Healing

Dear Lorenzo:

It's Saturday evening, 5:40 p.m., and I'm upstairs, writing you from Aisha's computer because for some reason my tablet isn't pairing with my keyboard and I can't figure out what's going on. In any case...

I'm still here.

This year, it was Thanksgiving that did me in.

The day started off wonderfully.

The entire family went to Sheree's house for dinner. She'd been cooking for days on end and had enough food to feed a proverbial army but we each contributed a dish or two of our own. I brought a big salad and the vegan wellington from the Chicago Diner. Asia brought her sweet potato casserole, Heidi brought a roast and your mom brought potato salad. There was mac and cheese, dressing, sweet potato pies, you name it, Sheree served it, and I threw down.

And then...

I fell down.

Little D, Dwight and I were watching the game in the living room when it hit me.

This was it. This was my new normal. You would never again come upstairs from the basement to talk football with your brother. We would never again watch another Superbowl together. I had no one to talk to about all that I'd learned from Lou Riddick or Trey Wingo or anyone else on ESPN.

I left the party early and took a Lyft back home.

Alone.

It was days before I could get myself back up again.

I stayed in bed that entire long weekend, rousing myself only on the rare occurrences when Amira was with me instead of upstairs with your mom. I buried myself amongst my comforters, the way I did for the entire first year following your death.

And then...

I woke up.

I'm not exactly sure what happened but...

Lorenzo, I'm so tired of being depressed.

I'm so tired of spending more time thinking about our life together than focusing on any future I could possibly have without you.

I need to have hope again.

I need to believe that I can truly be happy again.

I need to show Amira that there can be life for us even after your death and that it's okay for us to move on.

That moving forward doesn't mean forgetting all that you meant to us, and it certainly doesn't mean not loving you anymore.

I will always, ALWAYS love you, Lorenzo.

You will ALWAYS be Amira's Daddy.

You are irreplaceable, now and forever, but I am finally giving myself permission to let you go.

Not the love, not the lessons, not the memories, but the dream of our getting to grow old together.

I'm ready to let that go.

And in my heart, I know that's what you'd want.

I'm Missing You

Dear Lorenzo,

It's 7:43 p.m. and I'm lying in bed, watching Thursday night football and talking to you while Amira PRESUMABLY finishes her homework upstairs.

This was one of the longest weeks I've had since you've been gone.

In preparation for my first day of work, I put Amira to bed early on Sunday night. I signed off on her agenda, packed her homework folder, and made both her breakfast and lunch ahead of time. I set my alarm for 5:45 a.m. so I'd have time to workout before getting myself showered and dressed by 7:30 a.m. I went to bed that night, certain that I was completely ready for my first day on the job.

But at 4:30 a.m., Amira awoke from a bad dream and couldn't fall back asleep. And at 5:30 a.m. she began to cough.

Having been her mother for the past 9 1/2 years, I know the difference between the beginning of an asthma attack and the beginning of a cold. I know when Amira cannot possibly go to school without coughing herself sick, and I know when a few sessions with a nebulizer is all she needs. From the sounds of Monday's cough I knew she probably shouldn't go to school but that her cough wasn't bad enough for me to miss my first day of work. She was still eating, laughing and watching TV and these are all good signs. So with both Amira and your mom's encouragement, I left my, only-just-starting-to-get-sick daughter home with grandma.

I was gone for exactly five hours including travel time, and for exactly five hours I worried non-stop. I worried while being trained on a new-to-me computer program. I worried when I texted your mom to check in and she didn't text back. I worried until 12:00 p.m. when I left the office, called the house phone and Amira picked up and let me know she was okay.

And when I got home and gave her nebulizer treatments every 4 hours on the dot, when I put her in a steamy shower and let her breathe in the heavy, moist air, when I put her to bed that night with her head propped up on damn near every single pillow in this house, I worried about my baby then too.

Being a single mom is hard. Being a single mom to a child with a chronic illness is fucking brutal. I absolutely know this could be so much worse. The support I get from both of our families is something I will NEVER be able to repay. The fact that our daughter "only" has cough variant asthma and never has problems breathing is a gift compared to what others have to endure. We have health insurance, a roof over our heads, enough food to eat and clothes on our backs but...when I hear her cough, I worry incessantly anyway.

If you'd been here this week, you would have SUCKED ASS at being supportive.

You would have gotten on my damn nerves with all of your ineffective, all-natural home remedies. You would have called me overanxious and neurotic. I would have called you callous and insensitive. We would have driven each other crazy until Amira's cough had subsided, and then we would have grinned at each other sheepishly, grateful that this episode had ended at last.

There is not another soul on this planet who could work my last good nerve that way that you did but sometimes, when our daughter's sick and I'm all alone with my worry, Lorenzo, I miss you anyway.

Good Enough

Dear Lorenzo,

It's Friday night and Amira and I are sitting in my bed, she on her recorder, practicing, and me on the tablet, talking to you.

I've spent a lot of time in bed over the past two years.

After you died I kept my bedroom door closed and slept on the living room futon for 365 days. On weekday mornings I'd take Amira to school and then rush home to lie on that futon for five hours straight. I'd spend my days listening to whatever was on ESPN and the sound of your mother's footsteps, pacing back and forth in her apartment, just above my head. For an entire year I'd bury myself amongst pillows and comforters, amongst my shock and my denial, and I'd pray that somehow you'd come back to me, that the accident was just a bad dream.

It was a long road to acceptance but almost two and a half years later, I've finally arrived.

Amira and I...our lives aren't going to be the same as they once were. We may never go to Vegas again, much less get a second home there as you and your brother once planned. And your dream of  retiring at 50, getting yourself a scooter and moving into my mother's "old age home" isn't going to happen either. Instead, you're gone and I'm left trying to figure everything out on my own.

I don't have all of the answers yet, hell, I may not have any at all, but as soon as I "woke up" from the spell your death had cast, I knew where I had to begin.

On Monday I'm going to do something you swore I'd never do again.

I'm going to start a new job OUTSIDE of the home.

On Monday morning I'm going to wake up at 6:00 a.m., workout, shower and get dressed in clothes that aren't my usual mismatched pajamas. I'll get Amira up, clothed and fed. I'll take her to school, then rush to the El and head downtown to work in an office from 9:00 am. - 1:00 p.m., three or four days a week.

I finally got a job. A temp job, but a job nonetheless. A job that will allow me to take our daughter to school and pick her up everyday. A job that will allow me to pay off my credit card debt and still have a ridiculously over the top Christmas for Amira. A job that will remind me of what it feels like to be something other than a mom. Something other than your partner. Something other than the girl who lost half her heart when her boyfriend died way too soon.

It's just a temp job, just part-time but...it's a start. And it's a reason to get off of the futon. And right now, that's good enough for me.

Treading Water

Dear Lorenzo,

It's 11:26 p.m. and like most nights, insomnia has rendered me sleepless so right now I'm up, half-heartedly watching The Goldbergs (you would've liked it) and waiting for the melatonin to kick in.

Nighttime is still hard. Brutally fucking hard. I don't usually get lonely until night falls.

Normally I'm too busy to be lonely. And even if I'm not busy, I find ways to occupy my time, to fake having a life, to ignore the nagging emptiness that sometimes threatens to pull me under. But at nighttime, when Amira's asleep, before the melatonin or Tylenol PM knocks me out...it's hard to pretend I'm not alone.

But, two years, three months, and five days since you've been gone, I'm beginning to see light at the end of the proverbial tunnel. Today was a rainy, dreary Wednesday and since Samaiya called me this morning and offered to take Amira to school, I had absolutely no reason to leave the house. Two years ago, I would have put on ESPN, curled up on the futon, and not gotten up again until it was time to pick up Amira and take her to theater but today...

Today, I got off of my ass and got to work.

I washed and twisted my hair, cleaned my house, warmed up on the trampoline for two minutes before working out on the elliptical for 45. I had a big salad for lunch and an apple for a snack. I didn't curl up in a ball and pretend the world didn't exist until my alarm went off at 2:00 p.m. I didn't eat my weight in potato chips or have a glass of wine (or two or three) with dinner in an effort to forget.

I didn't let depression win on a rainy, dreary Wednesday.

I didn't let depression pull me under.

Going With My Gut

Dear Lorenzo,

In my quest to return to the land of the gainfully employed, I've spent the past few months registering with various temp agencies. I'd wake up, get the kid off to school, shower, get dressed in the one and only work appropriate outfit I still own, and then haul ass to whatever downtown temp agency was on the schedule for that day.  Meeting recruiter after recruiter, and attempting to explain to them why they should hire me after my ten year hiatus from the work place was fucking exhausting. So you can probably imagine my relief when Danielle said she might have a job for me. After giving her my resume I first had a phone interview and then an in person interview with her boss. And today, exactly one week after that two-hour, six-person group interview I FINALLY received an email back from the hiring manager.

I didn't get the job.

I cannot begin to tell you how relieved I am.

Don't get me wrong, had I gotten the job I would have made the best of it. I would have loved working with Danielle. I would have loved taking the train into work with Heidi after we dropped the kids off at school. I would have loved having a legitimate reason to go downtown every day. I would have loved the money, the benefits, the security. Being able to help your mom out financially. Being able to pay for whatever we need without worrying as much as I do. I would have loved feeling useful again.

But...

I wouldn't have loved the panic I'd feel calling out from work every time Amira's asthma flared up. I wouldn't have loved scrambling to find someone not only willing to pick her up from school every day, but also willing to take her to play production four days a week. I wouldn't have loved not being able to chaperone school field trips or attend class parties. I wouldn't have loved not being able to volunteer for school picture day, or for Fiesta de Arte, or to help bring the kids from their classrooms to the first floor conference room to have their vision and hearing tested once a year.

And I wouldn't have loved not being able to visit my mom as often as we do.

I guess being an associate in new market development just isn't the right job for me.

And that's okay.

Because I already have my dream job, and unbelievably enough, it's being Amira's mom.

And right now, that's the job that has to come first.

Chapter Two

"Get in shape, girl, you'll love the feeling.

Get in shape, girl, it's so appealing."

Kick-ass 80's commercial

Dear Lorenzo,

I have no idea where to start this entry.

I'm not sure why I'm having such a tough time writing tonight. Amira's lying beside me, sleeping soundly. The TV is on of course, but it's been muted and the only distractions I have are the whirs of the ceiling fan and the occasional sound of fireworks from some asshole who can't accept the fact that the 4th of July has come and gone.

Although it's past 10:00 p.m., I'm not particularly tired because I've done nothing but sit on my ass all day.

I've done nothing but sit on my ass for the past two years.

Don't get me wrong, I've taken breaks from my inertia. I still love to work out and so on most days, I take long walks or use the elliptical or even jump up and down on the trampoline. And I always show up for our daughter, of course, but other than that...

Couch, tv, potato chips, wine.

Lather, rinse, repeat.

If you could see me now, you'd barely recognize me.

I barely recognize me.

And it's not just because I've gained so much weight, you never gave a shit about that so you probably wouldn't notice, but...it's my lackluster attitude. I no longer have the energy to even pretend to care about much of anything these days.

This isn't a life.

Not the life I want to live.

So...Mira and I leave for Boston in a few weeks and the plan is to stay for the entire month of August (or, until my mother and I can barely stand to look at each other, much less live together, a moment longer). But before we leave Chicago I will take the next two weeks to revise my resume and submit my applications for grad school.

And I've gotta get serious about losing some weight. No more fucking around. I'm old so it won't be easy to lose but I finally feel ready to try.  

And I don't want to work anywhere that makes me miserable. My life is hard enough right now without adding a shitty job to the equation. I want to work for an organization that appreciates me. I want to surround myself with people who make me want to get up and get out of bed every morning. 

I want to be happy again.

Despite the fact that I can no longer be with you.

  

Back To Life

"I want my mullet back, my old Camaro and my eight track."

Robbie Ray, as seen on Hannah Montana

Dear Lorenzo:

I'm lonely.

And scared.

And tired.

Really, really tired.

And stressed the hell out.

There.

I said it.

That wasn't so bad.

And it only took two years and seven days to wake up.

I miss you but that's not all of it.

I miss my old life.

I miss not having to worry so much. 

I worry all the time now.

I worry about Amira and I worry about your mom.  I worry about single parenthood and about whether or not I'm doing a good enough job. I worry about going back into the workplace after spending the past ten years as a stay at home mom. I worry that working outside of the home will be another adjustment that Amira will have to add to an already full plate of crappy adjustments. I worry about my work schedule conflicting with school plays and dance recitals. I worry about not being able to take her to theater class after school anymore. I worry about field trips and class parties. Bullying and peer pressure. I worry, and worry, and worry, and worry, and worry.

And when I'm done with all of that worrying, I go to bed. 

Alone.

I miss you.

I miss your presence. I miss not being afraid at nighttime. I miss not repeatedly checking to make sure all of our doors and windows are locked. I miss hearing you argue with Dwight about Madden or an upcoming game. I miss laughing with you and fighting with you and all the fun of making up.

I miss you.

And for the first time in two years and seven days...

I'm lonely.

I think between the grief, shock, antidepressants, and, let's keep it real here, self-medicating, I haven't really FELT anything for a long time. When friends have asked if I'm interested in dating yet I've always laughed and thought to myself, "How can I date, I'm completely dead inside." 

But I'm starting to feel not so dead anymore. I'm starting to feel...sad. And lonely. And loss. Somehow I lost you. And it sucks.

I don't know what comes next for me. Work, grad school, I have no idea but...I'm not dead inside anymore. I'm sad, and scared and lonely but that's real. So...okay. 

Feeling sad and scared and lonely will have to do for now.

I'll figure the rest of it out as I go along.

I Choose You

"You're all I know, I can't let you go."

Mariah Carey

You died exactly two years ago today.

In your short time on this planet you got to be a teacher, an EMT, and a firefighter. You got to bet on football games with your brother in Las Vegas, bond with your firefighter buddies in New Orleans, and drive your fancy Highlander (blasting your horrible music) all over the northside of Chicago. You got to see a lot of your dreams come true and for that I am eternally grateful but I wish with all of my heart that you'd been given more than seven years to be a dad. Amira is nine now. And she's a force to be reckoned with. A couple of weeks ago, in a misguided attempt to clown her, one of her classmates looked at Amira and said, "What's the matter with your face?" Without missing a beat (or giving a fuck) Amira looked at him and shouted, "What's the matter with YOUR LIFE!?" to the amusement and laughter of her fellow 3rd graders.

That is YOUR CHILD, Lorenzo.

She's into Selena Gomez and Taylor Swift, dancing and musical theater. She plans to one day become a singer, actress, dancer or SLIME ENTREPRENEUR. I hope that you can still see her. I hope that, somehow, you still get to watch her grow up. You'd be so proud of the ass kicking, talented, HILARIOUS young woman your daughter is growing up to be.  

You died exactly two years ago today and while I've forgotten a lot from July 5th, 2016, I still remember certain moments from that day as clearly as if they'd only just occured. Your voice on the phone that morning, telling me you loved me for what would turn out to be the very last time. Amira and I heading out to Whole Foods to get you the vegan protein shakes you'd finally agreed to drink. The phone call from your mother asking us to come home, telling me that you'd had a seizure and that we needed to get to the rehab facility right away. The rushed Uber ride to Des Plaines, the prayers I repeated to myself over and over again. And then...the head nurse or doctor or whoever the fuck she was, meeting us at the lobby elevator to tell us you were already gone. 

But I don't dwell on that day. Not anymore. Instead, I choose to remember you for who you were before July 5th, 2016, before a drunk driver whose name I've purposely forgotten, took you away from us forever. 

I choose to remember the Lorenzo who wore a suit to our impromptu superbowl party, because he wanted to be as sharp as Ray Lewis. I choose to remember the Lorenzo who sang "Commas After My Commas" with his daughter at the top of his lungs. I choose to remember the Lorenzo who slept with his arms around me every, single, night that we were together. I choose to remember the Lorenzo who did squats in his hospital room a mere week and a half after the accident.

I choose to remember the man you've always been. And no accident on this Earth, no drunk driver, no shitty rehab facility can EVER take those memories away from me.

Me, Me, Me, Me, Me, Me, Me, Me

"There's just me. One is the magic number."

Jill Scott

Dear Lorenzo,

It's 5:57 a.m. and under normal circumstances, I would just be getting out of bed at this time, but my asthma's been kicking my ass all night so I've been up, and uncomfortable, for the past few hours. Amira's still sound asleep and the entire house is still dark and quiet so I figured this would be the perfect time to write.

Since you've been gone I've done my best to make up for what our daughter has lost. It isn't possible to replace you of course, but I've done everything I can to lessen her pain. We talk about you as much, or as little, as she needs in any given moment. When she wants to be distracted I take her to the movies, museums, or play dates at the park. When she wants to feel her sadness, I hold her in my arms and let her cry. Nighttime is still rough. Afraid to be alone in the dark, she sleeps in my bed with me. On weekends, before we've made our plans for the day, while I'm still cleaning the kitchen or doing the laundry or on the ellliptical, she follows me from room to room, not letting me out of her sight. She is aware of her anxieties and she hates them. She's in therapy and has learned to journal her feelings or to talk to me whenever the need to vent arises. I spend a lot of time telling her that her feelings, her fears, are perfectly normal and that she is going to continue to heal. I do everything that I can to make her feel safe.

I spend a lot of time being her mom.

There is no one or nothing on this planet that I love more than my child but...

It is exhausting.

I am exhausted.

Writing replenishes me.

Always has.

I've written my way through the hardest periods of my life. M.S., losing my dad, new motherhood, and now losing you.

I know that I have to start taking care of myself again. I have to care for myself as diligently as I care for our daughter. I have to write and get some form of exercise daily. I have to take a multivitamin and my MS drugs, daily. I have to reach out to friends and family, meditate, eat and sleep well, DAILY. Not just when I remember. Not just when I feel like it, or when I'm in a good mood. I have to take care of myself every fucking day. I can't continue to come last on my own list.

If I do not take care of myself, I will not be able to take care of our daughter and that is NOT an option for me.

So babe, I'm committing to you, to Amira and to myself that I will make my own well-being a priority in my life again. I will do my best to get enough sleep at night. I will continue to work out and write. I will keep binge-inducing junk food out of the house and instead keep the fridge and pantry stocked with the fruits, veggies and healthier treats that I love and can eat moderately.

I will cut way back on alcohol and join Amira in her nighttime meditation.

I will do my best from here on out to take care of me again.

ALL The Crazy

Dear Lorenzo,

Right now it's 2:10 a.m. and I'm wide awake, watching tv and feeling my feelings so...here goes nothing.

I just finished giving Amira a nebulizer treatment because she woke up coughing and even though she's stopped now and has returned to sleeping peacefully, even though she still has one day of prednisone left to take, I'm worried that it's my fault she's still sick because I sent her back to school today and then let her stay at the park for a little while with her friends before we went to both Jewel and Whole Foods and maybe that was too much for her and I am the worst mother alive.

I have an open house at Northwestern in a few weeks where I will learn more about their Masters in Creative Writing program and I don't even know why I'm wasting my time (even though it's probably only a 20 minute trip to Evanston) because there's no way in hell I'm going to get into Northwestern.

We leave for New Orleans in five days to accept your diploma from EDI and even though I'm looking forward to the trip, after paying for Barbados and camp and now this, I am so frigging poor right now that a part of me doesn't even want to go to Boston in August and would rather stay home where I don't have to spend any additional money but I can't do to that my mother or my daughter and so I'm going home even if it's only for a week.

Diners, Drive-Ins, and Dives is on and I'm watching a brotha make peas and rice, plantain and red snapper and the meal looks so pretty and like home to me but it still isn't something that I would ever eat, not even when we were in Barbados, and I'm wondering about the last non-salad meal that I ate at any restaurant and the only thing that comes to mind is the risotto that I had last summer in Boston and I'm wondering if the reason that I prefer raw foods like salad isn't only because of the crunchy texture but because after YEARS of dieting I'm completely fucked up now and I'm grateful that my daughter has both your confidence and appetite and I will do everything in my power to keep her that way.

Amira just woke herself up coughing and briefly climbed into my lap and I wish I hadn't told her about Indian Boundary Park tomorrow because if she keeps coughing I'm keeping her home and I worry that both she and our friends will be disappointed and that once again, I'm the worst mother/friend alive.

I miss Maggie a lot. I haven't talked to her in months and I don't know if she's grieving or pissed at me or a combination of both but I'm sad and mad and miss the shit out of my best friend.

And...there you have it. All the feels, ALL the crazy, which I'm kind of glad I got off of my chest. THIS is what I've been trying to keep at bay, to drown out with food or alcohol for the past two years.

Me.

And you know what? It wasn't even that bad. The world didn't come to an end because of my neuroses. I don't fantasize about kicking puppies or shoplifting. I'm just a relatively normal human being with my own unique set of fuckedupness. And maybe that's okay because I bet everyone has their own unique set of fuckedupness too. And after writing all of this down, I actually feel better than I have in a really long time.

Like maybe me and all of my crazy are going to be okay after all.

Baby Mama Drama

Dear Lorenzo,

If you compare parenthood to a prison sentence (as I often do) then single motherhood can be likened to life without even the possiblity of parole.

It's 2:00 a.m. and I've been up for the past hour (or rather, the past four days) tending to Amira. She had an asthma flare up a few days ago and has been struggling ever since. As usual, she's okay during the day but nighttime is an entirely different story. She coughs herself awake seemingly every hour and can't get comfortable enough to get back to sleep on her own. Inevitably, each night ends the exact same way: with me, foggy from exhaustion, pulling myself out of bed to give her one last nebulizer treatment before propping her up on my chest so that, completely upright, she is able to attain a few hours of uninterrupted sleep at last.

After realizing that all the Albuterol in the world wasn't ending this particular flare up, I took her to the emergency room last night where, after receiving two breathing treatments, a course of Solumedrol, and a prescription for Prednisone, Amira was deemed well enough to go home.

I'm just not sure that I am.

On a good day, motherhood is fucking exhausting but on a bad day, when your kid is sick and you have to figure out how best to care for her...On a bad day, when your kid is scared and afraid to go to sleep without you...On a bad day, when you can't go into the kitchen to do the dishes, or run down to the basement to put a load of laundry in, or even go to the bathroom without your nine year old running behind you...it can feel unbearably overwhelming. I have an amazing support system all around me but...it's not the same as having a partner to do this with me.

Ultimately, I am on my own.

I have to figure out if she's well enough to go to school after an asthma attack or if I should keep her home with me for one more day. I have to remember to give her her vitamins and medications, to make sure her homework's done, to sneak veggies into her stews and chilis without her noticing. I have to play PayDay and Mancala when my allergies are kicking my ass and I'm so tired I can barely keep my eyes open. I have to convince her that we are safe and that I will never, ever leave her. I have to find a way to be her everything because that's what a mother is to a child.

Everything.

Especially when that child has already lost one parent.

So...

Like single mothers have been doing since the dawn of time, I'll find a way to make it work. I'll lean on my friends and family for support. I'll take my ass back to therapy to learn how to properly cope with all of the changes that we're undergoing. I'll get through it. But tonight, this moring, I just needed to vent.

Thanks for listening.

The Break Up

Dear Lorenzo,

The only junk food that is still in our house are the pop rocks that Amira nagged me into buying for her from Lickety Split, and the jalapeno flavored, Kettle brand potato chips that Amira likes but I cannot stand.

Everything else has been thrown away at long last.

It's time to say goodbye to my 2nd favorite drug of choice: food.

Anyone who doesn't understand the emotional comfort that food can provide is either lying or has never eaten before.

For the past 22 months, food has filled the void that's taken up permanent residence in my heart and soul since you've been gone.

Too sad to get off the couch? Let's order a pizza. Scared shitless by the prospect of single motherhood? How bout some crackers and cheese? Lonely as hell without you lying next to me each night? Let's stay up late and eat potato chips while watching mindless sitcoms until the Tylenol PM kicks in and I drift off into never never land  having never never confronted any of my actual feelings because...my actual feelings HURT.

Being without you HURTS. Going over every mistake I've ever made in the course of our almost decade long relationship HURTS. Knowing that we don't get another shot to make it right HURTS. And so instead of allowing myself to feel that hurt...I ate. And ate. And ate. And ate. And ate.

And then I ate some more.

But 22 months later, I'm finally ready to be done with that particular coping mechanism because...spoiler alert: it doesn't work. Underneath all those potato chips are just a whole bunch of emotions that I'm still going to have to deal with eventually.

And I finally feel ready to start deaing with them now.

Freedom

"Take my pride, I can still survive, I got my freedom.

Strip me bare, don't got a thing to wear but I got my freedom."

Karmina

Dear Lorenzo:

It's been almost 2 years now and I still can't sleep. Not without a few glasses of wine or a couple of Tylenol PM. Or edibles and repeats of Brooklyn 99. I can no longer sleep without the distraction of television. Not without new episodes of Beat Bobby Flay or Worst Cooks in America playing so quietly in the background that I can barely make it out over the sound of Amira's light snoring. 

Daytime is far easier to handle. I wake up and get Amira off to school. I do laundry, cook dinner, and workout. And then I pick  Amira up and take her to theater class or to the park, before heading home to get her fed, bathed and in bed by a reasonable hour. 

And while she sleeps, I am truly and utterly alone. There is no one to take care of while Amira is sleeping. No one to fuss over. No homework to double-check, no board games to play, no orange juice to pour and then, to mop up after she inevitably spills that first glass.

There is safety in the daily routine of our lives.

But in these moments, these nighttime hours, there is only me.

Being with you sometimes felt as though as I were wearing an oversized, itchy, sweater that I couldn't quite shrug off. It could be overwhelming, all-encompassing and oftentimes, unbearable. I wanted us to complement each other while you wanted us to morph into one identity. But despite your best efforts, I had no interest in becoming Brangelina. And even now that you're gone, when time and distance has inaccurately colored so many of my memories a happy, verdant green, I still know that that particular brand of relationship was never right for me.

Earlier this afternoon a friend asked me if I'd begun dating yet and my first response was an awkward, self-conscious laugh. It's been 2 years now, should I be dating again? I'm not so sure but I've been giving the matter some thought ever since that talk this afternoon and here's what I've come up with. My TOTAL lack of interest in dating isn't just because I loved you so much then and still love you so much now. It isn't only because I have zero interest of bringing another man around my daughter. It's mostly because as lonely as I am tonight, in this exact moment...it's MY turn now. It's my turn to focus on MY goals, MY interests, MY...ME. And while I KNOW that there are plenty of people out there who are in happy, successful relationships, while still maintaining their own identity and sense of self, I wasn't able to do that while I was with you. And that isn't your fault, it's just the truth. And I'm not ready to attempt that balancing act again. At least not anytime soon. So for now...I'll hang on to the memories of our life together. I'll cherish the good and do my best to learn from the bad. And I'll enjoy the freedom of NOT being part of a couple right now.

And I'll do my best to fall in love with me.

Girl Interrupted

"All the stock I had was a white girl's education and a face that enchanted the men of both races.

Starvation danced with me." 
 Fenton Johnson

So...what's next?

Ten years ago I worked as an Administrative Assistant in the Career Services Department at New England School of Law. I helped the third year law students with their resumes; I helped the first and second year students schedule interviews with on-campus recruiters; and I helped my office mates by bringing them Dunkin's and keeping both their calendars and their knowledge of Lost up-to-date.  

I loved my job.

I lived in a house in Dorchester with my best friend Maggie and her twin daughters, Catarina and Monica. On Friday nights, we stayed up late watching Sister Sister, Full House and whatever movies we had rented from Blockbuster. 

I loved our home.

My friends and I spent weekends eating veggie nachos at The Blarney Stone or getting drunk off our asses at Hong Kong, before settling in at Good Times to watch the Pats play the Colts, the Steelers or any other marquee matchup of the day. 

I loved my life.

And then, on a dare, I signed up for Match.com, met Lorenzo, and the rest is history.

That was ten years ago.

I haven't worked outside of the home since.

Because my new job was to take care of Lorenzo and Amira and in so doing, I managed to forget all about me.

This story's not original, you've heard it a million times before, but it's MY story and it's the one I'm currently examining in an effort to determine what comes next.

Because I need to make sure that no matter where my life takes me, I never again put my own dreams on the back burner for so long that I start to forget ever having had a dream in the first place.

When we first met, Lorenzo was a teacher and though he cared about his students, he had become increasingly disheartened by school policy. When he got the opportunity to join the fire department he jumped at the chance and I watched my self-described "lazy as fuck" boyfriend work his ass off to earn his place on the squad.

I was SO proud of him.

And that's what I want for myself. 

To find something I can be proud of and passionate about. 

I want to wake up every morning, excited to start my day.

I want the world to be a richer place because I am in it.

I have a couple of ideas so far.

I'll let you know how it all pans out.

Change of Address

"The journey of a thousand miles begins with one step."

Or with slime, Lao Tzu.

Sometimes the journey begins with slime.

I'm not sure how things go down at your house, but at the Brewington/Douglas residence, not a day goes by in which I'm not having a slime-related argument with my 9 year old.

"Amira, stop playing with that slime and come and eat!"

"Amira, stop using all of my Tupperware on slime!"

"Amira, turn off the slime videos, pick up a book, and read!"

Today was no exception.  

As I sat in our dining room-cum-bedroom reading a book, Amira sat beside me, playing with what I thought was a rubber ball. I was wrong. Mere seconds after picking it up, Amira poked a hole into this toy and watched helplessly as green slime oozed all over our bed sheets.

"Whoops, sorrrryyyyyy!" she exclaimed, stifling a small giggle as I lifted my head up to Jesus, closed my eyes for a moment and took a deep breath before answering her. "It's ok, it's ok" I muttered. "But get up so I can change these sheets."

After stripping the sheets off of the futon, I realized that the slime had seeped right through the thin mattress that Amira and I have been sleeping on for the past 21 months.

But instead of flipping the mattress over, or allowing it to air dry, I dragged it from its wooden frame and let it lie on the floor.

And then I did something that shocked me as much as it shocked Amira.

After examining the frame for less than a minute, I adjusted the screws and folded the futon back into a reclining position.

Amira stared at the now sofa in shock.

"Mama, what are you doing?"

 "It's time, Babe. It's time to go back to our bedrooms and our big, comfy beds."

"What!?" She exclaimed. "But Mama..."

"And if you're not ready to go back to your own room yet, that's okay, you can sleep in my room with me. But we can't sleep in the dining room anymore, Amira, because it's time."

I let the rest of that sentence go unsaid as we both knew what I meant. Time to unhitch ourselves from the fantasy of our lives ever going back to "normal". Time to accept reality and start moving forward again. And for a first step, we didn't have that far to go. Just a few feet down the hall to my bedroom, which is where I sit right now, listening to Amira snoring peacefully beside me.

And believing that we may actually have a chance at getting through this thing after all.

Postmortem

Dear Lorenzo,

It's 6:37 p.m. Saturday evening and I just finished a lackluster dinner of grilled tofu and marinated mushroom salad. Amira is sitting in the dining room watching My Babysitter's A Vampire on Netflix and outside, Spring appears to have FINALLY come out of hibernation. At almost 7 p.m., darkness has not yet descended down upon us. Temperatures are no longer frigid, children have shed their Winter gear and are playing at Schreiber in light jackets and gym shoes at long last. Winter is over and on Tuesday, I will sign Amira up for Summer camp through the Parks District website.

We will never again spend endless hours in the Highlander, making the trek from Chicago, to Atlanta, to Boston and back home to Chicago again. And Amira and I won't do what we did during the past two Summers since you've been gone. We will not hop on a plane to Boston just as soon as school lets out. I will not park myself on my mother's couch, or my best friend's couch, numbing myself with television and Chinese take-out.

I am ready to start making a life for myself without you.

By the time I was in junior high I knew that I would never get married. It wasn't just my parents's perfectly pleasant divorce that had brought me to that conclusion. (If two people who were such great friends couldn't make a marriage work, I figured I wouldn't have a shot in hell either. ) It was...the absolute certainty in what I wanted out of life that made marriage so undesirable to me. My goal was to be beholden to no one. If I wanted to move to California at 25, I could do so (and I did). If I wanted to vacation in Mexico, or Jamaica, or Timbukfuckingtu, no one would be there to stand in my way. My only limits would be the restraints of my wallet and my imagination, not the guilt trip laid on me by a husband and house full of children.

I had a pretty fucked up view of relationships.

Falling in love with you came as a complete (and not entirely welcome) surprise. After our first conversation, I knew immediately that my time was up; I was head over heels for you before we even met in person. As far as I was concerned, I was screwed; my dreams of a life spent in solitary leisure now over.

We were opposites in many, many ways. While I dreamed of travelling the world (or at least the Caribbean) with my girlfriends and a carry-on filled with little more than sunscreen and chick lit, you dreamed of a wife and a bevy of babies, flat screen tv's in every corner of your house, an elaborate surveillance system and a white picket fence protecting all you held most dear.

But...in spite of (or maybe because of, who knows?) our many differences, we fell in love.  I don't think either of us truly realized just how different we were until Amira was born and the realities of parenthood set it. What I do know is that we loved each other. And though neither of us was perfect we truly, truly tried to make it work.

We both compromised A LOT. Not happily and I regret that now. I wish with all my heart I'd been able to give you everything you wanted, with as cheerful a heart as I could muster, in as cheerful a manner as you deserved. I resented you a lot of the time, Babe. I resented how much of myself I lost in trying to please you. I gave up WAY too much of myself (we both did) in an attempt to make us happy and one of my biggest fears is that...you weren't. And what sucks the most about that is that no matter how much I may have resented you, if I had the chance, I'd do it ALL over again. I'd roll the dice and take another chance on us cuz YOU were the only man I'd ever met who was worth all the compromise. I pray you felt the same way about me.

I'm moving on now, Lorenzo. Not because I want to but because you're gone and I don't have a choice.  I'm moving on now, not to another man (that thought is still so fucking depressing to me) but to another LIFE.

For all my complaints and resentment, the truth of the matter is, you kept me safe in a lot of different ways. But now it's up to me to venture forth and figure out who I am again without you calling so many of the shots. And I'm ready.

I hope, I pray, that you knew how much I loved you, how much I love you still. You used to always tell me that you knew but...I wish I'd done a better job of SHOWING you just how much you meant to me. I let motherhood get in our way A LOT. I was wrong for that and I hope you can forgive me. I hope you know that I truly didn't know any better. I hope you know that I feel blessed to have gotten to share eight years of my life with you. I hope you know I'd do it all over again.

Get Up

"I know you're down, but when you gonna get up?"

Amel Larrieux 

NOW.

Finally, the answer is now.

My 8 year-old daughter's schedule is more jam-packed than mine has ever been.  In addition to school she takes theater classes, two hours a day, four days a week.  On Saturday mornings she takes hip-hop and on Saturday afternoons, improv.  In a few weeks she'll return to swimming on Sundays and her hectic schedule won't get any lighter until school ends and theater camp begins.

Amira wouldn't have it any other way.

When she first started taking theater I told her that if her grades slipped, she wouldn't be able to continue these after school activities. 

She got all A's.

The only time she misses a class is when her asthma flares up and she can't get out of bed. She works her ass off because she LOVES what she's doing and it shows.

At 8 years old, she has more passion for life than I have ever had.

She has determination, focus and drive.

I lost my way a long, long time ago.

My passions, my interests were never cultivated.  Not by me or anybody else. Simply put, life was different back then. Our parents worked their asses off to make sure we had food, clothes, and a home. If we were healthy, happy, well-educated kids then they had done their jobs.

And my mother and father? They damn sure did theirs. I couldn't have asked for a happier childhood but...at 43 years old...as a single mom who is currently doing little more than surviving...I want more.

The way my daughter feels about acting and dancing is how I want to feel everyday.

I don't know where the answers lie but I know where they are not.

On my couch.

I'm finally ready to get up.