Saturday is currently my favorite day. I don’t even mind that I am awake by 7:00 a.m. It’s my day to enjoy my daughter. I don’t pick up my laptop or look at lesson plans the entire day—we fill our day with mommy-daughter activities. Currently we are in my bed chatting about our plans for today. I love her babbles. I ask a question and she answers me. It doesn’t matter that I have no idea what she attempts to say.
“Should we go downstairs and make breakfast for Alma?”
“Da-ba-ba-ta-da,” Liberty responds with arms and legs animatedly signaling her excitement.
When I rise from the bed, Libby lifts her arms to signal for me to pick her up. I scoop her into my arms and smoother her with kisses causing baby giggles to erupt. I have not a care in the world in these moments.
I secure Liberty in her highchair, place a few cereal rounds and two teethers on her tray, then speak to her often as I start the coffee and prepare the griddle for bacon. I look forward to a long walk to the park today, I will swing and slide with her as Alma takes photos and McGee enjoys the dog park. We are blessed with a sixty-five-degree day this first weekend in November—we must enjoy the weather while we can. Maybe we will eat a picnic lunch in the back yard, too. The fresh air will quickly wear out McGee and Liberty. I’ll help Alma around the house while she naps. I live for these simple days.
“La-La,” Liberty announces Alma’s arrival in the kitchen loudly. McGee scurries to eat the cereal she knocked off her tray in her excitement.
“Good morning Miss Libby,” Alma greets before pouring her cup of coffee. Libby jabbers right back to her with a piece of cereal visible on her tongue.
While my Saturday with Liberty allows me to genuinely smile and enjoy myself, as night falls my thoughts darken and all of the troubles in the world creep in. My thoughts move from troubled students, to miscarriages, to my mother, to my father’s death, to the loss of my girlfriends and Hamilton, to my ever on my mind secret, to starving families, then to other atrocities from the nightly news.
As is my new habit, I bleed my feelings into my notebook each night. The lined white paper quickly fills with my treacherous thoughts. My remembering that today is my mother’s birthday cut me open after Liberty’s bath time. I’ve looked forward to tonight’s writing for two hours now. I’ve needed to banish my thoughts onto the paper.
I spill every drop—I rid myself one by one. Tears stream as I confess my continued love for her after everything. I admit the guilt I carry for not trying harder to get her help. I should have enlisted the help of adults to force her into treatment at a rehab facility. I should have begged our family doctor to have her committed. As her daughter I should never have given up—I should have fought for her over and over to seek the help she needed.
Thoughts turn into words. Words form sentences and sentences form a story on paper. The younger version of me becomes my main character. Certain aspects of my life mirror the character while in many ways we are different. Page after page the story flows, grows, and with it my heart grows lighter. This is my therapy.