#6: On brighter days and better friends

#6: On brighter days and better friends

Wednesday 3:40 PM: My eyes felt hot as I read the text message from my psychiatrist: “use Xanax liberally today and text me tomorrow morning with how you’re doing.”

It had been twenty hours since my complete decomposition on the sidewalk outside my apartment. In the midst of a disagreement with one of my roommates about a bill payment, the thought of stepping inside my home was the final trigger to a build-up of anxiety. I had immediately called Rebecca — my lifeline in the overcrowded city that somehow makes me feel wildly lonesome — and she had showed up in what might as well had been a winged chariot: swooping me into a hug and then ushering me onto my bed while she cleaned the rubble of my room and bathroom that had fallen into detritus over the preceding weeks. While I had ignored the problem of cleanliness, it became wildly apparent that my lack of housekeeping was a major indicator that this breakdown was an inevitability rather than a freakish whim of my biological nature.

Rebecca sat with me while we chowed down on half-decent microwave meals from a local deli and tried to pin down exactly what had started the downward spiral that had begun this morning. As it turned out, I was still battling demons from years prior that I had thought were long vanquished: friends lost, guilt repented, shame accepted. Instead of letting me sit in that pit of despair, she assured me that I was not solely responsible for those pains that sat with me nearly four years later. In fact, she sat before me as living proof — the epitome of a friend who had seen me in my darkest and most destructive — that true friends stand by you through the thickest black and love you for the person that evolves from those trials. They encourage you to pick yourself back up and to grow, and when you can’t do it alone, they bring down that very winged chariot and scoop you onboard until you can command the reins yourself.


It’s now been about forty-eight hours. My Xanax supply is still within reach but it is not in white-knuckle grip. Instead, it’s the people around me who make me feel like me. It’s the way Rebecca — a social worker by profession — exceeded the bounds of normal friendship to make sure that I was secure before exiting my apartment on Tuesday night. It’s the way Jasmine stayed on the phone last night laughing with me about how tragic our lives are, in sync nearly four thousand miles apart, and how we will support each other as we seek out local clinical and therapeutic help (my trusted psychiatrist — as helpful as he is and regardless of the fact he has legitimately saved my life on two accounts — can only do so much from two states away). It’s the way Justine understands when I request an extra half hour for lunch in order to commute to attend that very therapeutic appointment.

When I was hospitalized, I had the incredibly fortunate encounter of meeting a seventy-eight year old patient committed for suicidal tendencies. And, in our discussion, she told me that what she had learned in her several hospitalizations consistently was that life is always worth fighting for. Feeling more like myself today, I can say that I know she’s right. There is always a light.

Thursday 9:39 AM: “I feel great today.”

All my love x

Living Candidly #2: Thanking My Mom

I would not be exaggerating if I told you that my mom and I probably say “I love you” to each other approximately three times each per phone call. And there are at least three phone calls per day — one when I wake up, one on my way out of work to the 1 train, and one right before she goes to bed — so we’re looking at nine “I love you”‘s said by each of us to the other in a single day.

And while, yes, I absolutely love my mother, I was really looking for a way to make her feel that love this Mother’s Day.

With a lot of secrecy and coordinating group texts with my dad and brother, we managed to plan a surprise brunch for her in Baltimore. I would take the bus down the day before, hang out with two of my friends (post to come on why they’re #thebest), and secure a ride to the restaurant in time for the meal. My younger brother would be driving from College Park to north Baltimore and picking up flowers along the way (from a supermarket, let’s not get wild here). My dad would say he wanted to go to a War of 1812 reenactment at Fort McHenry, something that my mom would try to support and thus attend with him. Everything was in place.

Day of: I’m wildly hungover from a few too many drinks with #thebest, my brother is down with the flu and unable to make the hour drive by himself, and when 10:45 hits my mother and father are nowhere in sight of the restaurant. I took another sip of my ginger ale and a deep breath.

But when my mom saw me across the restaurant floor, her jaw dropped. She didn’t pick it up until she reached me, at which point it started wobbling and she cried. As she is wont to do, she enveloped me in her arms, but this time it was me holding her up instead of the other way around, as it has been the majority of my twenty-five years.

Everyone on Mother’s Day says they have the best mom and that their mom is their best friend. In addition to traditional motherly duties like changing diapers and breastfeeding, though, my mom was the first person to shave my armpits because I was afraid I would cut myself. She was the person who always did my hair before school dances and put up with my persnickety commentary the duration of the styling. She held my wrists overnight when I was in my darkest lows, sobbing and complaining that they burned for something that is today unfathomable. She has loved me at my absolute brattiest, my absolute most desolate. She has loved me when I’ve been incapable of truly loving anyone back in any manifesting ways because I’ve been too consumed with my own self. Most mothers would have stayed, sure, but none would have pushed through with the same ferocious love that she has displayed time and time again.

It is because of her and our closeness that if there is one thing I am certain of in this life that my future needs — it’s motherhood. If I can impart a morsel of the love that she has given to me in the likeness of her own mother to another generation, well, I’ll have done something good. It’s a big order, but a girl’s gotta have dreams.

Thank you, Mom. You are a heaven-sent inspiration of true and unconditional love.