When it all falls down

I started this blog two years ago with the thought that if I could be painfully honest,  I would get past the writing block that I suffered before I had even started.

Well it worked, and I started writing more freely, about topics that I wanted to talk about and about things that I wanted to say, in my own words.

It felt good, it felt refreshing, I felt alive.

I felt like I had finally found a voice, and a stance about things that I cared about.  I was stressed, but it pushed me to do things that I hadn’t even thought of and helped me to believe in myself .  In essence, I became more confident in myself and in my abilities.

But this past year I haven’t written hardly anything.  I kept wondering why i’m having a brain freeze.  It’s not because of a lack of issues to talk about.  I think of things to write everyday.  But I never follow through anymore.  I was trying to figure out what mental block was I suffering from that left me stagnant, as I talked over and over again about how i’m “starting over.”

Then I realized I still has some lingering issues that needed to be resolved.

Don’t you hate that? Here I was, thinking I was above it all, thinking that I had transcended.  But I hadn’t.  I was still stuck.



Burying our black bodies in the age of Obama

I recently went home to celebrate my father’s 70th birthday. My son and daughter delighted in seeing their grandfather light up with excitement as they ran around him in circles. I felt a sense of nostalgia going home. It was the first time that I had brought my children to the city I used to call home, it was the first time that they were in my childhood home and it was the first time they were able to see various generations of my family in one spot.  I grew up in Rockford, Il. and extended family lived nearby in Chicago where the indictment of officer Jason Van Dyke took place last year for the shooting of LaQuan McDonald. I kept thinking about these various generations of family that were gathered together for my father’s birthday, there celebrating a joyous event, but over half of us could probably share stories of police misconduct, false arrests, mishandled cases and other similar stories. I’m sure half of us could point to a time where we were stopped and arrested by police arbitrarily. I’m sure we could all have our “police stories” to share. But we didn’t.

We were celebrating the fact that a black person lived more than 12 years like Tamir Rice, more than 16  years like Trayvon Martin, more than 18 years like Jordan Davis, more than 22 years like Sandra Bland.

We were celebrating the fact that we are more than our tragedies.

I have heard countless times what it means to raise black children. How hard it is to teach them how not to die in the presence of police officers. How to not look menacing or suspicious. I just have a hard time understanding how you can not look suspicious if the color of your skin is the very reason to draw suspicion in the first place.

As a mother, I can teach my children everything about life that I know and understand. I can show them a quality of life that can make them understand and appreciate life. But how do I teach them how to be defensive against police at the same time that I’m teaching them to trust them?

My heart hurts regarding the gun violence against black people at the hands of police officers.  As a mother, I truly fear the racial climate I’m raising my children in.  I understand as an educated black person where my privilege ends and begins.  I also understand how far my hands reach at protecting my children from harm.  And that makes me fearful.

Make no mistake, this is not a new phenomenon. The stereotype of black people being mistrustful of officers is not a new trend just like kale and collard greens are not a “new trend”
To look for solutions would mean you would have to look at the origins. I am a person who like to look at the root and its health before I venture to see if the problem is the stalk, the branch or the leaf. If the root is unhealthy, the outer tree remains unhealthy too.


I love my friends.

New and old, I never tire of developing the kinds of connections with people that can’t be replaced by even the best movie, or idle laptop time, or whatever.  Lately I have been thinking about this more and more and I have been neglecting this blog because I have continually made the excuse that ” I have nothing to say” (which is false). In truth, I had a lot to say, and even the time to write it. But I haven’t been “feeling like it”.  You know how you get when a friend calls you up to get together, and they pick a date and time, and the closer it gets to that date, the less you want to go?  Not for any reason other than “I don’t feel like it”.  Well that was me in regards to this blog.

I wrote a lot last year because I was going through a lot, and had a lot to say.  Mommyhood was weighing on me, workerhood was weighing on me, and it was too much to process.  I like to think I take things in stride, but that was a type of stress that I don’t ever want to have again.  So in a sense, this blog was a stress reliever, a way to get out frustrations that I couldn’t process in real life.

But lately, I have had the space, time and emotional clearance to get together with friends on a regular basis instead of write in solitude.  So the other day I met up with one of my best friends.  It was one of those cathartic, emotionally charged conversations where she pulls stuff out of me and by the end of it, we were both talking about how we will always “have each others back”.  I don’t quite know how it got there, but with best friends all topics are fair game and I usually don’t shy away from exposing myself to people I am really close to.

Which got me to thinking.  More and more, I’m coming to understand that I develop a love with friends that I don’t necessarily have with loved ones.  Not better or worse, just different.  Think about it.  People always say that friends are deliberate, family isn’t.  It’s true that with family, you can’t pick getting out of being a part of someones family.  You could technically “divorce” your parents and become “estranged” from relatives but you don’t choose to love them, it just happens because they are your caretakers.  I think about my role as “mom” to my son and daughter and am constantly reminded that my love for them is displayed in the way that I nurture them and the acts of service that I do for them which is why they in turn love me back.  Unless you want to turn uber spiritual on me however, this isn’t my son or daughter picking me out of a line-up of possible parents.  This isn’t going out on several playdates to see if we “match”.

With good friends, you get to know them, the love for them develops over time.  It’s a slow simmer, an acceptance of the complete person whereby, no matter what they do good or bad, your place in their world as their friend never changes.  It can and does end sometimes and it’s always heartbreaking to see, but when it lasts, it can also contribute to the best part of you.

Writing Again Pt. 1

I recently went to go see an old professor of mine to bury a hatchet.

I felt like I was constantly at war with my film professor.  He never validated anything that I wrote, produced, directed, filmed, edited.   I remember the first time I submitted a script to him, he took two seconds to look at it and threw it back at my face to say that it was garbage.  After I picked up my pages off the floor in front of the entire class, I sat in silence for the rest of the class.  After class was over, I went and cried in a bathroom stall.  It was the worst.  I remember him heavily critiquing any performance I directed.  People would come up to me after class and note my directing skills, my ability to pick a cast who meshed with each other, likeable characters and the ability to get the actors to “really go there” with their performance.

All he could do was question my abilities as a director.

He was a thorn in my spine and I couldn’t shake him.  He saw my confidence in my abilities and made it his mission to chip away at it.  The tension got so high that eventually I filed a formal complaint with the University regarding his behavior toward me.

By the end of my schooling, I was officially burnt out.  I knew before I ended my last class that I would never film anything again.  People often asked me after I finished to help them out with their film projects and I always declined.  So when I went to see my old professor to help him out with his project, my first thought  was that he was genuinely happy to see me.  It was a pleasant surprise and set the tone for a conversation that essentially reset our relationship.

So i’m attempting to reset.

If you haven’t noticed, I had taken a small break from writing.  It wasn’t on purpose, as there were a multitude of subjects (my son’s first year of school, me getting arrested…i’ll tell that story later) that I could have talked about.  I’ve tried to open up the page to start, but nothing seemed to stick.  I could never fully flesh out an issue or topic thoroughly to really post about it because I had this nagging thorn in my side that was 2014 that kept begging to be talked about.  So i’ll just begin again with my thoughts.  That’s how I started the first blog post on here, and I think it’ll serve me well if I just let you know how i’m really feeling.

Last year I had a lot to talk about.

My personal life was at war with my professional life and it was a mess, a pure mess.  I had opinions and I needed a release, especially since my need to retain some normalcy with my children generated negative attitudes at work.  It didn’t help that I developed coping mechanisms that weren’t helpful (no kittens were harmed in the process) which didn’t get resolved until just recently.

But by the end of the year, I was emotionally burnt out.

But it’s hard to talk about what doesn’t work in your life, and it’s especially hard to type it out.  You don’t know how many times i’ve revised these last two paragraphs in order for me to be okay with letting the world see that my world was a bit messy last year.  So again, i’ll release the shackles that prevent me from writing to give you the truth.  And it hurts a little bit.

But in order to go forward, dealing with the past is a necessity.  So I will continuously strive to walk in truth.

The Only Thing That Is Constant Is Change

It’s amazing what happens when you accept change.

In 2010, I decided to cut my straight, shoulder length hair all off.  Friends and family were both surprised and shocked.  I’ve grown it out since my initial “big chop” but I essentially wear it in the same curly fro all the time.  So when I recently decided to straighten it because it badly needed a trim, I received praise for the new look.  My change in appearance feels almost like the last bastion of change for what last year meant.

Because my 2014 was a pretty remarkable year.

I embarked on a writing journey filled with fear, doubt, hope and determination.  I’ve always been a writer and I’ve always kept a journal, but I never wanted anyone to see what I wrote about.  I was too scared for anyone to know that place where the confidence facade fades and where my true self lives.  That place where I sometimes wish I was a teenager then realize the awful time I had in high school.  That place where people now look to me for advice and I feel like i’m not good enough or smart enough for whatever they are looking for.  That place where I look in the mirror and can feel pretty and unpretty in the same breath.  I often hide behind those thoughts because I often care more about what other people will think of me versus what I truly want to say.

So in 2014 I decided to let my thoughts live in print.  I’m a very private person.  I like people, I like being around people, I even like meeting new people, but I usually don’t tell my life story to everyone I know or meet.  In fact, it might take a probe or two or three to get me to even open up.  So for me to talk about feelings and thoughts and all the mushy stuff I would expect to talk about with a therapist? Kill me now.

I’m glad I did though.

Because it made me look at a lot of things in my life that needed to change.  It made me open up about those thoughts that hide in the back of my mind.  It made me live in a way that I haven’t in a long time.  Did I make mistakes? Of course.  I’ll continue to do so.  I ruffled a lot of feathers in the process as well.   But I began to look at myself as a person who had a voice that other people wanted to hear.  All because I opened up about life.

It also smoothed a lot of bumps in my life.

If my life journey could have been displayed in a chart, it was definitely on a downturn last year.  People talk about having work life balance.  Mine was completely out of whack.  I felt like I had no time all of the time.  It wasn’t true, but whenever I feel like my life is in constant motion I stress. Last year was a year of constant motion.  The stress was high and the ball was moving too fast for me.  I honestly don’t even know how I kept this blog going.

I was also scared of change.

Some of my greatest life events happened because I decided to step out of myself and take a chance.  So I’ve been perplexed at my general reluctance to dramatically change my life in these recent years.  I’ve often wondered why I felt like I needed extreme stability.  I have taken risks in the past knowing that they produce the greatest rewards, so why was I unwilling to take risks now?  Were my motherly instincts craving stability?  Did I need to feel like things needed to stay the same in order to feel like my life made sense amidst the chaos?  Whatever the reason, I learned that the only thing that is constant is change and I need to accept and embrace it.

Now that things have settled down in my personal and professional life, I can’t wait for what’s in store for 2015.  It’s just begun and already I feel like this year is on an upturn.  I’ve removed a lot of the stressors and I feel free.  So here’s to a new year filled with constant change.

What really matters in life: A Life lesson from Jessie Spano and Claire Huxtable

Lately I have been feeling a little down. Not in the “woe is me” sort of way, but in a “how did I get myself into this” sort of way. I’ve been feeling unlike my self and as a result, a lot of things I have wanted to write about just aren’t finished because I haven’t given them the complete thought that they need.

Which brings me to Jessie Spano.

I don’t know if you all will remember that Saved By the Bell episode, but it is etched in my head like a microchip was inserted. Elizabeth Berkeley captured a moment I have been feeling for the past few months.

In trying to show my dedication to my work life, I have felt like my home life has suffered. No I haven’t felt. I KNOW my home life has suffered as a result. Missed Dr.’s appointments, kids being late to school or being picked up late, arriving home late so I don’t have time for my husband and overall spending zero time with my kids are all things that have happened over these last few months. Like Jessie in that Saved by the Bell episode, I keep feeling like “There isn’t enough time”. I never have enough time for any of the things that interest me outside of work. I’m not talking about selfishly galavanting around town (although that would do wonders for my inner being right now) I’m talking about spending quality time with the people I love most in the world. Even though I like what I do professionally, to me family and friends are what make your life, not what you do. This is also what makes me a little sad. Because I know I can’t get these moments with family and friends back. If I don’t keep in touch with friends on a regular basis, they go on with their lives and close friends all of a sudden become distant, no matter how many drunk nights, close secrets and clothes you have shared. As we get older, those relationships need to be maintained, not forgotten about.

My time with family definitely can’t be recreated. Did you ever see the movie Click?

This movie made me cry at the end. AN ADAM SANDLER MOVIE MADE ME CRY. Let’s just think about that for a moment. The point being, I love my kids. I don’t want to fast forward through their existence only to find children I don’t recognize anymore and children that don’t know me. That’s not how I grew up and it’s not how I envisioned my life as a parent to be.

So why am I referencing Saved By the Bell and The Cosby Show in the same blog post? Because they were my existence growing up, that’s why.  I don’t really need a reason other than they were two of the best shows on air as a kid.  That I would reference both in the same blog post is like a dream come true. Sorry, I digress.

The enviable and unattainable Claire Huxtable, that’s why.


She was the supermom we all aim to be.  Claire was and still is regarded by many as the epitome of womanhood.  A strong feminist, a lovely and doting wife, a supportive and caring but firm mother, She was everything. But trying to be her will kill us.

In my idealistic nature, I remember my mother as the doting parent.  She was the person who dropped us off and picked us up from school. The person who attended all of our school theatrical performances, attended all of our athletic sports games, was part of the PTA, and even accompanied us on numerous field trips.  She was the person who helped us out with homework, talked about bullies and did our hair.

But guess what?  She was also the person who fed us TV dinners for months on end, who took us to her university classes at night so she could get her degree, and gave us Gheri curls because it made it easier to do our hair.  Those pictures are in a guarded safe and will NEVER come out.

But real moments like those that showed Claire as not being picture perfect were never aired on the Cosby show.  The kids showed up and showed out from time to time, but never Claire. Why?  Because Claire ALWAYS had time. If she didn’t, Cliff was right there to pick up the pieces.  What happens when your Cliff or Claire fails to pick up those pieces?

I’ll tell you what happens.  Resentment. Disappointment. Feeling like a Failure.

She was a black woman who was a partner at a New York law firm back in the 80’s.  I’m sorry, but if anyone knows of any black women lawyers who were partners and worked in NY back in the 80’s who had ample time to raise and impart knowledge on her 5 well adjusted children, then I will erase this blog and everything I said in it.  But if you don’t, then that would make this read by Mychal Denzel Smith at least interesting.  I don’t believe we need to kill her as Brittney Cooper suggests, but we need to give the real life Claire’s some REAL slack at work and at home.  Parents aren’t perfect, they are far from it. But damn if we aren’t doing the best we can.  When work life and home life both demand you give your everything, something will inevitably fail.  Which is why Claire as a character made for great TV, but in real life, she can never be attained.

Let me set the record straight.  I’m not trying to set low expectations for how people see themselves or how people want to be seen.  I’m saying, in the real world, the expectations you have of your career woman who has 5 children and who has ample time to devote to raising, caring, spending time and nurturing those 5 children will be quickly shattered because it’s not humanly possible to be both.  Something will fall.  There have been ample publications that suggest this.  Trying to live up to what Claire embodied sometimes makes me want to have a Jessie Spano freak out from time to time.  Do you want your wife to have a Jessie Spano freak out because she’s trying to be Claire and “Do it all”? No.  So it might be a worthy read to ingest differing opinions on how we view this mythical Cosby Show goddess and adjust our own beliefs as partners and parents about what we can and cannot do in life.

Family is very important to me.  So if that means I might have to re-adjust my own inner Claire to tame down the Jessie. So be it.

In A Sentimental Mood…


Today marks the 13th anniversary of the attacks on the World Trade Center in New York and the Pentagon in Washington, DC.

I have never told my account of the day that forever changed the US, but i’m in a sentimental mood…

I was freshly out of college and was a n associate in the media office at the National Academies, a government think tank for science, engineering and medicine in Washington, DC.  That day, I remember we were extremely busy, so I was at work before 8am.  There were lines of media trucks at the building, waiting for this important stem cell study to come out, a study that basically said that we have the capability to clone body parts.  That study never saw a single camera flash.  At around 8:00am, the fire alarms went off in the building.  We had to evacuate.  As everyone was ushered outside, I remember feeling like this was a strange day for a fire alarm exercise, especially knowing that this study was coming out.  Less then 10 minutes later, the building shook right in front of my eyes.  I had never seen anything like it.  We thought that the “fire” had destroyed a part of the building.  Nothing else moved, but this concrete, completely stable building.  It was unnerving.  Ten minutes later, we were told we could enter the building.  We had been monitoring the news the entire morning, waiting for news outlets to talk about the stem cell breakthough report. What we saw on our computer screens when we came back to the office was horrifying.  Reports of a plane crashing into one of the World Trade Center buildings in New York.  Then, The second plane hit.  I actually watched it crash into the building.  As we watched the reports of what was going on, we had no idea that a plane had already crashed into the Pentagon.

Remember the building shaking?  The National Academies sits right across the river from the Pentagon.  Probably less than 3 miles away.  I believe our building shook because of the plane crash, not because of some fire in our building.  Then we received reports that a car bomb was set to go off at the State Department.  The National Academies sits directly across the street from the State Department. Suddenly, I didn’t feel like the two planes that crashed into the World Trade Center did so by accident.

All of a sudden, we were told to evacuate.  But before we even left, we were told that traffic was jammed so there would be no way to get our cars out of the parking lot.  Any attempts at taking the subway were quickly diminished as well.  The government shut down all of the subway stations downtown.  Dressed in my business suit and heels, my co-workers and I quietly filed out of the office, taking our belongings with us. As we left the office, I saw swarms of co-workers quickly walking out of the door.

Walking home was painful, but it was surprisingly communal.  Everyone was out in the street walking home because of gridlocked streets and shut down subways.  I talked to people who I didn’t know at all.  We shared a common fear and morning experience.  No one could use their phone service, text was just barely working.  You’d be surprised at the level of friendliness that people extend when tragedy sets.  People helped each other find ways to get home.  Those who’s text were working helped older men and women and children reach their relatives.  For a town that barely talks to one another especially on the street, It actually felt like a family for once in the streets of DC.  I was only able to reach my sister who was attending Howard University at the time, and she told me that school was closed and she was at our apartment that we shared.  When I finally got home, I was extremely tired, my feet felt like pins were still sticking them and I was probably still in shock.

What the hell just happened?

My sister had the news on and we were glued to the station.  She was able to text both of our parents and some extended family that we were together and safe.  I actually didn’t realize that a plane had crashed into the Pentagon until I was at home watching the reports.  It was then that I learned two minutes before our building shook, the Pentagon across the pond had been attacked as well.

I remember feeling a sigh of relief that neither the State Department nor the National Academies had been attacked. I was distraught seeing people jump out of buildings to their deaths.  It was grotesque and I couldn’t imagine the decision those people had to come to, to realize that their final day on earth was that day.  I felt forever connected to those in New York that were experiencing a more harrowing trauma even though our experiences were dramatically different. I cannot imagine seeing co-workers jumping out of buildings, narrowly escaping a building collapsing on your head, losing loved ones, and being covered in soot for miles as you head in to work.  But those of us in DC and New York remain a part of the community with first hand accounts of what happened the tragic morning of September 11th.

Exposing Vulnerabilities

I can’t swim.

There i’ve said it.  See, along time ago, when I was a child, I was taking swim lessons. One day, the lesson must’ve been holding your breath under water.  Well, I missed that instruction, or maybe I didn’t know how to hold my breath, or maybe I just forgot.  I remember all of us kids in the water, each with our handler holding us.  Then all of a sudden I got dumped under water.  There might have been a 1,2, 3, but I don’t remember it.  There might’ve even been a “Okay, now hold your breath!” But I don’t remember it.  All I remeber is swallowing water, trying to let the person holding me know that I didn’t hold my breath, that I didn’t remember.  I rememeber flailing my arms and legs.  That time under water felt like an eternity.  I felt like I was dying and I didn’t even know what dying was.  It was the scariest and most vulnerable moment in my life.  My life was in someone else’s hands and it was uncomfortable, it didn’t feel good.  Instead of gear up for the next day ready to learn, I screamed and kicked my way out of it.  I ran, never to take a swim lesson again.

I have recently gone through an exercise in exposing one’s vulnerabilities.  Time will tell on how well I have actually handled it.  But I hope that it will serve as a reminder that life is not stagnant, it is a constant ball of motion and any number of variables can change the course of how you perceive a situation to be.

I know, i’m talking in abstract terms, but I hope you get my drift.   I like to be in control.  In general I like to be in control of what i’m doing, who i’m affecting, what i’m saying and how that is being perceived.  When I lose a any part of that control, it unnerves me.  Which is why when I was younger, I never wanted to go back to swim lessons.  I couldn’t control what the teacher would do, I couldn’t control what I was going to do in class and I didn’t have enough skill to swim on my own.  I gave up, very easily.  I think most people, when they lose control of a situation retreat.  No one wants to go into a situation knowing that you will not know or do or say the right thing.   I think that anytime you expose yourself, whether it be emotionally, physically or mentally there is a part of you that is very hesitant at first to let the world see that part of you.

Right now my life is being exposed more than ever, and it’s more than a little uncomfortable,  but so far i’m getting through it.  Blame my shyness coupled with Introversion. To me this serves as a lesson I need to teach my kids.  That life tends to be uncomfortable, and it’s how you get through the uncomfortable times that shows your true grit.  As an adult, as a mom, right now my kids are at the age where everything I do is perfect, I can do no wrong.  But after the rose colored glasses fade they will get to the point where they see a true adult with vulnerabilities.  I hope they can learn to appreciate the flaws.  Way after I teach them how to swim.


What a difference a year makes

I have been truly humbled.

Today marks the One year anniversary of one of my best friend’s sobriety.  One year ago today was a very dark period in her life.  Usually I write about motherhood and all of it’s offshoots, but today I can’t help but write about my friend.

We met in college and instantly connected.  We say to people we were roommates, but we actually stayed right next to each other.  We did all of the things that roommates in college do, eat lunch and dinner together, go out together, plan vacations together, celebrate birthdays together, and long after our college days were over, we stayed in touch throughout the years.  We both entered graduate school at the same time, her law school, me film school.

I remember when she left the city and moved to an even bigger city, I would visit her often.  We survived a blizzard together.  We took a 10 day trek across the west coast together.   I remember when she graduated from Law school, she sent me pictures of her graduation and I was sad that I missed her special day.  We try every year to celebrate our birthdays together.  She has planned every major baby/birthday/wedding milestone that i’ve had.

She moved back to the area after she graduated from Law school and like every other person, got a job, and went about the day to day life of a single person living in a city.  I, doing the same, went about my life as well.  Even though we lived in the same city, we would try to talk often and get together as much as possible, but in the day to day bustle of life, plans would get canceled or forgotten, weeks would turn into months, months would turn into years, and before we knew it, we weren’t spending time or talking to each other much at all.

So when she called me a year ago, looking for help to find a new apartment, I didn’t think much of it.  I searched some places, sent her some links, and carried on with my day to day life.  She called again, lamenting about the trouble with her search.  Again, not thinking much of it, I rationalized away her need to just talk through her emotions over moving.  I again suggested places for her to call and placated her with the standard “Everything’s going to be okay” “You’ll find something” “Everything always works out in the end”

Now, before this call, every once in awhile, I would get a random two or four AM text or voicemail from her saying she needed to talk.  But since I was always asleep at the time, I would never get it until at least the next day.  Sometimes I wouldn’t respond until days or weeks later, thinking to myself, “Oh she was probably okay, I don’t think she needed anything that important, I’ll just call her when I get a chance.”

But one day, a year ago, she called me late at night.   I don’t remember what time of day it was, but I remember it wasn’t too late that I was asleep, but late enough to be dark.  She sounded upset.  Normally, I would have tried to calm her down and placate her again with cliche sayings about everything being okay in the end, but this time sounded different.  She was barely cohesive, she would switch between manic and depressive moods in the blink of an eye, her overall conversation was truncated and she was talking about things I knew nothing about.  I called my husband and told him that I was going to stop by her apartment after work just to see if everything was okay.

What I witnessed when I came through the door was not my friend.  The person I saw was the shell of the girl I knew.  Her eyes were empty, she was chain smoking and drinking until oblivion.  Drinking away what?  I will probably never know.  My entire body wanted to start crying.  How did this happen?  How did I not know?  Why did we go so long without getting together regularly or checking up on each other?  I sat down and just listened.  Listened to this person who had taken my friend.  I didn’t know what to do.  I didn’t know what to say.  I wanted to hug away all of her hurt and pain.  I wanted to take away every emotion that made her go to the bottle.  But I didn’t know how.  I didn’t even know the first steps to helping her.  So I just sat and let her talk.  That night, we sat together and she eventually fell into a drunk sleep.  I called her sister, who she had been talking to earlier in the night, to tell her that she had fallen asleep and left the apartment.  It was almost four AM.  After seeing that, I thought the worst was over.  Man was I ever wrong.

The next evening, I got a call again.  Again she needed to talk.  I stopped by a local fast food restaurant to get her something to eat. I went home to explain to my husband that  I would be heading back to her place again.  I was breastfeeding at the time and I couldn’t afford to really be out late for another night, so I went home and got my 3 month old daughter and brought her to my friends house to help her not pick up a drink.  I had no idea if she had or hadn’t been drinking.  I tried to see if there were any bottles or glasses around and there weren’t any.  A family friend who lived in the area stopped by as well.  We would get bits and pieces of a story.  Still not cohesive, still not making much sense, but again, I would just listen, hoping to salvage a story out of her musings.  I left her apartment at three AM that night.  My body was weary. If I put on a strong front for her, it would break down as soon as my driver side car door closed.  That night I just sat in my car for awhile hoping I could get it together enough to drive home.  I had after all, my three month old baby with me, I had to pull it together for her, for me and for my friend.  I cried in spurts all the way home.

When she realized she had a problem, it was a conversation that was simultaneously a relief and hard to ingest.  This person who, for me was so full of life and such a light for others, suddenly found herself needing the help she so frequently gave out.  She was set to go to rehab on Monday morning.  Little did I know what it would take to get there.

Enlisting the help of another mutual friend, together we met at her apartment to begin her journey of healing.  Uneasy at the start, she was hesitant to get in the car.  But once she did we were finally off.  I thought, “This is easy, we only have a quick 20 minute ride and once we get registered, she’ll truly begin the healing process.”

Things took a turn for the worse once we hit traffic.  She began to fall in and out of consciousness reciting biblical scriptures and hallucinating.  In trying to remain sober for me, day three proved to be too much for her.  Not knowing it at the time, my friend was not so quietly going through withdrawal in my car on the way to rehab.  I know now she was most likely suffering from DT’s; delirium tremens.  The death rate from DTs — which are characterized by confusion, rapid heartbeat, and fever — is estimated to range from 1% to 5%.  When I say I was frightened for not only my life, but hers and our friend who was helping us, it would be an understatement.  To see a dear friend switch moods from hysteria to calm to hearing voices to talking to the dead;  again, I didn’t know this person.  I tried to remain as calm and collected as possible.  It took everything in me not to start hysterically crying in the car.  I felt every emotion that she was putting out in the universe and it hurt like a sharp knife in my heart.  I kept repeating to myself in my mind “Just get her to rehab, just get her to rehab” “She’ll get better once we get there.”

But the universe was trying to tell us something different.  In my rush to get to the rehab center, we got into a car crash.  My friends hallucinations got worse.  I can only make up variations of stories in my mind about the lady who hit us wondering why the passenger seemed more upset than I was, but in the moment, I didn’t really care.  I quickly took her info and set back on the path to rehab.  In hindsight that was probably the worst thing I could have done.  Leaving the scene of an accident in which I was of no fault, but I had other pressing matters to attend to.

We finally get to the rehab center and when the staff took a look at her, they knew she was detoxing.  They immediately sent us to the hospital.  The past three days of no alcohol was way too much for her system.  After our mutual friend and I admitted her to the hospital and gave them all her paperwork and accompanying information, we both went down to the hospital cafeteria and just looked at each other.  We couldn’t believe what had just happened.  I remember my mouth moving and us talking to each other, but I don’t remember the conversation we had.  I think we both just wanted to breathe.

After three days at the hospital, she was finally admitted to rehab.  I was relieved.  Her stay there proved to be a much needed worthwhile one.  She has taken this incident and her healing very seriously and for that, I am grateful to finally have my friend back.  It is evident by her dedication to attend meetings and take steps to correct certain prior roadblocks in her life.  When I attended her 1 year sobriety anniversary, all of the depressing emotions of the previous year were replaced by sheer joy.  Like a proud parent at their child’s graduation, happy tears flowed freely.  It’s definitely not over, but i’m proud to say I love her effort so far.