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.