Letters Written in White (3 page)

Drip.

Drop.

Drip.

Drop.

I’m tired. I’ve run out of buckets to catch all of the seeping sadness. My house isn’t a home. It’s a locked door. My prison mate’s a black dog. His name is Depression. The thing people whisper about, the thing I cry about. It follows me, curls up beside me at night, and is anxiously awaiting me every morning.

It never strays.

At some point I just put a collar around its neck and called it mine. I’ve craved death more and more each day. It maddens me when I hear anyone ask why people choose to kill themselves. That question makes no sense to me now. I can only ask, why not?

Living is hard.

Dying is easy. Right?

I’m sure I’m going straight to hell for making light of dying and death when there are hundreds and thousands of humans in the world fighting for their lives. There are currently about 7,370,443,600 humans in this country, and that number grows every single second. How many others out there live their days like I do? Is their truth the same as mine?

I know my truth. My truth is everyone else’s lies. My lies are their comfort. Telling the truth makes people uncomfortable. Who am I to cause anyone discomfort on purpose? Lying works. Lying makes it all better. Lying is my gift to everyone around me. They never even say thank you.
Bastards
. Everyone outside the walls of this house is clueless to who I really am. I’ve developed a coping mechanism that allows me to put on a façade for my family and friends. The face of depression is nothing like what people think. This isn’t a sickness seen. It’s held and felt, in secret. From experience, I know one thing for sure: You’re only as sick as your secrets. I don’t know how much longer I can keep mine.

“With every passing moment

it eviscerates your well-intended defenses.

Soon the decay breaks you down

until it floods every aspect of your life.”

THE ALARM RINGING in our bedroom practically pulsates throughout my skull. Switching it off, I let out an exasperated sigh. It makes my brain hurt. It’s the sound of dread. Every Monday through Friday I’m awoken by this piercing ringing that tells me I have to figure out how to manage another day without my cracks being revealed. Fear overwhelms me, and I’m faced with the same daunting questions. What’s worse, living when you want to die or dying while you’re fighting to live?

I’m so empty inside. It’s as if an army of ravenous soul suckers have latched on to me. I struggle, trying hard to get back to a place where happiness or any sense of vitality is possible. I was once happy. I used to be a balloon, inflated with love, full of color and laughter. Now, I’m a mere shriveled piece of Mylar blowing in the wind of my broken life. Lately, every morning when I open my eyes, the emptiness seems to have grown wider and deeper. I know I need to stay strong, but just like rust can weaken even the strongest of metals, depression can weaken even the strongest of people.

Grayson rustles in bed next to me. I look over at him and my heart aches. The ultimate price of love is grief. I know because I wallow in it every night. Staring at him while his eyes are closed and he’s so pure and peaceful, I feel nothing but love for him. Then, just as I get comfortable in my feelings of love for him, the anger boils up.
Is it possible to love someone so much you hate them?
I married the idea of unconditional love. He married the idea of the girl he met long ago. Both ideas have been sold to the highest bidder. All we have left now are bankrupt hearts and piles of emotional debt. The demise of my marriage didn’t happen overnight. There weren’t big glaring signs telling me it was falling apart. It was subtle. Gradual. Small things became big. Annoyances turned into bitterness, regrets into resentment. So, here we are, two parents trying to figure out how to raise kids in the midst of a losing battle. The true murderer of our love has been life.

I’ve managed to drag myself out of bed. Grayson’s in the shower. Sounds of the kids running around the house squealing and laughing at such an early hour crawls all over me like bugs I want to swat away. It angers me. I don’t know why it pisses me off so much. Maybe the fact that it doesn’t bother Grayson in the least is why I just want to scream for them to be quiet for at least five minutes so I can have a moment of peace first thing in the morning. It’s sad really. Their sounds of childhood joy create an irritation within me. Selfish. How selfish of me to want to drink my coffee in peace. They’ll be gone to school soon, and I’ll have the house to myself. Still, their laughter and loudly stomping footsteps grind on my nerves as if they’re fingernails on a chalkboard. Admitting my selfishness to myself surely doesn’t erase it. If only it were that easy.

“Mommy, Mommy, I’m hungry for pancakes!” Desiree rubs her stomach in a perfect circle. “My belly wants pancakes today.” She smiles widely as she looks up at me with her rosy cheeks and still-puffy, sleepy eyes, framed by her wild bed-head hair.

It’s a pretty simple request for almost anyone. For me, it’s too much work for an early morning. Pancakes are for weekends. Just getting out of bed in the mornings is a huge feat for me. Cooking right now is something that feels more like climbing a mountain rather than mixing up some pancake batter. The sound of the toaster popping up vibrates through the kitchen. I grab two paper plates and plop the waffles on them.

“We’re having waffles,” I tell her with a forced smile on my face.

Her smile slacks and her displeasure is immediately obvious.

“I hate dumb waffles. We always have dumb waffles.” She firmly crosses her arms over her chest and scowls at me.

“That’s not true. You had cereal and a banana yesterday. Now, go get your brother and come sit down at the table to eat, please.”

Desiree stomps out of the kitchen. “Dumb waffles and cereal, dumb waffles and cereal. That’s all you ever make. Dumb waffles and cereal.”

Guilt trickles into my mind as I place the plates on the table. She’s right. I always give them
dumb waffles or cereal
. She walks back into the kitchen.

“Devin is on the Xbox. He won’t listen to me.”

“Well then he’s in trouble,” I mutter. “You go ahead and start eating. I’ll get him.”

As soon as I top the stairs, I hear it. He’s playing video games on a school morning, which he knows isn’t allowed. Devin’s always testing me. He pushes the limits as far as he can.

“Devin, you know you aren’t allowed on the Xbox right now.”

I walk over and switch the console off mid-play.

“Mom! I didn’t even get to save my game,” he yells and throws the gaming controller on the floor.

A piece of the backing where the battery pack goes flies off.

I feel anger rise up in me and I yell, “Well, now you broke your controller. Hope your fit was worth it because I’m not buying a new one.”

He storms across the room past me.

“Dad will,” he mumbles under his breath.

Yep, he probably will. He spoils the hell out of them every opportunity he gets.

When I get back into the kitchen, Grayson is standing at the counter spreading cream cheese on a bagel.

“Dad, Mom is so mean. Will you get me a new controller? Mom says I can’t have a new one.”

I cut my eyes over toward my husband and he raises his brows. “What’s going on? And Devin, don’t talk about your mother that way. It’s disrespectful.”

“What’s going on is our son threw a tantrum upstairs because I turned off the Xbox and he broke his controller. He doesn’t deserve to be rewarded for breaking his stuff because he can’t control his temper. When he doesn’t get his way, he thinks it’s okay to act like this, and it’s not going to work with me.”

I grab two clean cups from the dishwasher and pour them some milk. I walk over and sit the cups down in front of their plates. Devin frowns, angling his head up at me.

“You need to change your attitude, mister,” I tell him.

Grayson gives me a look of pity. He hates when I discipline the kids. He always feels this hint of benevolence for them and it causes such an irritation within me. I refuse to raise brats. Nothing fazes Grayson. Nothing.

“We’ll talk about it when I get home from work tonight, buddy. Until then you need to stop acting up. I know you love that Xbox, but you know the rules. No video games on school mornings.”

His voice is calming and steady. I glance over at Devin. His body language instantly changes from combative to more relaxed. I hate that. I hate how their father is so much better at this parenting thing than me. Feelings of inadequacy mount, and it’s mentally crippling.

“Mommy, I don’t want to wear this. I want to wear my princess shirt and red skirt,” Desiree cries.

“You can’t wear your princess pajama shirt to school. Pajamas are for home and sleeping, not for school.”

Big glassy tears fall down her face. It’s a battle every day when it comes to choosing her clothes for school. She’s just now started giving me grief over her clothes. I had no idea a seven-year-old would care so much about what clothes to wear to school.

“Daddy let me that one time.” She sniffles.

Anger shoots through me and my patience crumbles. I hear the phrase
Daddy let me
all the damn time and it pisses me off without fail.

“I don’t care what your father did. I’m the one getting you ready for school, not your dad. You’ll wear what I laid out for you and that’s final.”

“Babe, can you come here for a sec?” I hear him say from behind me.

I turn around and he’s just outside her bedroom doorway. He’s all dressed and clean-shaven, ready for work.

“What? I’m trying to get her dressed. The bus will be here in half an hour.”

“She can put her clothes on herself. I just want to talk to you before I head out.”

I grit my teeth and stand up from her bed. He’s going to give me
the speech
. I don’t want his damn pep talk right now about calming down and letting the little stuff go.

As soon as I round the corner of the hallway, he stops me.

“Babe, you need to relax some. You’re all over them this morning. I don’t like them going to school with negative energy all around them. It’s not good. It sets the tone for their day. Just let her wear the shirt. Who cares if it’s technically a pajama shirt? What’s it going to hurt to let her wear it?”

I put my hand up. “I’m not doing this with you this morning. She’s not wearing pajamas to school. If you’d like to take over the morning routine of getting them ready for school, then you can let her go to school looking ridiculous. Otherwise, just stay out of it.”

His expression falls into a look of disappointment.

Yes. Grayson, I know.

I disappoint you all the time.

He reaches down for my hand and I jerk it away from him.

“Don’t. You’ve hardly touched me in weeks. Don’t get all touchy-feely now. Why not go for a new record? Let’s say, a month, two?”