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.