With love in their eyes and hope in their hearts, a couple begins the joyous journey of parenthood and finds themselves drawn into the tumultuous waves of postpartum.
People live within the ebb and flow of life - among the changing seasons of circumstances and identity. But what happens when the flow stops and the seasons cease to turn? Consumed by a Season is the fictional story of a couple who finds themselves taken over by a postpartum disorder during what is often glamorized as one of the happiest times in a person's life. The emotional struggle they experience while trying to hold onto each other, let alone themselves, provides a glimpse into the raw truth of parenthood the way numerous people experience it.
As mental health slowly fades, one begins to wonder what happens when happiness is overcome by the unexpected and unknown? What happens when a person is consumed by a season?
With love in their eyes and hope in their hearts, a couple begins the joyous journey of parenthood and finds themselves drawn into the tumultuous waves of postpartum.
People live within the ebb and flow of life - among the changing seasons of circumstances and identity. But what happens when the flow stops and the seasons cease to turn? Consumed by a Season is the fictional story of a couple who finds themselves taken over by a postpartum disorder during what is often glamorized as one of the happiest times in a person's life. The emotional struggle they experience while trying to hold onto each other, let alone themselves, provides a glimpse into the raw truth of parenthood the way numerous people experience it.
As mental health slowly fades, one begins to wonder what happens when happiness is overcome by the unexpected and unknown? What happens when a person is consumed by a season?
âIs it important why?â
The question jolted him, bringing him back â from where, he didnât know. He rubbed his hand over his face, every part of his body feeling the emotional strain this conversation was having on him. He sat back on the couch, his vision slowly adjusting back to normal as the white spots from rubbing his eyes began disappearing. He looked at the man across from him with the calm brown eyes. The manâs face was kind. That was one of the first things he had noticed about the man when he met him. He aspired to have a kind face too someday, even though the face he saw in the mirror was often worn and broken.
The man waited patiently for him to answer, his body comfortably still. He had on nice navy-blue dress pants and light brown loafers. The manâs legs were crossed, his right foot hung comfortably and calmly.
His own foot automatically bounced.
âWhat was the question?â
âI asked if it was important why? Is it important why she left?â
Everything felt tedious â this question especially.
âI would think it should be.â He regretted how gruff his response sounded in his ears. The kind face didnât deserve gruffness.
âWould it change your actions moving forward?â The man remained still. The room remained quiet. It could be peaceful.
âIf it was because of me â then yes. If she left because of me, then I could do something different.â His hand was back on his face as he leaned back into the couch, eyes toward the ceiling. He was tired of the conversation. He had been tired of the conversation for years. He was tired of thinking about her â of hating her â of loving her. He was even more tired of not knowing how to feel about himself.
The ceiling was a subtle gray while the rest of the room was painted white. He found that interesting.
âFrom our conversations over these past months, it seems like you are not currently causing any problems in your life. Do you feel like thatâs true or are you feeling differently? Is there something about you that needs to be different?â The man had uncrossed his legs and sat forward a little more, seeming drawn in by his own question â face still calm, though with a hint of questioning.
Am I causing problems in my life? The question bounced around his head like an echo with nowhere to go. Am I causing problems in my life?
He thought about his daughterâs face this morning as she sat at the kitchen table. The table was like a piece of art with all of its random divots, stains, and stray crayon marks he never bothered to wipe off. He didnât know if he just never took the time to really scrub it down, or if he purposely left it the way to encapsulate the life that had been lived at that table.
His daughter had been sitting at the table that morning as she usually did, with her tongue sticking out one side of her mouth in concentration, as the blue crayon in her hand swiftly moved across Daniel Tigerâs face. The bowl of cereal next to her was apparently forgotten, until he asked her if she were boycotting cheerios. The green eyes slowly pulled themselves away from her masterpiece and her tongue slipped back into her mouth as she scrunched up her nose at him.
âWhat did a boy do to my cheerios?â she questioned with a mix of shock and confusion. A smile broke across his face which she instinctually mimicked.
âI asked if you were boycotting your cheerios. It means not doing something in the form of protest. Like not eating cheerios to make a point.â Her facial expression didnât change for a moment as her eyes stayed on him pensively. Then without moving her head, her eyes slid over to the bowl. With a quick movement, her blue crayon was abandoned, and her small hand wrapped around her spoon shoveling a heap of cheerios into her mouth with vigor. She then gave him the kind of smile only a five-year-old could, with her chin slightly lifted and her eyes mere slits â her cheeks filled with cheerios and milk. A suppressed laugh had escaped him as he sputtered into his coffee.
Am I causing problems in my life? He would often hear himself saying the words, âI just want her to be happyâ. They were said as a reflexive response to others and to himself at times. They were true â he wanted her to be happy. But he desperately wanted to be happy too.
âI think Iâve forgotten what makes me happy.â The words seemed to just slip out. Startled, he found himself sitting up a little more, talking a little quicker as if his words would catch up to those already uttered and cover them up with alternative sound. âMy daughter makes me happy. I am happy. Iâm happy with her. Iâm not saying Iâm not.â He saw that his slip had very subtly excited the man, who sat forward even more now as if getting closer to something.
âI know you love your daughter. You donât have to tell me that. Feelings of unhappiness and loving your daughter can coexist. They can live together in the same moment â in the same sentence. They donât negate each other.â The man let his words rest in the air, hanging like a truth that would be breathed in. âDo you believe that can be true for you?â
He figured the manâs words had the effect they were intended to. He felt his shoulders slightly drop as tension eased from his body â a tension born of guilt that had been gripping his insides for the past four years. âYesâ
âDo you believe that that could have been true for your wife?â
And there it was â the slap interrupting the calm. His body went into an instant boil, resulting in the physiological reactions he had become so accustomed to: hands and jaw clenched, the hum of his own blood in his ears, heart racing.
âItâs completely different,â he muttered, feeling his body close in on itself.
The man tilted his head in questioning.
âHow so?â The manâs face was innocently blank. It annoyed him. How could he not know the difference? He wasnât in the mood for the game â whatever therapeutic game it was.
âShe left. She abandoned us. She could have let me help her.â His voice was loud and angry and he felt a twinge of embarrassment at the realization that he was essentially yelling at the man â the man with the kind eyes. Embarrassment wasnât enough to quell his outburst. He didnât care anymore â the anger fed him. Fuck it.
âWhere do you get off saying that what Iâm going through is the same as what she did?â Spit flew from his mouth, making the anger in his words even more tangible. The calm face didnât seem to notice. âShe did this to us. She did it to herself. The only thing I did was try to help, try to understand, to support her. Love her.â His voice cracked as he felt the intense energy begin to ebb away. The heaviness of grief pulled him back down. âShe could have done something different.â The tension in his body gave away out of exhaustion. âShe didnât have to leave.â
His gaze stayed resting on the floor slightly in front of his feet. Embarrassment became prominent in the de-escalation of his anger. He wanted to apologize, but something caught in his throat kept him from doing so. Maybe if he didnât apologize or acknowledge it, they could just move on â pretend the outburst didnât happen. He flinched as if flicked in the ear at the irony. It was just that kind of thought which landed him in therapy to begin with.
âJust so you know,â the man replied lightly and softly to his sudden silence, âI donât expect you to react as if weâre having a casual conversation or as if the questions Iâm asking are easy. I get to ask the questions and you get to respond. Thatâs the deal. I get to choose the questions and you get to choose your response. And every response is justified if truthful.â
Looking up at the man, he felt timid, as if he were a boy again looking up to see his fatherâs face before being able to determine if everything truly was okay. The manâs face was reminiscent of how someone looked coaxing a scared animal out of hiding. A few moments of shared eye contact seemed to reassure the man as he slightly readjusted his body, and the blank calm face was put back into place.
âWhy do you think she didnât have to leave?â The question made his mind tense up in confusion, but the rest of his body was still tired and remained subdued.
âI â Iâm not sure what you mean.â
âFrom what weâve discussed, she was generally a level-headed person, smart, caring, not prone to being overly selfish. So why do you think she didnât have to leave? You are assuming there was something else she could have done. Why not assume that in her mind, at that time, she truly believed that all she could possibly do was leave? Why not assume that she did have to leave?â
He felt dumbfounded as the manâs words hit him. He could feel his body tense and fall all at the same time, as if the systems within him heard two different things and fired appropriate reactions in unison. In his head, a steady stream of thoughts began to roar through: arguments, defenses, frustrations of all kinds. But he felt his heart soften as if suddenly allowed to rest from the anger and pain in the comforting hands of truth. Feelings of unhappiness and love can live in the same moment.
She had loved them. Even though she had left them, she had loved them.
Content warning: Postpartum depression, suicide
Feelings of unhappiness and loving...can coexist. They can live together in the same momentâin the same sentence. They don't negate each other.
I don't believe I have encountered such a brief story with an unnamed couple that moved me more than this one. Told across the intimate perspectives of mother, father, and daughter, Consumed by a Season unravels a tale deeply rooted in grief, postpartum depression, mental illness, and healing.
Kelleen Goerlitz's book is segmented into four seasons, chronicling a marriage that moves forward and back in time to reveal pieces of each character, little histories and vignettes of a family that inch gradually to the present day (around 2020, though the epilogue takes us even further). It is no spoiler that the mother experiences postpartum depressionâher condition becomes the catalyst for everything that follows. As the father and Avery, their daughter, learn to grow as a family without the one person who knit them together, we witness a tableau of difficult conversations and emotions that unfold over the course of Avery's coming of age.
Goerlitz intentionally unnames the main couple in the book to invite an exercise of universality in the reading experience, which invites readers to focus more on the emotional journey of these characters and to stretch our cabin-cramped empathy muscles. My only quibble with the author is that I was yearning for more. I feel as if I could stay with this family for a hundred more pages. Goerlitz sheds light on the harmful societal image of the perfect pregnancy and the persistent, indebted love to raising children that is impossible to attain. I believe this author has a caring and intimate voice that will produce more great works of fiction to come that aim for that small spot near the heart that, when pressure is applied, leaves a lasting ache.
For fans of Celeste Ng's capturing of grief in Everything I Never Told You and Kazuo Ishiguro's confessions of fleeting friendship and loss in Never Let Me Go, Kelleen Goerlitz's Consumed by a Season is a novel that will stay with you long after you turn the last page.