Chicken Soup for the African American Woman's Soul (32 page)

For the preceding twelve months, it was as if my life had been nothing but a showering downpour of rain. I was caught in “the perfect storm” and felt as if I had nowhere to run for shelter.

I had never felt so alone in my entire life. My older daughter was in Utah attending the RedCliff Ascent Wilderness Therapy Program for struggling teens. My younger daughter was at school. I was supposed to be at work, but I had called my assistant that morning and informed her that I was extremely ill. I told her to cancel all of my meetings and appointments for that day and inform my manager of my absence. My then-husband was in Atlanta; we had separated.

He had left two weeks earlier, the morning our septic tank backed up, and we had raw sewage backing up in the toilets, the bathtubs and even the washing machine. He simply called a plumber and a septic tank company and left before they arrived.

Now, still clad in my pajamas, I simply picked up my car keys, walked into my closed garage, sat in my car and cranked it on. I had decided to choose death over life. I wanted to close my eyes, peacefully fall asleep and never wake up again.

As I sat in my car with the engine running, two prevailing thoughts entered my mind. I thought of my younger daughter and the fact that she would be the one to come home from school to find me slumped over the steering wheel in the front seat of my car. I couldn't imagine the traumatic effect it would have on her for the rest of her life. My second thought, as stupid as it may be, was about IBM, the company where I was a vice president at the time. I couldn't help but think what all of my colleagues would say about me. My legacy would be, “The bright and shining star who self-destructed—maybe she didn't have what it takes after all.”

I turned the engine off and sat there for about thirty minutes. I couldn't even cry. I was totally numb. I knew that I was seriously ill—physically, emotionally and spiritually. I felt as if I were just some insignificant item that had been tossed into the lost and found, waiting for its owner to come back and reclaim it. This was the defining moment for me as I realized that my
soul
was in the lost and found, and I decided
I
was going back to reclaim it.

I got out of my car, went into the house and picked up the phone. I made a call that saved my life. I called an employee assistance program (EAP) hotline. I had the number memorized because I had used it often in the preceding months when I was trying to find help for my daughter. That day, I spoke for an hour with a clinician. I told her I had just tried to commit suicide by carbon monoxide poisoning but couldn't go through with it. I was almost incoherent, rambling in my thoughts and words. I recall telling her, “I need help. I've been trying to get an appointment with a psychiatrist for over a week, but no one can see me for at least three weeks. I can't wait that long—I may be dead by then.”

During my conversation with the clinician, I started to have small feelings of hope. She stayed on the phone with me and used her other line to try to set up an appointment with a psychiatrist for me right away. She was able to get an appointment for me for 4:00 that afternoon. It was about 11:00 A.M. when we finished our call, and she called me back every thirty minutes to check on me and see how I was doing.

I was so weak physically and emotionally that I could barely manage to take a shower and get dressed. The most mundane and ordinary tasks felt monumental to me, but I was driven by the thought that all of my life I had been perceived as this “strong and determined black woman” who would let nothing bring her down.

I watched the clock tick minute by minute for four and a half hours. As I waited for the time to come for me to leave for my appointment, I began thinking about my life.

I reached deep into the memory bank of my childhood. I remembered that I had been raised with a very solid foundation of love, understanding, great values and principles, and a strong sense of spirituality and faith. I was not raised to be a coward or to give up. I was raised believing that I could do anything I put my mind to and that no obstacles were insurmountable.

I finally left for my appointment. During the twenty-minute drive, I was almost fixated on the beauty of the fall leaves changing colors and floating to the ground. It was somewhat symbolic—I too was shedding my leaves. My visit to the psychiatrist, filled with hope, increased my desire to live and that desire was validated by the second stranger of the day who would help save my life. It was the beginning of the healing process for me. I was finally reaching out for help. My mind, body and soul had completely shut down, but I knew with time, they would be back in synch. I was determined to do whatever work was necessary to ensure that happened. I was ready to grow new leaves.

I started out that gloomy autumn day making a choice of death. But by the end of the day, I had decided to choose life. If I had followed through on the first choice, I would have never seen all the bright days that I have since lived to see. I couldn't fathom then that there would be sunshine once again in my life. Even though it still pours rain some days, I just imagine that I'm Annie in the Broadway musical singing, “The sun will come out tomorrow.” And it always does.

Today, I feel a glow around me every time I hear my daughters' voices, see their faces, or get hugs from them that fill my soul with a warmth that not even a blazing fire could replace. My older daughter survived her troubled youth and is blossoming like a beautiful flower. When I look into her eyes, I see my own reflection and am reminded that we indeed are both strong women who will let no obstacles keep us down. We've both learned to get back up, brush ourselves off and keep moving forward. My younger daughter fundamentally saved my life—the thought of her was my motivation to live—as if she breathed air into my lungs keeping me alive on that dreary day. Life is precious, and I now savor each and every moment of it. I have my soul back, reclaimed with a new sense of meaning and purpose. I now understand just how blessed I was, am and will always be.

Lisa J. Whaley

Greatness by Design

O
ur greatest problems in life come not so much
from situations we confront as from our doubts
about our ability to handle them.

Susan Taylor

I clenched his tiny hand in mine as we made our way to the top of the escalator. I was getting ready to do the unthinkable. My worst nightmare was here, and I was wide awake. As we walked closer to the gate, I began to feel overwhelmed, almost panic-stricken, because I knew in minutes he would be gone.

As the pain welled up inside me, the last year and a half flashed before my eyes—a mind movie of all the decisions I'd made leading to this moment. I'd sold my home in Florida, left everything and everyone I knew to follow a man I thought, without a doubt, loved my son and me. Yet now here I was, standing at the gates of hell, at least in my mind, getting ready to send my three-year-old son, Kwaku, on a plane without me to stay with my best friend, Suluki, and her husband, Saleem.

The night before, I had told her I was leaving my husband. I told her I didn't know where I would be after tomorrow, my things would be in storage, and I needed to ask a huge favor. Before the words came out of my mouth, she said, “We'll be there tomorrow to pick up our godson. Don't worry. We'll get you through this.”

Guilt and disappointment consumed my body and soul for putting my precious son through this. Would I ever forgive myself for what I was about to do? Were there signs, or was I just blinded by the idea of love and “happily ever after”? Ironically, we had just gotten really settled in our new life in Virginia. Kwaku was going to have a father for the first time, and my business was starting to thrive. I thought we were doing fine until the touches stopped, the kisses became void of affection and then anger became more prevalent than kindness. Before I knew it, I was planning to leave.
But where will I go, and how
will I regroup from this?
I couldn't believe I was going to essentially be homeless and loveless all in one fell swoop.

I refused to drag my baby around like a piece of furniture; my child must have a home and feel safe, even if his mother doesn't have one for a while. I kept chanting silently,
I can suffer, but my child will not feel this pain; that is
not an option
, while I came closer and closer to completing the single most difficult task thus far in my life, sending my son away.

Kwaku and I watched the planes arriving on the runway. He pointed and cheered as they landed and took off.

I hugged him knowing that these would be our last moments together for a while. It was gut-wrenching; my emotions were all over the place. I felt my anger, my sadness, and even my joy that I had someone in my life who loved me and I loved my son enough to stand up for him.

Suluki had always been that kind of sista.

When “Uncle” Saleemarrived,Kwaku ran and greeted him.

It was just another adventure as far as he was concerned.

When it was time to say good-bye, Kwaku turned and said, “Mom-me, the plane, big, go bye-bye. See you right back.” Kwaku grabbed his godfather's hand and turned to get on the airplane. I waved and blew kisses and crumbled inside. I kept saying to myself,
It's temporary, and it's for the best
. I didn't know yet if I even believed my own words.

Then came the second most difficult task in my life, surviving this seeming eternity of pain and disillusionment.
Oh my God, what have I done? My baby is gone. I'm alone. Why
me? Why now?

In the midst of all this, I had a show to do. God had just blessed me, one month prior, with the launch of my own national radio talk show, sharing a message and a mind-set reinforced by the inspirational lives and achievements of some of the most extraordinary women and men of our time. I believed God allowed me to host the show because, at this moment, I needed that inspiration the most. Many times I felt as if the guests showed up just to help me continue to push through. Every night I had the opportunity to have conversations with guests who had faced challenges, setbacks and fears and had persevered to phenomenal heights of achievement. It was clear that while my show was providing inspiration across the country, it was also saving me. One special night, Nikki Giovanni took me out of my pain while taking my breath away when she performed a favorite poem of hers, “The Song of Feet.” She spoke of wiggling her toes in the sands of time, trusting and once again feeling the warmth of the embrace, celebrating being a black woman. I held tightly onto her words, filling my heart with spirit.

Kwaku is in good hands
, I would constantly say to myself.
Suluki and Saleem love that “little critter,”
as they affectionately called him.

“Mom-me, Christopher is my new best friend,” Kwaku shared during one of our daily phone calls. He had become instant buddies with the son of Suluki's niece. They went to school together, played together, got their first bikes together, shared a room together, and became brothers.

I got through my first month without Kwaku in the refuge of my sista-friend Dyan's home. She had
literally
created a space for me where I could heal, simply because she knew I had nowhere else to go. I was able to focus on allowing myself to cry out loud, pray, heal all the hurt and to transform my pain, my loneliness and my anger into forgiveness. First, I forgave myself for allowing and accepting less than what God had in store for me, and then I forgave myself for doubting myself as a mother.

Then it happened, I didn't even see it coming—one day I felt my own toes begin to wiggle again. Then another day I felt a warm embrace all over my body; this hug was like no other I'd ever experienced. I looked around only to find that it was me, hugging myself, loving myself, singing and even dancing again. The tears I was shedding now were not from pain but in gratitude for the positive people God had put in my path; people who had made my journey meaningful and manageable.

Today is Kwaku's fourth birthday, a celebration, a homecoming and a renewal of the spirit of family. Unfortunately, I couldn't have a big party with all his classmates so far away, but as he walked into our new home he was greeted by trumpets of joy, a red carpet of balloons, and a cake lit with candles and wishes for new memories still to come.

Today, after three months of missing and praying to be with Kwaku again, I'm just going to hold his little hand and watch both of our toes as they wiggle, together, again.

Blanche Williams

Kwanzaa on the Prairie

S
ometimes I feel discriminated against, but it
does not make me angry. It merely astonishes
me. How can any deny themselves the pleasure
of my company? It's beyond me.

Zora Neale Hurston

Two years of uninterrupted work time and a master's of fine arts from the nation's top creative writing program— that'swhat Iwas promised, and so I left behind a boyfriend I loved dearly, a three-bedroom Manhattan apartment and the most lucrative job I'd ever had to move halfway across the country to Iowa City, Iowa. I hadn't researched much about the workshop program beyond the writing time and the degree, and so I was pleasantly surprised at how good it felt to finally be thinking creatively again after years of working in law firms. I was thrilled with my classes, and I marveled at the insights of my teachers.