THE END

Dear Lorenzo,

It's 8:49 p.m. and I'm sitting in the kitchen, listening, but not really paying attention to Pardon the Interruption on ESPN. I should be asleep right now, or at the very least, lying in bed watching The Goldbergs. Instead, I'm wide awake with a batch of beans in the crockpot, a load of darks in the washer, and a ten year old watching Youtube in my bedroom. Unless she isn't feeling well, the days of Amira and I cuddling up on the futon and watching Raven's Home or Scooby Doo are long behind me. Seemingly overnight she went from begging me to play just one more round of Yahtzee to begging me to leave my own room so that she can watch her videos in peace and quiet (i.e, without my snarky two cents). Sadly, I don't even argue with her anymore. Instead, the minute she asks me to leave, I'm out the door before Brent Rivera can finish telling me to "hit that like button" to subscribe to his channel.

Amira's in fifth grade this year, can you believe it? Our baby girl is one year away from middle school. She loves math and science and dance and gym, and she takes both fifth grade and her after school theater classes very seriously.

Lorenzo, we may not have been the perfect couple, but Amira is one thing we got right.

But I spend a lot of time thinking about our mistakes. The petty arguments, the hours we spent not speaking to each other. The disagreements over money, household matters, and how to raise our child.

And it all seems so fucking stupid now.

I wish I'd known then what I know now. I wish I'd understood that our time together was finite and that it would end far sooner than either of us ever expected. Maybe we would have cherished each other more. Maybe we wouldn't have taken each other for granted as much as we did.

Or maybe I'm wrong. Hell, maybe you would have come home from that rehab facility and we both would have been the same stubborn assholes we've always been. Maybe we would have made the same dumb ass mistakes we'd always made.

Who knows?

And the thing that sucks the most is that there's no use even wondering what could have been.

You're gone and as we both know, what's done is done.

I'm Coming Back

"I can feel you in the air I breathe.

You're the center of each thought I think."

Lalah Hathaway

Dear Lorenzo,

I miss being loved.

I miss having someone call me every hour on the hour, to tell me all the details of their day.

I miss your laugh and your bad jokes.

I miss your horrible taste in music.

I miss fighting with you and making up with you and making love to you.

I miss your overwhelming presence in my life.

I've recently reconnected with an old friend and while it's nice to have a man to care about again...

He's not you.

He doesn't watch Golic & Wingo, First Take, and NFL Live on his days off from work. 

He doesn't play Madden or study the draft, and he damn sure doesn't sing football carols when the season's about to start.

He's a wonderful person and a dear friend but...

He isn't you.

No one else is going to be you.

So...what am I supposed to do with all of the loneliness?

I literally have no idea what comes next.

PUBERTY!!!!!!

Dear Lorenzo,

It's 7:47 a.m. and I'm in the kitchen, talking to you, while Amira gives me my weekly dose of her standard Saturday morning silent treatment.

Every, single, Saturday it's the same thing with this heffa.

She wakes up and calls out for me. I leave the kitchen, bathroom or whatever room I'm in the process of cleaning and go to find her lying woefully in the bed. When I say good morning and ask her how she's doing, she hits me with her weekly refrain of: "Mama, I know that I have swim class today but I really can't go because my stomach aches" or "I have a headache" or "my throat feels scratchy" or...

Aw hell, you get the point. Feel free to insert whatever bullshit excuse you can think of because the end result is always the same.

"Amira, you aren't sick, you're nervous and I totally understand that, but we don't run from things that make us nervous, we give it a try anyway, so you're going to swim class today."

Then I leave her to her melancholia, finish cleaning up, get on the elliptical and by the time we're out the door and on our way to class, she's calmed down enough to ask me, rather icily, if she can use my cell phone. I give it to her, she plays video games and ignores me the entire way to class.

And without fail, by the time class is over, she is jubilant.

"Mama, did you see me? That was so much fun! Can we stay for another class?! I love swimming so much!"

Lorenzo, we go through this EVERY, SINGLE, WEEK!

So in conclusion...thanks a lot for leaving me alone with your pubescent, nightmare of a daughter!!!!!!

Not a day goes by that I don't feel like kicking your ass!

Feeling My Feelings (And All That Other Psychobabble)

Dear Lorenzo,

It's 5:23 a.m. and I've been up for the past 30 minutes or so, watching Golic and Wingo and talking to you. I've already got a load of laundry in the washer and am crocking a batch of beans which SHOULD provide your greedy ass daughter with enough stew, chili and homemade nachos to get her through the upcoming weekend.

We'll be leaving for Boston exactly one week from today and I have so much to do;  like laundry, mopping, packing and decluttering every inch of this house. I also need to contact Goldfish in Boston so that Amira can continue her swim classes while we're away, and I need to do my best to convince one of the besties to join Planet Fitness with me so that I can have a workout buddy at long last!

Lorenzo? I'm ready to put in the work and lose this depression weight.

I wish I could tell you that I was a beacon of strength and courage in the aftermath of your death but that would be a lie. I did little more than survive it. I spent the majority of my days fluctuating between shock and denial, all while attempting to anesthesize myself to numb the pain.

And my drug of choice was food.

Lots and lots of food.

Potato chips, crackers and cheese, if it was salty and crunchy I ate it.

And that's okay. I have FINALLY learned to stop beating myself up for this, for being human and not knowing another way to cope.

I did not gain this weight overnight and I won't lose it overnight either. I will be gentle with myself, I will treat myself with the love, kindness and respect that I deserve.

That we all deserve.

But I will lose this weight because I'm not comfortable in my body anymore and I don't deserve to feel badly about myself.

You died but I'm still alive and...I'm ready to rejoin the land of the living, and feel my feelings again instead of binge eating them away.

It's okay to be lonely, sad and angry.

Those feelings won't take me under.

Because if I can survive losing you, I can face my feelings head on without a big bag of Utz Sour Cream and Onion to cushion the blow.

Humpty Dumpty

Dear Lorenzo,

The prospect of putting myself back together again has been a daunting one.

I spent the first year after your death lying in a stupor on the couch. I watched football show after football show until it was time to pick Amira up from school.

I was alive, I was present only for our daughter.

After playing endless board games, watching funny YouTube videos and making all the slime she wanted, Amira would eventually tire of my company and head upstairs to Grandma and Aisha.

And each time she did, I returned to my station on the couch.

Eventually, the passage of time and the power of antidepressants started me on the path back to living again and during that second year I began to heal.

And today, three years after your death...

I'm fully awake again.

But...as I take stock of what's left of my life...I'm not exactly thrilled with what I see, or with who I've become.

I am genuinely trying to get my life back on track, or at the very least, doing my damnedest to create some semblance of a new one but...

Where do I go from here?

Danielle stepped in and got me a job that I ADORE. I work as a customer service rep at her company and even though I'm only there four hours a day, even though I'm definitely the low man on the totem pole...those four hours have brought so much joy back into my life. You see, when I'm at work, I'm not just the grief-stricken woman who's lost her partner, I'm not just a room parent at Peirce and I'm not just Amira's overly-friendly mom.  For four hours a day I get to be a co-worker, a colleague, a fairly capable employee and...that means EVERYTHING to me.

But work will never be all of who I am.

Next week we leave for Boston. We'll be there for all of August and while I can't wait to go home to be with my mom, my family and my friends, I also plan on spending some much needed time alone to focus on what comes next. I don't have all (or frankly, any) of the answers yet. But I'm ready to start figuring my shit out.

Purpose

Dear Lorenzo,

It's 5:17 a.m. and I should be asleep right now. If this were an ordinary day I would  still be in bed, curled up under the covers and trying to ignore Amira's arm and/or leg which would be flung carelessly across my head or back. If this were an ordinary day I would wake up shortly before 6:00 a.m., throw a load of laundry into the washer, make Amira's breakfast and lunch, and then hop onto the elliptical to workout for 45 minutes while watching Golic and Wingo on ESPN2. Afterwards, I would run downstairs to put the laundry into the dryer, hurry back upstairs to wake Amira, take a shower, get dressed, throw my salad together and hurry Amira along until we are both dressed and rushing out the door to get her to camp, and me to work, on time. 

But this is not an ordinary day. Because on this day I've decided to start living my life with intention. On this day I've decided not to put off my own hopes and dreams for even one more moment.

When I was diagnosed with M.S. twenty years ago, one of the first things I asked the doctor was, "Can I still work out?" You see, I was living in California that year and had even less of a social life than I have right now. I'd joined a gym to meet new people and possibly make some new friends but along the way, I'd discovered the joys and the adrenaline rush of a good workout.

I couldn't picture the rest of my life without it.

And I can't picture the rest of my life without writing either.

Which is why I'm wide awake, talking to you instead of continuing the dream I was having of moving back to Cambridge and making $100 per hour by becoming a piano teacher. (Which is especially funny considering the fact that I can't play the piano or afford to live in my beloved hometown.)

I always thought that becoming an author was a dream reserved for a select few. The James Baldwins and Toni Morrisons of the world. I didn't speak my dreams aloud because I certainly wasn't worthy of them. And so I did what I believe so many of us do. I took the safe route and never even bothered to try.

But that's not who I want to be anymore.

At 44 years old I finally have the courage to say what I haven't said since 7th grade, "Hello, my name is Khadija Jamila Brewington and I want to be a writer when I grow up."

I finally have the courage to try.

And I don't believe it's too late for me. I don't believe it's too late for any of us.

What's Next?

Dear Lorenzo,

It's 8:17 p.m. and I'm sitting in the kitchen talking to you, while listening to Amira's heavy footsteps traveling up and down the hallway that is just above my head. As loud as she is, I'm grateful for the noise. Yesterday, was one of the hottest days in Chicago history and because of this we did not leave the house at all. While I at least attempted to keep myself busy with laundry and cooking, Amira refused to leave my bed at all, save for the times she was forced to get up to use the bathroom or wolf down a bowl of black bean stew. Today was a far more comfortable day weather wise but Amira still didn't want to do too much of anything, electing instead to stay in bed with her slime and YouTube videos of Brent Rivera. I was just beggining to worry that something might be wrong with her when Aisha came downstairs and broke the spell. Just one word from her cousin and Amira was up and dressed and following Aisha up the stairs to pester her while she cooks dinner.

And so finally...I'm alone.

Today was a good day for me. I've been having more and more of those lately. Days where you aren't the first thing that I think of when I wake up in the morning. Days when I can at least attempt to imagine a life without you. Days where the prospect of the future excites rather than depresses me. I talked to your mom about this on Friday. About the fact that...I'm beginning to heal. She's thrilled of course. And I suppose that I am too. I don't know what's up next for me and that's okay. Because I do know that I'm excited to figure it out. 

The Reason Why

Dear Lorenzo,

Right now it's 10:01 p.m. and I'm sitting here, watching The Goldbergs on mute, while I wait for a restless Amira to settle down and fall asleep.

I'm just going to go ahead and say the thing we're not supposed to say.

Motherhood fucking sucks.

I have never understood why anyone would actually want to become a parent. Choosing a lifetime of perpetual worry didn't make sense to me when I was in seventh grade, defending my right to become an unmarried, childless adult to the likes of Nadine Simmons and our fellow shocked junior high classmates, and it doesn't make sense to me now, as I sit here listening to the sounds of fidgeting that are coming from our supposed-to-be-sleeping child. 

I don't think I've had seven consecutive hours of sleep in the ten years since she's been born. 

If I have a one dollar bill you can bet your ass that at least 75 cents will be spent on something she wants, needs or shows the slightest amount of interest in. 

There are no more impromptu weekend getaways with my girlfriends; no more adults only Superbowl cruises to Mexico; no more...no more...aw hell, those are the only two examples I can come up with right now because the truth is, I can barely remember what life used to be like when I was still Khadija Jamila Brewington and not just Amira's mom.

But...

Oh how I love our daughter.

Until I became a mother, I literally did not know that it was possible to love another human being the way that I love my child. When she's sick I pray to God to take away her pain and give it to me instead. When she is sad, I cry with her, heartbroken to see her hurting. Amira is the true blue love of my life and I don't know a single mother who doesn't feel this exact same way about their child.

Even now that she has become a moody, pre-pubescent, nightmare of a ten year old, she is still my reason for getting out of bed every morning and for not downing a bottle of prosecco every night. She is the reason I read personal development books like The Slight Edge and Start Late, Finish Rich, and the reason I am so determined to get my life together at long last.

Lorenzo, while you were here with us, you took care of everything outside of the home. I didn't have to worry about bills being paid or food being put on the table because, as you put it, that was your job as the man of the house. But now that you're gone it's up to me to take care of our daughter and I promise you this: I am up to the challenge.

Because even though motherhood is the absolute worst job in the world, somehow, it is also the best. I don't remember much about the Superbowl cruise but I remember every moment of Amira's first steps. I remember the first words she read to me from her P.D. Eastman and Dr. Seuss books. I remember the first time I saw her perform in Phantom Tollbooth, her lines perfectly delivered, her face lit up with happiness.

Amira Kenya Douglas is the best gift you could have ever given me. She's the reason why you don't have to worry about me anymore. She's the reason why I'm going to be okay.

Still Here

Dear Lorenzo,

It's 9:21 p.m., Saturday night, and Amira's upstairs with Grandma, Aisha, and my cell phone while I sit downstairs, alone in my room, talking to you while watching...

Nothing.

I am watching nothing.

No Goldbergs, no Brookyn 99, no repeats of Parks and Recreation or The Leftovers.

I'm home alone, talking to you with the TV turned off.

At last.

And the silence that I've been so afraid of for the past three years, the emptiness that I've attempted to escape via thirty minute sitcoms, red wine, and potato chips...isn't so scary after all.

It cannot pull me under.

It cannot take from me more than I've already lost.

Allowing myself to sit in the silence, in the emptiness, in the loneliness, without the distraction of background noise has not broken me after all.

I'm okay.

And I'm still here, just figuring out what comes next.

Best Laid Plans

Dear Lorenzo,

Right now it's 5:26 p.m. on a Saturday and Amira is fast asleep beside me. As is her usual Friday night routine, she stayed up with Grandma and Aisha well past midnight (playing board games and watching Lifetime, I presume) which is why her ass is knocked out now. I on the other hand, was in bed by 7:00 p.m., watching the Goldbergs (as usual) and not making a dent in the list of chores I really ought to have finished by now.  Hell, I should be scrubbing the tub, finishing the laundry, twisting my hair or at the very least, making the big batch of crockpot chili that Amira will eat for lunch this week but...I decided to write to you instead.

It's funny, but I never really know that I'm depressed until the fog begins to lift and I find myself clamoring my way out of the bell jar once again. You'd think I'd catch on a lot faster, right? I mean, I've battled depression off and on for YEARS. You'd think that after a few days of skipped workouts and potato chip dinners, after a few days of "just one more edible to help me fall asleep" I'd begin to catch on to the fact that something's not quite right but...for me, that isn't how it works. It isn't until the sorrow begins to ebb, burying itself deeply within the confines of my brain, that the realization makes its way to the surface. I rate each depressive episode on a scale of 1 to I-can't-get-off-my-couch-without-a-psychiatric-intervention. This episode was only about a four, meaning, it didn't last long and I could still go to work every day.

I could still parent my child.

But it hurt, Babe, it really hurt, and after a few days of reflection I think I know what triggered it.

Last week, I got a text message from one of your friends on the fire department. He sent me a picture of himself in full gear, smiling from ear to ear while standing in the doorway of a fire engine (or truck, I still get them confused).

It was his retirement photo.

It's over. He's done. He did his time. He ran into the burning buildings, carried the gunshot victims onto stretchers and into ambulances, and can now spend the rest of his life doing whatever the hell he wants. And while I was THRILLED for him, I couldn't stop thinking about you. I remembered your old joke, about retiring before you turned 50, getting matching scooters with my mom, moving into an apartment in her senior living home and spending your days playing bingo at the senior activities building next door

You were such a fool.

I guess even the best laid plans don't necessarily work out the way we hope they will. I used to think that there was a cure for my depression but now...the best I can hope for is awareness. The sooner I'm aware of what's going on with me, the sooner I can get myself the kind of help that's actually, you know, HELPFUL.

So I'm going to keep journaling. I'm going to keep talking to my friends and family. I'm going to keep writing you and with the exception of my anti-depressants, I'm going to take a bit of a break from...mood altering substances.

I can't soothe what I'm not aware of and...maybe I'll never be 100% healed from my depression but...I can at least learn to live with it a little more amicably.

Lonely

Dear Lorenzo,

I miss being loved.

There.

I said it.

That wasn't so hard to admit.

I miss being loved and cared for.

I miss not being alone.

I miss having someone to come home to who isn't ten years old.

I miss having someone to whom I can complain about my day.

I miss having someone to be mad at for blasting the music too loudly when I'm trying to get Amira to go to sleep. Or for not letting me eat one bite of movie theater popcorn until after the previews have ended and the movie has actually begun. I miss listening to your long ass lectures on the merits of veganism, and your mean-spirited gossip with my mom about every single one of our friends.

I miss your not being here to watch our daughter grow up.

I miss the way, eight years into our relationship, your arms still wrapped themselves around me each and every night. I miss the way you'd wiggle your eyebrows at me and say, "Mommy Daddy time" whenever we got five seconds to ourselves. I miss the way you laughed with your entire being, often falling off of whatever you happened to be sitting on, inevitably making me laugh right along with you.

I miss the way you'd order three different meals at The Diner, and then have the nerve to get mad at me for "wasting money" on the chicken ranch salad. I miss banging on the bathroom door and shouting at you to hurry up. I miss listening to you talk to Dwight about Madden, or the NFL, or how much money you'd each won (or lost) in Vegas. I miss hearing Amira call out, "Daddy?" and your response of, "Daughter?" each and every time.

I wonder how long it'll be before I stop missing you this acutely. I know I'm nowhere ready to be in a relationship with anyone else yet but...I wonder how long it'll take before I no longer feel like I'm in a relationship with you.  

Because no matter how much I miss you, Babe, I also miss having someone who is...tangible, who I don't have to communicate with via letters that I can never actually mail. I miss having someone who is here. I miss having someone to want to look pretty for.

I miss not being alone.

Slowly, Surely

Dear Lorenzo,

Today was a good day.

 I lived my life with purpose today.

But my morning did not begin in the auspicious manner in which I had hoped it would. Despite setting my alarm for 5:15 a.m., I woke up at 3:30 and could not get back to sleep no matter how hard I tried. I watched a little tv, practiced my deep breathing, and even made myself a snack of a peanut butter-topped rice cake (my equivalent of a cup of warm milk) before throwing in the towel and taking two Tylenol PM. As usual, that did the trick and I was able to get two more hours of sleep before dragging myself out of bed at 6:00 a.m. to workout.  

I got Amira to school (on time!) before heading to work where I had a productive and busy day. 

I picked up Amira at 3:00 p.m. and, instead of rushing to play production, I let her play at the park for an hour with her friends before heading home, washing the breakfast dishes, and preparing her dinner (AKA, ordering Mexican food on grubhub).

And then...I checked off the #1 item on today's to-do list. 

I took a nap.

As soon as Amira went upstairs, I didn't do laundry, I didn't clean the bathroom, I didn't make the pancakes she'll eat in the morning for breakfast. Instead, I turned off every light in this house and I took my ass to sleep.

You see, last night, by the time I got Amira to bed, I was EXHAUSTED. I was so tired I could barely see straight let alone blog. I tried to write to you (I still have the first paragraph of yesterday's entry in my drafts folder) but I was so fucking tired that the words on the screen were a blur and after a few minutes I had to give up on my writing. 

I have ALWAYS given up on my writing. 

Because I never knew that in order to be a writer, I actually had to make the time to write.

On some subconscious level, I really believed that a burst of inspiration would one day come to me from the clouds and then, poof! I'd be a writer.

Newsflash.

That isn't how it works.

I'm a writer RIGHT NOW, TODAY, sitting on my bed with Amira sighing contendedly beside me, BECAUSE I'M WRITING.

I spent so many years lamenting the fact that I'd never be James Baldwin that I forgot to figure out who Khadija Brewington was.

But at 44 years old, and a single mom, I'm ready to find my own voice.

Because I truly believe that it's never too late to make your dreams come true. 

Go

Dear Lorenzo,

Right now it's 9:47 p.m. and I'm sitting in bed, watching the Goldbergs and listening to Amira's loud breathing. I've had a pretty great past several weeks. Amira and I went to Boston for spring break, much to the delighted surprise of my mom, aunts and cousins. I saw no one outside of family, choosing to stay in and nap on my mother's couch while Amira made oobleck contendedly. I ate thin crust, Greek-style, cheese laden pizza and scoops of Emack and Bolios's Smoreo ice cream every, single day.

It. Was. HEAVEN.

And now I'm back home in Chicago and...

I'm happy.

I feel better than I have in a long time.

I'm actually ready to be happy again.

I'm not ashamed or scared anymore.

I'm ready.

All Me

"Got everything, I got everything. I cannot complain, I cannot."

- Drake

Dear Lorenzo,

It's 11:53 p.m. and I'm exhausted. I should be asleep right now. I should have already taken the two Tylenol PM I need to ensure I get a decent night's rest but...I need to finish this entry first.

My day typically starts at around 5:15 a.m. and today was no different. I woke up, made breakfast and lunch for Amira, worked out for 40 minutes, showered, dressed, and then spent five minutes LITERALLY dragging Amira's ass out of bed. (If you didn't spit this lazy child out...)

After getting her to school (on time!) I took the train downtown and worked for four hours, before going to the grocery store and then back to Mira's school where I let her play at the park with her friends for an hour. We got home, I washed the dishes and made what I foolishly thought was enough dinner for two nights (it was not; if you didn't spit this greedy child out...) before falling into a deep, coma-like sleep the minute Amira went upstairs with Grandma and Aisha.

I'm exhausted...but in the best possible way.

I like my new routine. I like being so busy that I no longer have time to sit on my couch during the day, watching ESPN and crying. I like having to multitask; crocking beans while washing the dishes, doing the laundry while scheduling doctor's appointments. Now that I'm working there's never a dull moment in this house and I'm loving our new routine.

And though I often get lonely, I'm starting to remember all the things I've always loved about being single. I haven't seen one sci-fi flick since you've been gone and God knows I do not miss them. I don't have to compromise about where and when I go on vacation. No more arguing about what to watch first, Empire or Game of Thrones (I no longer watch either show). No more complaining about how much soap I use in the shower, how much money I "waste" on Christmas gifts, or why I insist on wearing my faded, mismatched pajamas. (Because they're comfortable, DAMN IT!) While I miss you with all of my heart, Lorenzo, I do NOT miss your constant stream of criticism any more than you miss any of my annoying characteristics. And that's ok.

I like being in control of my own life again. I like the new life I'm creating for myself. It may not seem like much but...it's all mine.

Thank You, Next

Dear Lorenzo,

So...

What's next?

The way I see it, there are really only two choices.

I can continue to sit on my ass, eating potato chips, watching The Goldbergs and allowing life to pass me by or...

I CAN CHOOSE TO DO ANYTHING ELSE.

Literally, anything else.

I choose B.

I choose getting off the couch and living again.

I choose NOT letting my depression ruin one more minute of my precious, God-given life.

I choose NOT allowing that drunk driver to have anymore power over me.

I choose to live again.

So...

First things first.

I've rejoined Weight Watchers and am ready to lose this damn weight once and for all.

I'm an emotional eater so it makes sense that I would gain so much weight after you died but...I think there's more to this story than just "I sat on my ass for three years and ate to feel better".

I think this was more than just eating for comfort.

I think that on some fucked up, subconscious level, I purposefully gained weight to avoid being SEEN.

I think that...I didn't want to attract any male attention so...

I got fat.

But...there's got to be a less neurotic way to mourn and frankly, I'm ready to FACE my sadness instead of just attempting to eat it all away.

So...

I will talk about it, write about it, or sing about it from the fucking rooftop if I have to but I will not eat about my sadness anymore.

Step one is facing the pain and losing the weight.

And that's more than enough for right now.

Confessions

"If I'm gonna tell it then I gotta tell it all"

- Usher

Dear Lorenzo,

It's Friday, 8:59 p.m. and I'm home, watching The Goldbergs, while Amira sleeps peacefully beside me. The fact that she's fallen asleep before 9 p.m. on a weekend is a BAD sign. Earlier this evening she was complaining that both her throat and stomach hurt so I PRAY this child is not getting sick. Especially since I just spent money I DO NOT HAVE to take her and five of her closest friends to Sky High Trampoline Park tomorrow to celebrate her tenth birthday.

Lorenzo, our daughter is ten years old.

Gone is our squeaky-voiced baby girl; Amira is now an overly-emotional, pre-pubescent nightmare of a ten year old.

God help me.

But I will never forget the day we brought her home from the hospital. We laid our precious angel on the bed between us, thanked God for gifting us this treasure, took one look at each other and began to cry. We were so happy in that moment. We were a family; our lives were finally complete.

I wish it had really been that simple.

Somehow, our happily ever after didn't quite turn out the way we'd planned. We fought...a lot. The first year of Amira's life was brutal for you and I. I was going through some serious postpartum depression and you were left wondering what the fuck had happened to the girl you fell in love with. I don't think we ever fully recovered from that year. We loved each other, of course, but...in my heart, I know I didn't make you as happy as I could have, as you deserved to be. I was so wrapped up in being Amira's mother that on many, MANY an occassion, I forgot to be your woman.

I'm sorry, Babe.

I know you knew how much I loved you, but I wish to God I'd done a better job of showing it. I wish we'd done a better job of prioritizing US and spent more time alone together as a couple, instead of just Amira's parents. In the end, I don't know how happy you were with me and that breaks my fucking heart because I really did love you, even when I didn't show it, even when I was an asshole, or you were...you were still the love of my life. I miss you, Lorenzo. I wish I didn't have to remind myself EVERY FUCKING DAY that you're gone, that you're never coming back and that I have to move on with my life. You were right, life feels pretty fucking empty without a partner to share it with. I wish we could have another chance at this thing, I wish I didn't have to start all over again at 44 years old. I wish my life could be bigger than just parenting, working part-time and watching repeats of The Goldbergs to pass the time. I wish I weren't so fucking lonely all the time.

I wish I could figure out just what the hell I'm supposed to do with myself now.

Bear With Me

Dear Lorenzo,

It's 11:08 p.m. and I feel like shit.

I'm not supposed to be writing you right now, I'm supposed to be reading.

For the most part, all of my days start in the exact same manner. I wake up, work out, shower, get breakfast and lunch together for Amira, and then wash the dishes and eat my breakfast while reading ten pages of a good book.

The ten pages was not my idea but that of Jeff Olsen, personal development guru and author of the most influential book I've ever read in my life: The Slight Edge. The book is all about making us happier, healthier, and more fulfilled human beings. I've read it at least ten times already, but I read it over and over and over and over again because I want this, its core message, to become a fundamental part of who I am: In order to live my life to the fullest, I have to work at my goals every, single day.

That being said, usually, by the time I've left the house in the morning, I've already accomplished a great deal on my daily to do list but today was different. I slept late and so I missed my morning workout. Missed my almost leisurely breakfast at home, and missed out on reading my mandatory ten pages of the day. Because of this, as soon as I got home from work, I did the dishes while talking to Mira about her day, cooked dinner, worked out, washed my hair and didn't sit down to read until a few minutes ago.

Having only gotten about halfway through my current chapter, I should still be reading right now but...I'm having trouble concentrating.

As you know, Danielle got me another job at Typenex. This time, I work with her in the office and I absolutely love it. I love having a reason to get up in the morning that isn't entirely Amira related. I love making my own money again. I love feeling like I'm a part of a team. But the thing I love most is my morning commute. I love riding the train into downtown Chicago every weekday. I love writing in my journal, people watching, and listening to 90's r&b for an uninterrupted 40 minutes at a time. But a few mornings ago, while listening to 112 and drifting off to the music, I felt someone watching me. Disturbed, I quickly opened my eyes, and saw the offending party. It was a man of course, and he was...FIIIINNNNEEEEEE.

I looked away from him quickly. I took out my book and pretended to read. I didn't dare look back in his direction and was relieved to get the fuck off the train because, again...he was FIIIINNNNEEEEE.

For the first time since you've been gone, I was...affected by another man. A man who isn't you. And though I didn't feel guilty about it, I did feel...scared.

And alive again.

Lorenzo, I don't want to date anyone right now. I'm JUST getting back on my feet again. I'm JUST starting to spend more time feeling good than bad but...the way I felt when you first died, the emptiness, the refusal to even look in another man's direction...that's starting to fade. Maybe I won't want to be alone for the rest of my life. Maybe, one day, I will want to be loved again.

I know you aren't mad at me for this. I know you love me and want me to be happy. I want me to be happy too. Maybe that will involve having another man in my life one day, or maybe it won't but...at least I'm ALMOST open to the opportunity.

And I truly believe that this doesn't make me a bad person.

R.E.S.P.E.C.T.

Dear Lorenzo,

It's 11:25 p.m. and I'm up, watching The Goldbergs and waiting for the Tylenol PM to kick in.

Having started my day at around 5:00 a.m., I am completely exhausted. It's Sunday, so there was no earthly reason for me to be up at that time, except for the fact that I'd had a bad dream and was loath to return to it.

Last night I dreamt that you had been gone for a really long time, before coming home, unannounced, to Amira and I. Instead of being happy that you'd finally returned, we were frantic, maniacally trying to clean an upended house in the fruitless attempt to convince you that all was as it had once been.

I woke up feeling...dejected. Not because it was just a dream and there's no chance of you coming home again but...because, I truly believe that if you could see me now, you'd be nothing but disappointed in me and that breaks my fucking heart.

Sometimes...most of the time, I'm ashamed of how far I've fallen since losing you. It's not like I'm a drug addict or a child abuser or anything like that but...I've spent so much of the past few years curled up in a ball, trying to pretend you weren't gone that...I let a lot of life pass me by. I'm working hard not to be that person anymore. I spent weeks getting my resume together, registering with various temp agencies, and even worked an assignment over the holiday season (my first PAID job since having Amira!) I'm applying to grad school for the Fall, am back to working out every, single day and am beginning to tackle the emotional eating I've used to fill the hole in my heart that's developed since you've been gone. I know I'm not where I was when you first left us but...I also know I have a long way to go.

The good news? After "indulging" in an all day pity party, I eventually woke up. I did a load of laundry, got on the elliptical machine, and finished my squats and lunges while talking Oscar fashion with your mom.

I fell down today but I didn't stay down and that's a pretty big victory for me.

The thing is, I may be right. You may be looking down on me right now with disgust and anger at who I've become but...I'm doing my best to get my life back together again. I may not be exactly who I was when you were here but...I'm still a good person who's trying my damnedest to raise a smart, compassionate, self-possessed, African-American woman, and despite my many flaws, I think I'm doing a pretty good job. I love you, Lorenzo, I always will but no matter how much I want to make you proud, the opinion that will always mean the most to me...has got to be my own.

Dolo

Dear Lorenzo,

It's 11:18 p.m., Saturday night, and I'm up, watching Smelly Belly TV with your big-headed, needs-to-hurry-up-and-take-her-ass-to-sleep daughter. On nights like this I wish I'd never allowed you to extend her weekend bedtime to "whenever the hell she conks out in front of the TV" but since I am unwilling to take from her any tradition that the two of you once shared, alas...here we are.

Today was another good day.

I woke up at 6:00 a.m., put a load of laundry in, detangled my dense forest of hair, and then made pancakes and beans and rice for Amira to eat during the long hours in which I'd be at the hairdresser. After I finished cooking I worked out on the elliptical, showered, dressed, and headed to the salon with Amira in tow, as she'd decided at the last minute to tag along. Once there I had my hair cut, colored and flat-ironed. (It's reddish brown now and if you were here you'd absolutely hate it but you know how self-conscious I am about the grays, and I desperately wanted a change, and seriously babe, it's my hair, so you can just suck it!)

So today was a good day, but as usual, nighttime is hard. During the day motherhood keeps me busy enough to not have to deal with the fact that you're gone but at night...

That's when reality sets in.

I have friends who have also lost their partners unexpectedly and some of them are dating again but...I'm not there yet. I have no desire to find somebody new. I have no desire for anyone who isn't you. Is that strange? You've been gone for almost 3 years now but...I'm still not ready.

And if I'm to be totally honest here, missing you is not the only reason that I'm not "putting myself out there" and starting to date again. If being with you for so long has taught me anything it's that being in a relationship is hard fucking work and...my life is difficult enough right now. I already have one human being (besides myself) that I am 100% responsible for and frankly, I don't want another. And so for now, I'll continue to go through life on my own. Maybe one day I'll be ready to get back out there but...that day is not today.

I'm Coming Back

Dear Lorenzo,

It's 11:59 p.m. and I should be asleep but I made myself a promise to write every, single, day. I made myself a promise not to waste another precious second NOT doing the things that I love most and so...even though I'm exhausted, even though I have to wake up at 5:00 a.m. to detangle my hair, start the laundry, and workout before my 10:30 a.m. hair appointment, even though I'd love nothing more than to cuddle up next to our sleeping daughter while watching the Goldbergs or Brooklyn 99...I'm writing to you instead.

Today was a good day.

A really, really good day.

It's not like I did anything particularly special. I woke up, got the kid off to school on time, went grocery shopping, did my mom's taxes, talked to my friends on facebook.

But there was one thing that made the day unlike any other I've had since you've been gone.

I lived my life with purpose today.

I purposefully stayed in the dining room and kitchen, cooking, cleaning and reading, my bedroom door shut firmly in an attempt to avoid the magnetic pull my bed has had over me for the past 2 and 1/2 years. 

I purposefully stayed on the elliptical for an hour instead of watching NFL Live or the Game Show Network or anything Jussie Smollett related from the comfort of the futon.

I purposefully stayed away from the wine, the crackers and the cheese aisles at the grocery store and steered myself towards the produce section instead.

The antidepressant I'm on...it helps a lot, but...it's up to me to do the hard work. It's up to me to put down the remote control, to not buy the bag of chips, to workout instead of spending my day in bed. Nobody's going to do this for me. It's up to me to get on with my life.

Second Chances

Dear Lorenzo,

Right now it's 8:06 p.m. and I'm wide awake, talking to you, and NOT watching TV.

This is progress.

I don't want to be unhappy anymore.

Yesterday was tough because it was a day of realizations.

There are so many things to miss about you. I miss feeling your arms wrapped around me in the middle of the night. I miss screaming at you to turn the music down when I'm trying to get Amira to sleep. I miss your over-the-top exuberance every time the Bears won a game. But I think I've spent so much time vacillating between denial and depression that the reality of single motherhood is only now starting to sink in.

You've been gone for over two and half years.

I no longer have the luxury of depression.

I can no longer afford to just sit around the house missing you. Missing you does not pay the bills. Missing you does not secure financial freedom for Amira and I.  I have to do that. I have to figure out a way to make a life, a LIVING and a future for our family.

Burying myself in comforters and getting lost in the game show network is no longer an option for me. I am now the sole breadwinner and so despite what both of our mothers say, I have to hurry up and get a full time job. Not just a job, a career.

But this time around, I'm going to choose a career I really love.

Last Fall, I went to an information session at Depaul University and they have a creative writing/teaching program that I fell in love with.

And so I'm going to apply.

Lorenzo, I don't want to doubt myself anymore. I don't want to keep shooting down my dreams before I've even given them a fair chance. I want to see if I can find a way to make a career for myself doing the only thing I've ever actually loved. I want to figure out if it's possible for me to be happy again, even though you're no longer here. And I want to show our daughter that even when life kicks the shit out of us, it's never too late to get back up and try again. 

Morning bitchfest

Dear Lorenzo,

It's 4:45 a.m., February 14, 2019 and I'm sitting in bed, talking to you, while our nine year old lies beside me sleeping peacefully.

Although it is not yet 5:00 a.m. I should already be up and out of bed. I need to wash a sink full of dishes, make and pack Amira's lunch and finish folding up the valentines she neglected to take care of last night.

It's been an incredibly rough week.

Being a single mom is brutal.

Lorenzo, I had no fucking idea.

Don't get me wrong, I'm not a moron.

We all know how hard it is to be a single parent, IN THEORY, but doing this job, day in and day out, on my own...

I never could have imagined just how hard it really is.

I caught a nasty cold last week and was laid up in bed for days on end but guess what? Someone still has to feed our daughter. Someone still has to make sure she takes her asthma medications twice a day, that she gets her funky butt into the shower at nighttime, that she eats her rice and beans for dinner and doesn't sneak too many potato chips when she knows I'm not looking and that someone is ALWAYS going to be me. No matter how sick, tired or just plain over it I am. Someone still has to hold down the fort.

Sometimes I hate being that someone.

The only someone.

The single parent.

I love our daughter, I love our life, I'm so blessed to have an amazing support system of friends and family but...being a single parent is exhausting nonetheless.

New Rules

"I've got new rules, I count 'em"

Dua Lupa

Dear Lorenzo,

Before I met you, had our daughter, and turned Christmas into that most magical time of year, New Year's was my favorite holiday.

I've always loved the idea of shutting the metaphorical door on all of the preceding year's bullshit and broken promises.

I've spent my entire life cultivating the fantasy that if I could just make it to December 31st, I could start anew at the stroke of midnight.

And THAT'S where my real life would begin. 

New Year's Day represented hope.  

The promise of a clean slate, a second chance, a do-over.

And so for many years I'd spend the last week of December pestering Michele and Maggie with a laundry list of resolutions, each more outrageous than the last, proclaiming, "this time I'm going to do it!" while my best friends rolled their eyes and shook their heads in bemusement.

Because they've always known what I didn't; that dreams without plans are nothing more than fucking delusions.

After sharing my list of goals with Fareeda and Kay, I went about achieving these objectives in my usual fashion.

By doing next to nothing.

And then...a few nights ago, after brushing her teeth and saying her prayers, Amira turned to me sleepily and said, "Mama, will you be with me for a long time?"  Unsurprisingly, her greatest fear, the greatest fear of any child who has lost a parent I suppose, is to lose her mother next.  After assuring her that I'm not going anywhere, I thought long and hard about my promise.  Twenty years ago I was diagnosed with Multiple Sclerosis and after the shock wore off I vowed that M.S. was the only illness I'd ever have.  Shit happens, we both know that, but I'd take as many preventive measures as I could to stay as healthy as was humanly possible.  I became a vegetarian, joined a gym, ate tons of salad and did my best to get 8 hours of sleep a night.  I took my health EXTREMELY seriously.

But after you died...I stopped.

Stopped watching what I eat, stopped getting enough rest, stopped taking care of ME.

I have spent the past 2.5 years pouring every ounce of energy I have into our daughter.  She was traumatized after losing you so I did everything I could to get her through this.  I made sure she saw a therapist once a week and spent my weekends and after school hours shuttling her to dance class, theater class, swim class and any other class in which she showed even the slightest interest.  I turned your workout room into her slime factory and have lost innumerable Tupperware containers and pillow cases to her slime obsession.  In the years since you've been gone I've spent a small forture on her Christmas list and get her damn near everything she asks Santa for, in the fruitless attempt to make up for the fact that I can't give her the one thing she wants most.

Lorenzo, I am doing my very best to be a good mom.

What saddens me is the realization that in my almost 44 years on this planet, I have NEVER given myself, my hopes, my dreams, the same amout of consideration.

Never.

This is my extremely long-winded way of saying...

That ends now. 

Not on January 1, 2020.

Now.

I do everything within my power to make our daughter's dreams come true.  I did everything within my power of making sure your dream of becoming a firefighter came true as well.

And so today, on January 12, 2019, and tomorrow, January 13, 2019, and the day after that, and the day after that, and the day after that AD INFINITUM I'm going to do EVERYTHING within my power to make sure MY dreams come true, too.

I want to make my living as a writer.

I want to lose all the weight I put on since you died.

I want to be here for our daughter for the next 50 something years.

I want to be able to financially provide for both my mother and yours.

And I DON'T want to pretend my dreams aren't that important anymore.

They are worthy of my hard work and dedication.

I am worthy of my hard work and dedication.

TODAY.