The editors of Marrow each contributed questions for this joint interview with “Catharsis” writer, Jeniya Mard.

What did you want to say with “Catharsis”? What do you want readers to know?

Before studying English, I was originally studying Child Development, taking classes on human development. In one of those courses, we learned not only about postpartum depression, but postpartum psychosis as well. I had no idea what postpartum psychosis was, because all my life I had only been educated on (and spoken to of) postpartum depression. In short, postpartum psychosis is the result of severe, untreated cases of postpartum depression.

I watched a documentary outside of class that explained it as being absent from your own mind—women have horrible thoughts as a result of their depression spiraling out of control, which then lead to horrible thoughts about their children they can’t control. I watched documentaries about women who, unintentionally and unbeknownst to them because of the psychosis, put their babies in dryers, microwaves, even fantasizing about dropping their baby from the window of a high-rise apartment building.

There was one I had watched about a woman who unfortunately killed all four of her children because of postpartum depression having gone untreated all four times she was postpartum, and with each pregnancy it only got worse, which eventually developed into postpartum psychosis. I don’t think enough people talk about postpartum psychosis because I don’t think they want to—they aren’t comfortable talking about it.

Most women, when and if charged for what they do, aren’t charged as guilty due to the psychosis, but the fact that some women get to the point of even doing such things is heartbreaking. Postpartum depression is something that needs to be taken seriously, because if not treated it could spiral into something dangerous. Mental health services in this country is a topic I don’t want to dive into, but I believe that these services, especially for an individual who has just created another human being, are crucial.

What is your relationship with motherhood? How is that connected to the content in this piece? 

I am not a mother, however, I am completely engrossed in the mothering sphere. Before switching to an English major, I was constantly in settings of child and family development, and I have watched women I don’t know give birth in lecture halls more times than I probably should have, but in doing so, I gained a new respect for motherhood. I’m a triplet, and my brothers and I are the only children my mother ever had, and as a child I was upset about never having more siblings, but after growing up and witnessing just how hard it is to not only raise one child, but three at once, I understood my mother better.

My Godchildren and my cousin’s children, whom I see nearly every day, I adore. I feel as if I am a mother, not only because of the Godparent title, but because of the bonds I have with them. I have known them all since the day they were born, and, of course, not being a mother myself, there are certain bonds I can’t have with a child that isn’t mine, but I just love them, and I will do absolutely anything for them.

As a mom who dealt with postpartum depression and anxiety, the inability, or unwillingness, of the mother to connect with others in this piece, to speak to others about her disturbing thoughts and the way they spiral out of control, really struck me. Can you talk about how the lack of other characters in this piece works? 

Often, women who deal with postpartum depression feel unheard, not only by their spouses and families, but by medical professionals as well. Knowing someone who struggled with depression, and then postpartum depression, it was very upsetting for me to see her needs brushed off as just ‘how she always is.’ Because depression alone is such a hard thing to deal with, I believe that women, after giving birth, should be given the services they need to not only heal their physical bodies, but their minds as well. When someone struggles with depression, and I am speaking from personal experiences, they feel alone—and when depression turns into psychosis, a mindset where the person struggling isn’t even aware they are in it, feelings of loneliness are only driven higher.

The lack of other characters was very much intentional—I had debated adding in the husband or even another child’s name at some point, but didn’t want to tie this story down to its characters; I wanted it to be as it was, not Jane or Jill. By not including names, which is something I try and do in shorter pieces, it opens up the door for pure interpretation. Descriptions of characters’ appearance are something I try to avoid in my writing, and although most people would argue against such a thing, I think doing so allows the reader to, in shorter pieces, connect with the characters. I don’t say this woman has red hair or tan skin or brown eyes, etc., because by giving her any one characteristic, I am taking away from what the reader can interpret for themselves.

“Catharsis” takes place entirely in one woman’s interiority. We don’t know how anyone else in the story feels, or really even how they react to her–we’re in her mind, and only her mind, the whole time. What do you think are the merits–or challenges–to writing in this kind of close third-person narration? Are there any other pieces you think do this style of narration well? 

When someone is struggling with psychosis, particularly postpartum psychosis, they aren’t aware of what they’re doing and cannot control the thoughts that they have, so while writing this piece, I kept the narrative at such a close third-person, because I didn’t want any aspect of the woman’s actual personality to come through–she is in a disturbed state of mind, and I knew I needed to keep the narrative tight to remain in that voice. I believe that this style of narration is challenging, because you can’t have any outside voice or inner monologue; it is all, for lack of better words, completely cut-and-dry. I can’t think of any other stories specifically that utilize this type of narration, but I’d say most flash fiction pieces teeter between tight narration and just being all over the place.

There is some shocking onomatopoeia in this piece that I feel lends a potency to an image we don’t exactly get outright, but which is heavily implied: “thud thud thud.” We know what’s happening because of that sound.

Can you say more about how you approached writing this particular scene and what concerns you had in terms of how readers might receive it? Have you navigated negative feedback surrounding explicit content before, and how? 

Because it’s a flash fiction piece, I had a word limit I couldn’t cross, and I didn’t want to stuff too much detail into the end of the story, so the usage of the onomatopoeia was very much intentional. Because of the mindset psychosis puts people in, they often aren’t aware of what they’ve done or that they’ve even done anything until they ‘snap out of it’, or in the case of the woman in this story, wake up.

I used the sound of thudding, because when something is in a washer or a dryer and making that noise, it’s usually a given that whoever is doing laundry will open it and see just what’s making that noise—which was a true, real-life case of a woman placing her baby into the dryer; in the true event, she thankfully heard the noise, was able to regain herself, and took her child out of the machine before it was critically hurt. I decided to use the noise to emphasize what was happening, but also to give the woman a very absurd noise to fall asleep to, alluding to the real case of the woman who heard the noise and acted because of it.

This was a story I presented to my classmates for a workshop, and their reactions were interesting, to say the least. By now, they’re very much used to the things I write, but I always have concerns when sending pieces out for publication. This story in particular has been rejected many, many times by other magazines, so I was thrilled when the good people of Marrow accepted it. With all of my writing that I send out into the world, like most writers, I am often met with rejection…a lot of it. None of my writing can sit in bright rooms with spotlights on them; I like to think of my writing as the stories you find by shining flashlights in the dark—no one wants to acknowledge them because, to the best of my ability, I try to speak on real life and real issues, which, in my opinion, is what fiction is for.

How did you strike a balance writing so much intensity into the flash fiction form? 

Believe it or not, I actually struggle quite a bit with flash fiction. I am a very prolific writer, often writing ‘short stories’ that nearly cross the line into novellas unintentionally, so having to condense my writing into ten, nine, eight—five pages is a challenge.

I wrote this piece for a workshop class in undergrad, and I spoke with my professor before submitting it because I was worried to offend anyone, but I was also worried about it being a flash piece. Since writing this piece, and a few other shorter pieces in the past few months, I have developed a respect for short fiction and the power it holds— simplicity is key. The shorter the story, often, the stronger the message. The less you have to work with, both literally with word count and figuratively with story, you can create powerful narratives because of how blunt you need to be in flash fiction.

Who are some other writers you enjoy who incorporate this sort of storytelling? Any particular pieces you’d recommend?

As someone who taught themselves to read and write, I grew up without the influence of other writers. Once entering college, I was able to expand my horizons and really get into the writing of others and be inspired by them. In the media, the most popular stories are those that revolve around science fiction, fantasy, or some other fantastical, supernatural theme, and as someone who writes mainly grounded in reality and the horrors of it, I never knew how to label myself as a writer.

A story I find myself enamored with, not only because of the cultural significance, but because of its form, is The Yellow Wallpaper by Charlotte Perkins Gilman. Another writer I enjoy is Richard Adams, best known for his novels Watership Down and Plague Dogs. Plague Dogs is a story I could talk about for hours; the way Adams sets the piece in the reality of animal testing, from the perspective of the animals themselves, makes the story so much stronger than it would be from the perspective of a ‘white coat’ (scientists) or human. I admire authors who take on the dark sides of reality, and take it on well.