Letters Written in White (5 page)

Photos of girls’ nights out, date nights, and more, pull feelings from within me that I can’t seem to suppress. Then there are the relentless selfie-takers. Beautiful people snapping photo after photo of their puckered lips and skinny hips. This causes a jealous seed to sprout in my mind. Envy sets up shop there and makes itself at home.

It’s ridiculous to feel this way. Their happiness, success, or abundance of friends should have no bearing on my feelings or life. Although I know how stupid it is, that fails to change how it makes me feel. While the mind is in a dark place, all logic is lost and madness becomes the norm. If fictional characters are the only friends I can ever count on, it makes me question my sanity and self-worth. When my only friends don’t really exist, why should I?

Facebook is a time-suck. The kids get home, and from there I don’t get anything done before Grayson comes home. The look on his face when he comes through the door says it all.

You’re lazy, Riah.

You did nothing all day, Riah.

Why can’t you do the simplest of things, Riah?

You are a disappointment, Riah.

Before I know it, we’re arguing. Nothing new there.

“I’d really like you to start faking it more. I’d like you to put a smile on your face and say happy, positive things to our children. I want you to stop sleeping and reading all day, and clean the house and take care of the general overall home responsibilities. I know you don’t love me anymore and I’m okay with that. I’m still in this marriage to do what’s best for our kids. I pray eventually we’re able to find our way back to a better place with each other. But I know I can’t continue on with our current situation.” His voice is steady and controlled, just like he is.

“Our current situation? Situation? You are so delusional, Grayson! House responsibilities? What exactly does your definition entail, huh? God, you’re such a smug asshole.”

I pace the bedroom.

Back and forth, back and forth.

We can’t even make eye contact with each other.

“You have to stop being so detached from this family. Getting out of bed every day to only accomplish getting our kids ready for school and reading those stupid romance books is not enough. You have to be a greater part of this family.”

I stop and finally look at him. Tears are streaming down my face.

“Don’t you think I know how much of a failure I am? I’m sick. What don’t you get about that?” I grasp my head with both hands and grip handfuls of my hair. “My mind is completely wrecked. What’s going on inside my head most of the time is so loud I can’t make it stop. You don’t understand. You never will.”

I drop my hands and slump my shoulders.

“Sometimes I just get tired of turning down the volume,” I whisper.

When I look back at him, I can clearly see that what I’m telling him isn’t being fully absorbed.

“And don’t you preach to me about our kids. I can assure you the only reason I’m alive and breathing right now is because I don’t want them to grow up wondering why their mother was so miserable she’d rather die than continue to be their mom. What will it take for you to get it? I guess if I had a
real
illness you’d give a shit or try to help me. If you had any clue at all about how badly I dread every single day…if you had any clue at all, you’d already know I’m faking it the best I can.”

He’s sitting on the edge of the bed looking up at me. His eyes are full of disappointment and defeat.

“As much as I know I should feel sympathy for you, I can’t manage it,” he tells me, allowing his bitterness and resentment to win him over. “You need to go back to the doctor. I can’t help you. I have no idea how you feel. I can’t even imagine it. I only know what it’s doing to us and to this family.”

I start laughing. Not because it’s funny, but because at this point delirium is taking over.

“You don’t even try to help, so don’t fool yourself thinking you have. As far as doctors go, I’m sick and tired of them. The medications have done nothing but make me gain weight and be more tired. What you don’t understand is when I tell you I need
your
help, I mean I need
you
to care. You have always succeeded in making me feel inadequate. You make me hate me more than I already do all on my own. You think because you financially support me that you’re doing your job as a husband? What you fail to realize is that the thing I need from you doesn’t cost a damn penny. When I’ve needed you the most, you’ve always been emotionally unavailable.”

My hands are trembling and my temples are thumping. He’s unmoving.

“You don’t care enough to see what’s right in front of you, Grayson. You never have. It’s almost as if I’ve spent the better part of this marriage chasing something within you I’ll never catch. I can’t remember the last time you made me feel beautiful or like a woman. That all ended when the kids were born. I’ve lived feeling empty ever since. There’s zero love and affection between us. You hardly ever touch me anymore. You have no idea how lonely it is to be me,” I cry.

He drops his head and clasps his hands in his lap.

“I’m angry and I’m hurting too, Riah. I just don’t know what to do to make this better anymore.”

When he looks back up, I can see the tears he’s trying so incredibly hard to hold back because of his stubborn pride.

“You try being affectionate and emotionally supportive to someone who always wakes up in a bad mood and ready to yell and scream at the slightest thing. Worse than that, you’re always so ready to make verbal jabs at me about treating you like shit, right in front of the kids. You bring so much negativity into this house. Yes, I try to leave you alone. I do my best to barely even speak to you in fear that I might say something ugly or wrong and set you off. I rarely ever say a word about the house being a wreck, the laundry piling up, or the fact that you stay in bed constantly.”

He stands up with his hands on his hips and glares at me.

“How do you expect anyone to support you emotionally when you don’t even try to do it for yourself? You want to be made to feel cherished and beautiful, but you won’t do that for yourself. You care more about your friends in your damn computer than you do about this family. You give them the best of you—” he gestures toward my laptop that’s lying on the bed “—while we get the shitty scraps.”

He walks past me toward the door. Before walking out of the room, he says, “You can’t hide here in front of your family. We know the truth and the truth is ugly.”

As soon as the door closes, I open it and follow him.

“Screw you, Grayson. You care more about a clean house and laundry than you do about your wife sinking in depression. I’m drowning, and all you do is shovel rocks into my pockets, making it nearly impossible for me to swim up for air. And those friends in my computer understand, listen, and care. That’s a hell of a lot more than I get from you.” I storm past him toward the stairs. “I’m sleeping in the guest room tonight. Just leave me alone.”

Alone.

The one thing I hate most, yet always demand when I’m hurting.
I hate you, don’t leave me
should be my motto in life because everything I say contradicts how I feel. My heart is always at war with my mind.

“It’s a living nightmare

to find yourself naked to the constant,

unforgiving waves of depression.”

SITTING ON THE edge of the bed in the guest room, I scan the room, looking at insignificant things like the window frame, cracks in the paint on the legs of the rocking chair that sits in the corner, and the dust that has settled along the edge of the baseboards. For the briefest of moments, I’m numb.

It’s a temporary reprieve.

It feels so good.

Snapping me out of my moment of freedom, Grayson says, “Call the doctor today. Make an appointment. Give treatment one more try. We can’t keep living like this, you sleeping in here, us fighting.”

Tears gather in the corners of my eyes and my chin trembles. My mouth feels dry, so I try to swallow. I want to tell him that’s just logistics.

“I love you,” he whispers, kissing me on the top of my head.

His words are empty. He says this out of obligation. I’m only a burden to him.

I love you.

Those three words are a bunch of letters strung together on a sharp hook that dangles in deep waters full of starving fish. I’ve lived with the regret of believing in them for a long time. I never realized I was being fed a lie until it was too damn late. I can’t remember the last time Grayson looked into my eyes and really saw me. I’ve even forgotten what his arms feel like wrapped around me. As much as I hate the concept of giving my heart to another person, I know I still love him even when I hate him the most. I tell myself I need to fall out of love with him the same way he has with me. The problem is…I’m certain I’ll love him for all of my life. He’s not just my husband. He’s a part of me. I don’t know how to accept no longer being a part of him.

“Please make the appointment, Riah. Okay?” he urges on.

I just nod. It’s a lie of course. I won’t call. I’ve been there, done that. Sometimes sadness isn’t just a feeling, it’s an existence. This is my existence, and there’s not a doctor who can change that. I’m defeated and I know it. Realizing I’ve been defeated is nothing less than traumatic. Seeing more and more of myself wash away is a process I wish upon no one. I might be alive, but on the inside I died when my depression was born. No matter how many times the sun rises and sets, I no longer feel its warmth upon my skin. I see it, but all I feel is coldness.

I’m getting the kids ready for school and an idea occurs to me. I’ve often worried about one or both of them growing up having the same struggles I’ve had. Even as a child, I can remember a certain type of sorrow within me. My self-esteem was always lacking, and I never want them to think that way of themselves.

“I want you to look right here in the mirror and repeat after me,” I tell Desiree and Devin.

“Why, Momma?” they say, angling their heads upward to look at me.

“Because I’m going to teach you a new thing. I want you to do it every morning when you finish brushing your teeth. It’s kind of important. Okay?”

I pull Desiree’s wild curls back and wrap a ponytail holder around it.

“All right, are you ready?

“I’m ready, Momma,” they say in unison, smiling.

“Good. Now repeat after me. I am brave.”

They look at each other and then in the mirror, grinning.

“I am bravvvve,” they say in perfect unison.

“Next say, I am strong.”

They smile even wider. “I am strrrrrong.”

“Okay, now say, I am smart.”

Desiree twists her body from side to side, and her rosy cheeks brighten while Devin’s shoulders straighten and he looks confidently in the mirror. “I am smart.”

“Okay, this last one is really super-duper important, so pay close attention. I want you to put your hand over your heart when you say this one.”

We all three place our hands over our hearts. They’re waiting patiently for what I tell them to say next. I feel like such a fraud saying these things about myself, but I know they’re true for them. They were once my truth as well. As I stand here and look at our children in all of their innocence, my heart breaks a little because things can change a person so much over the course of a life. I want so much for these beautiful little humans I gave life to, so much more than what I’ve become.

With our hands over our hearts, I say, “I matter.”

“I matter.” Desiree looks up at me and asks, “Momma, what is
matter
?”

“Yeah, what the heck is that?” Devin says.

I squat down and get eye level with them.

“When you say,
I matter
, you’re saying your ideas, feelings, and who you are as a human being are important. Never forget that.”

What they don’t know is how easy it is to forget. Still, I never want them to forget as easily as many of us do. As children, they love to play pretend, getting lost in whimsical ideals and flowery fairy tales. The saddest thing is that we pretend as children in order to stretch our minds, and as we age, life closes our minds to all of the wonders in the world. We grow up with everyone telling us what to be, and then we’re surprised when, as adults, we have no idea who we are. For every round peg society forces into a square hole, another brick is laid, building the walls that will eventually close us off from the possibility of living with purpose and passion.