Just One Of Those Days

Dear Lorenzo:

Today is Tuesday, September 5, 2017 and you've been gone for exactly 14 months.  After less than 20 minutes of meditation, Amira is finally, peacefully, mercifully asleep. Normally, this is around the time that I'd be turning on the t.v. Right about now I'd be watching "Pop Star, Never Stop, Never Stopping" (you would have LOVED it!) before swallowing 2 gelcaps of Tylenol PM and shutting off the dining room light. But with the craziness of Amira's first day of school finally upon us, I wasn't able to write this morning, and since I promised myself (and promised you) that from now on I'd spend an hour writing every day, I figured I'd better get this down before going to bed.

Jabez started Kindergarten today and just as you'd hoped, he's going to Peirce, too.  Amira's thrilled to have her little cousin at the same school as her, and at 3:00 p.m., I stood outside of Jabez's dismissal door, hoping to catch a quick peek of him to make sure he'd had a good first day.  As I watched him interact with his dad, I couldn't help but remember Amira's first day of kindergarten.  As usual, you had taken so long in the shower that I feared Amira would actually be late for her first day of school.  I took pictures of her in her brand new uniform while you were busy getting dressed and when you exited our bedroom, I was shocked to see you in a shirt and tie.  Normally, on your days off from work you wore nothing fancier than a pair of Chicago fire sweatpants but on this day, you insisted on overdressing and making a good impression on her teacher.  After walking Amira to her classroom door and videotaping her with soon-to-be new friends, it was time to let her go.  When she walked into Mrs. Fitzgerald's classroom with not much more than a casual goodbye wave in our direction, you turned to me in shock.  "That's it?" you asked incredulously.  "I'm just supposed to leave my baby here, with these strangers?" And I laughed at the look of horror on your face.

"Ummmmm, yeah" I responded. "This is school, you know how it works, you used to be a teacher. This is what we do, we can't go in with her." You were despondent for the next several hours and at 11:40 on the dot you shouted at me to hurry up, get dressed and meet you in the car.  To my surprise, we headed back to Amira's school, where we sat in the car outside of the playground, and spied on our daughter and her playmates during their 20 minute recess.  Your plan was simple: we'd watch her while she played to make sure she was having a good time; we'd watch her to make sure that she was safe.  

At your insistence, we did this every, single day for a week.  

You used to call me Disneyland and Rainbow Bright.  You said you didn't know what the hell they put in the Cambridge water to make me so damned happy all the time.  You rolled your eyes at my "glass is half full" outlook on life.  You smirked at my ever so sunny disposition.

It's hard to remain an optimist after losing you.

It's hard to watch all of the other dads dropping their kids off in the morning or playing with them at the playground in the afternoon without feeling that pang of longing. It takes some effort to remind myself how lucky we were to have had you in our lives for as long as we did.

Missing you is hard.  Some days are harder than others.

Today was definitely one of those days.

Reclaiming My Mind

The first thing I do is disassemble my food processor.  Though it's not as cumbersome as the one Lorenzo once used, it does need to be taken apart in order to fit more easily beside the juicer and Yonanas machine in the cabinet under the microwave.

Next, I go down to Lorenzo's fridge in the basement and pull out my favorite yogurt, (strawberry flavored Almond Dream) and my favorite beer (Heineken Light) and bring them back upstairs to be stored in the kitchen fridge.

And last but not least I tackle the pantry.  I use a yet-to-be-opened lemon zester to move cereal, croutons and a brand new bottle of mirin from the highest shelf of the pantry to the lowest.

These items were once on my "bad foods" list.  After losing Lorenzo and gaining a shitload of weight, I've spent the past year hopping from one fad diet to the next.   The food processor was for the weeks I spent on the Shred diet, sucking down green smoothie after green smoothie and picking spinach out of my teeth for days on end.

The expensive ass juicer I bought from Amazon was for the Crazy Sexy Diet, a vegan plan that mandates buying pounds of fresh produce each week and blending them into green juices (and before you even ask, yes, they are exactly as unappetizing as they sound).

But in learning to sit with my feelings as opposed to running from them, I've figured something out: I'm not fat because I didn't know potato chips have more calories than kale, I'm fat because I was depressed as fuck.  I lost the love of my life.  I sat on my couch for a year and cried.  I drank and ate my way through the pain because I didn't know what else to do with it.  And that's okay.  I'm human.  I did the best I could with the knowledge I had at the time.

But as much time as it took me to put on this weight, it'll take AT LEAST as long for me to lose it.  And that's okay too.

And now that I think of it, neither Shred nor the Crazy Sexy Diet were such bad plans, they were just bad plans for me.

So.. no more living by anyone else's rules no matter how authoritative and knowledgable that person may be.

No more drinking a gallon of water a day and having to pee every 5 minutes because that's what Skinny Heffa magazine says I should do.

No more eating foods I hate because Dr. Phil or Dr. Oz or even Dr. Seuss says that this is the fastest way to lose weight.

And no more depriving myself of foods that I love because a well meaning, but often overbearing boyfriend disagrees with my choices.

No more living according to anyone else's rules except my own.

I will never, ever be perfect.

I will never be Beyonce, or Halle Berry, or Tyra Banks.

But I will be in much better shape than I currently am.

I will be a good role model for my daughter, and the healthiest version of Khadija that I can be.

And for now, that's good enough for me.

Reclaiming My Life

Nighttime is always the worst.

Each night begins the same way, with me trying to soothe Amira to sleep.

I do my best to alleviate her fears.  We say our prayers, I hold her close, we follow the gentle instructions of a guided meditation app.  We take long, slow breaths from the pits of our bellies.  We imagine ourselves walking along a beach, or through a forest, or leaving terra firma altogether to soar through the evening sky.  I hold her in my arms and do not let her go until she is sleeping peacefully, jaw slackened, chest rising evenly, her mind temporarily freed of all anxiety.

I wish I could say I've been as kind to myself.

While every night begins the same, it ends the same as well; with my feeble attempts at numbing myself of the pain.

Once Amira falls asleep I turn to my number one drug of choice, the television.

I put on the same mindless comedies night after night, "Parks and Recreation", "Girls' Trip", "Popstar, Never Stop Never Stopping".  If there are chips in the house (and there are ALWAYS chips in the house) I munch my way through the entire bag, pausing only to laugh uproariously at the antics of Connr4Real and Leslie Knope.
If there is wine in the house (and there is ALWAYS wine in my house) I'll have a single glass to relax myself even further.  And when the movie has ended and the potato chips have been eaten, I take two tylenol pm to ensure I'll sleep for at least a few hours before getting up and beginning another day without you.

Yesterday, as I dressed to run to the grocery store, Amira took one look at me and asked, "Is that what you're wearing?  Seriously Mom?"

I was stunned.

I was wearing a fairly typical outfit: one of your Bears' jerseys and a pair of recently-purchased-but-already-starting-to-get-too-tight jeans from Target.

"Well yeah" I replied "What's wrong with this?"

"Mom, there are a lot of single dads out there you know."

"Amira!  I am NOT looking for a single dad or any other man, I'm going to pick up your lunch for school and that's it!"

But the entire way to the store I thought about our conversation.  I'm damn sure not looking for a man and everything about my appearance sends that message loud and clear.  I don't know the last time I got my eyebrows done, but I know it was while I was in Boston.  I don't know the last time I had a pedicure or my gray roots touched up, but I know it was during the Spring.  I don't know the last time I shopped outside of the plus sized department, but I know it was while you were still alive.

I don't know exactly who I'm going to be after all of this.  Will I ever be in a relationship again?  Will I ever care about anyone enough to actually WANT them to see me naked?  Will I ever go back to the fully vegan lifestyle that you and I embraced together?  Exactly who is Khadija Jamila Brewington now that Lorenzo Douglas is gone?

I don't yet know where the answers to those questions reside, but I know where NOT to continue looking for them.  They aren't at the end of "Girl's Trip" or at the bottom of a bottle of wine or a bag of potato chips.  They aren't in the plus sized department of Target either.

I won't find any answers if I'm too afraid to confront or even acknowledge the pain that is my life without you.

I have to start treating myself with the same gentle patience with which I treat our daughter.

So here we go.

I love you, babe.

I miss you.

It hurts so badly that there are still days in which I don't want to get out of bed.

It hurts so badly that I have to take Prozac to function normally.

It hurts so badly that there are times I wish I could pull an Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind and have a procedure done that would make me forget all about you.

I hurt so badly.

Because I loved you so much and I still do.

Because I don't know where I'm supposed to put the pain.

Because I don't know what the rest of my life will look like without you in it.

But I suppose I'm ready to find out.

Plan B

So what's next?

I'm supposed to come up with a plan, right?

Isn't that what we do when Plan A blows up in our faces?

We regroup, we keep moving forward.

I'm supposed to get a job, right?

I should find and update my old resume, register with all of the local temp agencies, start contacting former employers and asking for references.

That's step 1, right?

Or, I should go back to school.

I should drop Amira off at Peirce each day before heading downtown to sit in a classroom full of other 40 something year olds, and begin working on a Master's in something I don't really give two shits about.

That's what I'm SUPPOSED to do, but...

I'm not going to do either of those things.

I've spent the past 10 years doing exactly what I'm SUPPOSED to do.  Putting my family first, putting my own dreams on hold for so long that I damn near forgot what they were. 

I don't want to do what I'm SUPPOSED to anymore.

I don't want to spend every waking hour taking care of someone else and going to bed each night, exhausted by the weight of solely fulfilling others' expectations of me.

Exhausted by the sadness of another day spent not pursuing my own dreams.

That's not the example I want to set for my daughter.

I want her to know that if you want something badly enough, you work your ass off to get it.

You don't settle.

Life is too short to waste one moment of it working like a dog to obtain a career you're not even sure you really want.

I don't have a Plan B yet.

But I know that I want to write.

And I know that I want to be fully available to parent my child 24 hours a day.

I know that I don't want to work for anyone whose name isn't Khadija Jamila Brewington.

I know that I don't want to make a living taking care of anyone whose name isn't Amira Kenya Douglas.

And that's all I got right now.

Me

My kitchen's a mess.

There are empty plastic bags on the table surrounding the tablet on which I'm writing this post.

There are dishes in my sink, trash that needs to be taken out, and an empty heineken light bottle that has yet to be rinsed, dried, and put in the recycling bin.

It's 9:39 a.m. and I woke up 10 minutes ago.

That is extremely late for me.

You see, I'm an early bird.  Before I had my daughter, I was in bed no later than 9:30 p.m. each night.

I'd wake up around 6:00 a.m. every morning, jump out of bed and be ready to face the world within minutes.

But things are different now.  Instead of waking up at 6:00 a.m., washing my hands and immediately tackling this kitchen; putting away the plastic bags, wiping down the table with disinfectant wipes, doing the dishes, taking out the trash, putting away the unopened bottles of Newman's Own marina sauce, and Open Nature peanut butter, I'm sitting on my ass talking to you.

I am 42 years old, a mom, a daughter, a sister, a friend and although school doesn't actually start until next week, I'm already room representative for my daughter's classroom.  And I am SO proud to wear all of those titles but the problem is...I'm not much else.

Lorenzo was the love of my life.  When he got into the fire academy I took on a new role: helpmeet.  On the days he forgot part of his uniform at home, I'd ride the train an hour downtown and bring it to him.  And on the evenings when he came home to us, exhausted from having to run up and down stairs while hoisting 50 pounds of equipment on his back, I kept Amira quietly occupied so Daddy could get his rest.   Lorenzo fulfilling this dream was our number one priority and the day he graduated was one of the proudest of our lives.  Amira and I became the Earth to his Sun, revolving around his schedule, basking in the warmth of his attention on his days off.

It didn't take me very long to forget I'd ever had dreams of my own, until one day, while driving home from Best Buy, Lorenzo took my phone out of my hand and threw it in the backseat.

"You don't need that to take pictures of Maggie's wedding" he'd said in response to my indignation.  "You can use this instead."  And then, from under his seat, he pulled out a box and handed it to me.  A brand new tablet.  "Dude asked if I wanted to get this insured and I was like, 'hell no!' before remembering who I was buying this for and then I told him to give me the highest level of insurance possible!"  I laughed through tears and kissed him on the cheek at this unexpected gift.  "And Dija, it comes with a keyboard too.  So now you can write again."

I may have temporarily forgotten my dreams, but Lorenzo never did.  So right now, I'm sitting in my still-needs-to-be-cleaned kitchen, writing this post before Amira wakes up, before I wash even one dish, before I check facebook, before I hop on the elliptical, before I eat my breakfast, before I begin the chaos of my day.

In good times and in bad, Lorenzo never forgot who I was.

Maybe it's time I start remembering her.

Home

I dreamed about you again last night.

I used to think I didn't dream.  It wasn't until I got to college and took freshman Psych that I learned the opposite was true.  That everyone dreams, some just have no memories of them.  That's how it always was for me until you died.  Now, every so often, I dream of you and while I rarely remember specifics what's left is always the feeling that I was holding you until somehow, you got away.

It was a shitty morning in Cambridge.  It's rainy and dreary here today and I did not want to get out of bed but I pushed myself anyway, pushed myself because I only have a one month membership to Healthworks so I have to enjoy every minute of it.  Pushed myself because now that I'm on Prozac, pushing myself is a possibility again.  Pushed myself because it's what you would have wanted me to do, yet when I got to the gym I still didn't want to be there.  Took the elevator up to the fitness studio instead of walking the three flights of stairs.  Got on the treadmill halfheartedly, instead of putting in real effort on the elliptical.  But by the time Chris Brown finished singing "Party" (the clean version that you would have laughed at me for downloading) I was smiling again.  And by the time Shawn Mendes finished "There's Nothing Holding Me Back" I had picked up the pace.  And by the time I finished listening to Shawn Mendes for the second time in a row, the high had kicked in and I was running. Slowly of course, jogging really, just jogging one minute, walking the next but a calm had settled my spirit and the endorphins were elevating quickly and by the time someone finally got on the treadmill a few machines over from me, I was glowing and sweating and panting and happy as fuck.  And as I walked/jogged for the next 45 minutes, as I watched Jeremy, my virtual trainer telling me to pick up the pace, as I watched the green hillside of British Columbia whiz by me on the treadmill's television monitor, every single cell in my body was singing.  And I wished I had somebody there to share it with.  Wished I could call out to the woman two treadmills away and ask her if she felt this way too. If she hadn't wanted to get her lazy ass out of bed this morning either but now that she was there, running much, much faster and much, much more consistently than I could ever hope to do, wasn't she elated too?  Wasn't she thrilled that she had decided to fight her way through the gloom and doom of a rainy Thursday morning, through her own still lingering depression, and made her way over to Healthworks in spite of it all?

I have a long way to go, babe, I know that.  I'm still digging my way out of the abyss that is clinical depression. But...being home, being back in Cambridge, being back at Healthworks is helping.  I'm healing.  Slowly but surely I'm healing and while I can't imagine living here again, can't imagine living anywhere where memories of our life together don't come at me in a rush the minute I open my front door, for now, for the month of July, it feels really good to be home.  

 

Life After Death

It's 5:30 a.m. and I should be making my way to the gym right now, or eating my favorite yogurt breakfast, or trying to decide between watching 21 Jump Street for the 100th time or a basketball saturated episode of Mike and Mike.  Instead, I'm sitting on my mother's couch, listening to the ticking of her loud ass clock, and watching Amira sleep peacefully on our new air mattress.

You died exactly one year ago today.

I know that I'm supposed to have something profound to say about your passing, about what I've learned, about how we've coped.  I know that I'm supposed to have amassed a bevy of philosophical musings regarding the nature of grief, the path to overcoming depression, and the fragility of life but the truth is, I can't focus on any of that bullshit right now.  Instead one thought keeps running through my mind.

Khadija, how do you want to LIVE?

The one thing I've truly learned this year is that the old cliche is true:

Life is really fucking short.

It's too short not to apologize to those we've wronged.

Too short not to tell our loved ones just how much they mean to us.

Too short not to take chances.

Too short not to fix that which can be fixed.

Too short to waste precious time holding on to that which is beyond repair.

I've lived the majority of my life vacillating between two default conditions: fear and regret.

No more.

Life is too short.

I'm so grateful to God for the years I got to spend with Lorenzo.  He was my life partner, my baby's daddy, my best friend.  He was the kick in the ass I CONSTANTLY needed, he was the annoying voice of reason I hated to hear.  He was my biggest cheerleader and my biggest critic.  He was the therapist I never wanted, and the comedian who refused to get off the stage.  He was a man of God, a man of science and a man of his word.  He was a complete and a total know it all.   A never ending pain in my ass.

He was the love of my life.

Last night, while helping my best friend clean out her deceased mom's home, Michele asked me what I want to do today, to commemorate Lorenzo's passing.  I've thought about that all night and here's what I've come up with.

I want to spend today living and loving fearlessly.

I want to celebrate the memories of our life together.

I want to begin the process of moving forward without him.

Simply put, I want to live.