Nightbitch

She didn’t want to think, only to act. Only to survive.

She would be a wreck in the morning, but she didn’t care.

She would be a wreck in the morning, but she didn’t care.

Nothing was fine, despite how other people reasoned away her worries and anger, said that this was just how things were, that things would get better, that she really needed to calm down and not be so angry, that she really should be grateful and happy, that happiness was a choice, that she was privileged and bratty and wanted too much all at once.

Why don’t you just leave? she thought. Go away. In some ways, it was easier with him gone.

She wanted to exit, but it would really be inconvenient for her husband, for the entire family, as he put it, so she stayed.

but being at home was also agony, just of a different sort.

She was alive in a new way

Yes, certainly, her emerging rage was in part a by-product of physiological processes, but how could you not be pissed after having a baby?

Her sense that society, adulthood, marriage, motherhood, all these things, were somehow masterfully designed to put a woman in her place and keep her there—this idea had begun to weigh on her.