't bother to put a sheet on the couch. It would only be kicked off again as she thrashed around in the grip of the nightmares. It was amazing that George didn't leave her, she thought for the hundredth time. It was amazing that he didn't have her committed.

Actually, that wasn't so amazing. She'd suggested over a month ago that perhaps he ought to have her committed. The idea had horrified him. He'd begun to rant and rave! 'What would people say?' he'd worried. 'I have a top security job. If you were committed, I might lose that job! We can't afford to risk it! You aren't THAT crazy!'

She'd said that she felt that crazy, but George had refused to believe her. Instead, he'd tried to reassure her. 'I have confidence in you. You can do this. You can handle it. You managed to survive the depression you had with each of our other kids. You'll get through this too.'

Karen wished she could share his confidence. Instead, she felt totally overwhelmed, totally out of control. Unable to sleep at night, her head full of voices day and night, responsibilities piled on her shoulders and kids always shouting, crying, demanding, needing, and running about her feet! The voices told her to kill herself, to kill her children, and she was desperately afraid that some day, weak from exhaustion, she would do just as they commanded. The pressure was building, building, till she felt she would burst!

She tucked the pillow under her head, and tried to remember to do as her therapist had told her. "The voices aren't real," he assured her. "Ground yourself in reality! Hold onto something physical when they come, and breathe deeply."

Curled up on the couch, she clutched the pillow, pulling it around the back of her head so that it covered both her ears. She took a deep breath and let it out slowly - but still the voices filled her head, and still her fathers voice was the loudest of them all. "Kill! Kill! Kill, you worthless coward!" it shouted. "NEVER talk back to your father," her mother's voice whispered. "You are possessed by demons," the preacher proclaimed. Her own voice was there too, caught in a rut, saying over and over again, "There is no hope. There is no hope." And countless other scornful voices were laughing, laughing at her pitiful attempts to function.

Karen moaned, took another deep breath, and rolled over on the couch. She was trying to turn her back on a world that she no longer felt she could deal with, trying to rest, trying to find peace.

Had anyone been watching her huddled form, they would have seen it twitching, straining, writhing. And they would have seen her tears.

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