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.