As a solution to our three-year-old's interrupting problem, we designed the nightly ritual of taking turns talking about our day. In theory, as we eat dinner we all have a chance to talk about activities we partook in, friends we saw, and what we liked and disliked about the day. In reality, my husband talks for ten minutes, my son talks for fifteen, if you count the interruptions and demands for more or less food, the baby squawks through all of this, and when it finally comes to my turn to talk, I find myself sitting alone. The baby, long since tired of her highchair, crawls off to destroy our house, which causes our son to suddenly and urgently be "all done" and sprint after her. My husband seizes the rare childfree moment to start cleaning up the dishes and I am left talking to myself. Or the cat, who isn't a very good listener. If I complain about not being heard, I will jeopardize the chance of having someone else do the dishes while I am able to sit in silence for the first time all day. It is a tough choice—five minutes of peace and clean dishes or having people (sort of) listen to me.

I always assume there will be another time to fill my husband in on my day, but I am usually wrong. Men's inability to multi-task is not a fictitious stereotype, at least not in our house. If the children are around, my husband can't really pay attention to what I am saying. If I want to have his undivided attention, I have to be willing to stay up past the children and compete with the television. Seeing as my daughter still wakes me up several times a night, I am not usually up for the Herculean task of staying up past 10:00. Plus, I know evenings are my husband's down time when he watches television, downloads music on the computer, and eats ice cream. As I choose sleep over conversation, yet again, I console myself by figuring we had ten years of good conversations before the kids arrived on the scene and we'll have plenty more years to talk once they stop interrupting us. In the meanwhile, I'll talk to my girlfriends.

This used to be a viable solution, back when many of my friends were childless or only had drooling infants in tow. But these days, most of us have at least one, if not two Super Interrupters, who are not only have turned our brains to mush, but are also capable of running into a busy street when we are not looking or tumbling head first off of the monkey bars, again when we are not looking. Without my awareness, my in-depth conversations over a hot cup of coffee had become replaced by "I have been meaning to ask you….. Is that John strangling that other child?" "So, how's work going… No Conor, I told you I don't know if all bugs eat with their legs. No, I don't even know if beetles do, ask your pre-school teacher. So, what were we talking about?" I have not drunk a hot cup of coffee in years nor have I had a complete, stationary conversation in years, but just like I place my daughter in her crib every night and say, "See you in the morning," denial proves to be a very powerful source. Or maybe it isn't denial, seeing as that actually takes thought, and then energy to ignore those thoughts. This is just pure, sleep-deprived oblivion.

One day my oblivion was shattered. I had been waiting to hear back on a requested revision I had sent to an editor and when I checked my email, for the fourth time that day, and saw that she still had not gotten back to me I had an awakening. Nobody is listening to me. Not only that, but nobody has been listening to me for a long time, I just haven't noticed.

I had been under the illusion that people were reading what I was spending hours slaving over. This was occasionally true, but recently I was not getting any feedback, or even any acknowledgement, from editors. My book was circulating around several New York desks, or trashcans, but I hadn't heard from my agent in over a month. And the last time I did hear from her it was only to learn that she had received a form rejection letter from one of Penguin's many branches. As for the articles I had submitted, again months ago, I had only heard back from one editor (or intern). He had sent me a letter stating, "We received your article and will look it over in the next several months." At that point, I couldn't even remember what the article was about.

As a writer, I was beginning to feel as if all of my work was entering a black hole. As a mother, I was being interrupted and talked at, but rarely listened to. Even as a wife and friend, I rarely felt heard or that I had anyone's full attention due to our mutual interrupters and sleep-deprived brains.

On the day of my awakening, I tried to muster up energy and enthusiasm to delve into a new article or at least continue working on my second manuscript, but I couldn't. I gave up writing for the day and went for a walk instead. When I returned home my mother-in-law, who had been watching my kids, began to tell me about how her ALS (Amyotrophic Lateral Sclerosis, or more commonly referred to as Lou Gehrig's disease, paralyzes the nerves in the body) causes her to speak very slowly, so people often interrupt her. "Last night I was at a birthday celebration for my friend and I wasn't able to contribute to the conversation at all. There were six of us at a rather loud restaurant and every time I tried to talk, someone would talk over me." "Wow," I sympathized, "that must be really frustrating. I have been thinking ..." But she walked away before I could finish my attempt to bond with her. Or at least show her someone was listening to her.

I sat through dinner and listened, wiped faces, and jumped up numerous times to meet requests from the youngest members of the family. But once the kids scurried off to play, my mother-in-law went home, and my husband started the dishes, I decided it was my turn to talk. I fought back tears as I explained my frustration over not being heard. "It's been accumulating for a long time and I didn't realize it. Every time the kids interrupt me or you answer the phone when I am in the middle of a sentence or an editor doesn't get back to me, I shrug it off and think it's not that big of a deal. But after years of this, it has become a big deal and I can't live like this anymore. I have been depressed and unmotivated to write, or do anything for that matter, for months and I didn't know why. Now I know why. I need to know I am not living in a vacuum. I need someone to throw me a bone, to hear from the outside world that all of my efforts aren't in vain. I know motherhood is a thankless job and no one is ever going to tell me I make a great grilled cheese sandwich or that they really admire how I play chase with my kids, but I had never realized how thankless being a writer is as well. And that is all I do, write and mother. I don't have any other outlets. Besides you, and you are just as tired as I am so that doesn't do me any good. I think I need to see a shrink." I babbled on, cried a bit, and then processed some more. My husband amazed me by listening to me, asking probing questions, and cleaning the kitchen all at the same time. Maybe he can multi-task after all. Especially if there are tears involved.

He encouraged the notion of seeing a therapist and even though I had suggested it first, I now balked at the notion. "I've always made fun of people who have to pay someone to listen to them. Not that I am against therapists, I think they provide an enormous service, but I have always thought it was pathetic that so many people, mainly women, see therapists just to talk. I always assumed that was what friends were for—cheap therapy." The more we talked the more I realized my "cheap therapy" solutions were no longer working for me and it was time to fork over some money.

I asked all of my friends for references and not only learned about some very qualified therapists, but also learned that at some point all of my friends had been or are currently in therapy. Another thing it had taken me too long to realize. Gathering names and phone numbers was easy, actually calling to make the appointment was an entirely different hurdle. For weeks I convinced myself that writing in my journal, having a date with my husband, or scheduling childfree time with friends would cure my problem. All of these things helped, but they couldn't cure three years of silence.

I chose one of the therapists in my neighborhood and made an appointment. I felt nervous and shy as I entered her office. As soon as I looked into her kind face, I relaxed. And then I started talking. The more I talked, the more she listened. She didn't chase after a toddler, clean up her desk, answer the phone, or interrupt me in any way. The more I looked at her, the more comfortable I became, and the more I talked. Sometimes she synthesized what I said, or offered a suggestion, but mostly she listened.

Every week when I drive to her office I think, "I don't think I have much to say this week," but before I know it she interrupts me to tell me our time is up. Sometimes I cry, sometimes I laugh, and I often wonder what the hell I am babbling about. But maybe that is the point, to babble. After an hour of babbling, things slowly start to make sense. Problems become a little bit less complicated and I become a little bit less confused.

And now I know, it is worth it to pay someone to listen.

Corbin Lewars lives in Seattle, WA where she continues to write, mother, and strive to be heard. She is the author of the forthcoming book Home and the founder of the zine Reality Mom. Her articles can be found in various literary journals and her blog can be found at www.realitymomzine.blogspot.com.