Letters Written in White (4 page)

I push past him and he says, “It’s hard to be affectionate toward someone who’s always pissed off at the world.”

I keep walking. Talking to him is pointless. We’ve completely lost the ability to effectively communicate, just like we’ve lost any and all passion in our marriage. We talk, argue, and even scream sometimes. When it’s all said and done, nothing ever gets worked out because we communicate to reply, rather than to understand. We’re both guilty of this. I have no idea how to change it. All I know is that deep down I never stop craving his understanding. My heart breaks in silence because I stopped showing him how badly I yearn for his love. I’ve built walls too steep for any man to climb. I’m caged. My heart is that cage. It’s always been my strength and weakness. Unfortunately, feeling emotions so strongly has worked against me most of my life.

There’s so much loss between us it’s almost as if we’ve built a graveyard with all the pieces of what was once our marriage. So much is gone and buried. I remember when he’d look at me like I was the rain and he was a drought. In those fairytale-like days of our love, he was the man who slayed my life’s dragons. With ease he’d conquer our battles and embellish my dreams with gold and sparkle. Nothing could stop us then. Now we’re mere pawns trading our once epic love for things we don’t need and time we don’t have.

If I could bottle up all of the minutes, hours, and days we’ve wasted on meaningless moments and greedy resentment, the road to our demise would be lined with cracked glass bottles. Each bottle would overflow with regrets and brim with egoistic pride. Instead, it lingers in the air around us. We breathe it in like sand and exhale it out, recycling the discomfort. Nothing changes and we consciously ignore it. In the end, we are two people who exchanged our love story for broken souls. I’m no longer his rain. He’s no longer the drought. We’ve become a tsunami, and left in its path of our destruction are two little cups of sunshine striving to keep shining. Ultimately, our children pay the price for our mistakes.

Before he leaves, he tells me, “There’s a big meeting with all of the department heads late this afternoon. I’ll most likely be late getting home tonight.”

“Of course there is and of course you will be,” I snap at him.

He turns around and looks at me with eyes full of disdain. “Don’t be short with me. It’s my job. I can’t walk out whenever I want just to suit you.”

I don’t respond. There’s nothing to say. If I were the good wife, I would tell him to have a great day.

I’m not the good wife.

The kids are off to school, Grayson is gone to work, and I’m here. The quietness of the house settles around me, and I let out a sigh. I take a sip of my coffee and sit down on the sofa with my Kindle. I read every morning when everyone leaves. It’s my time. I’m not sure I could make it through a day without books and coffee. They save me every day. Books help us. They change us. When I finish a novel, I walk away from it a different person. And I’m always thankful for the reprieve it gives me while I’m reading. Those hours lost in a fictional world are priceless. I always feel like I’m drowning, and reading gives me the air I need to survive.

After finishing my book, I walk into the kitchen and immediately gasp.

“Gigi!” I scream. “Bad dog! Bad, bad dog!”

I swat her away and stare at the contents of the trash can all over the kitchen floor. Crumbs and sticky dog saliva are smeared all over my once clean floor. Why do we even have a dog? I ask myself this question daily. Oh yeah because the kids wanted a dog. Grayson wanted a dog. Everyone wanted a dog but me. Are they here to clean up after the dog? No.

I sigh and kneel down, picking up the mess. I said yes to the dog because that’s what I do. I say yes. The word no is always stuck somewhere in the back of my throat along with my backbone. It’s almost as if having kids has sucked my brain from my skull and replaced it with a robotic machine that’s inclined to act as a welcome mat. The doorbell rings and I roll my eyes. Who is here and why in the world didn’t they call first? Showing up at my house unannounced is probably one of my number one pet peeves. I tiptoe because I don’t want whoever it is to know I heard the door. You know, in case I choose not to open it. Peeking through the tiny peephole, I see her. Pinterest Mom herself. It’s Darcy, my neighbor. I look again and notice her superbly styled hair and the cute outfit she’s wearing, and watch as she pulls her beloved EOS lip balm ball out of her purse. She rolls it on and smacks her lips, smiling. She’s the picture of Mom perfection. Ugh. She rings the bell again and I sigh. I can’t deal with her this morning. She’s entirely too perky and smiles more than a clown at a two-year-old’s birthday party. I hate clowns. They creep me out.

Darcy doesn’t creep me out. She just makes me feel like the most monumental failure ever in the motherhood and wife arena. Not to mention, she complains about the most annoying things on Earth. Last week it was the kids’ Valentine’s party at school. She is, of course, a room mom. That means she’s in competition with all of the other room moms. Doesn’t sound too serious, right? Wrong. So, so wrong. This is some serious shit to Darcy. I mean, on a scale of no big deal to epic mom meltdown, she definitely sees it as an epic thing.

When she came over in a fit over juice boxes, I sat there staring at her, listening to her, and thinking to myself,
“If a Pinterest Juice Box war is all I had to worry about today instead of, I don’t know, trying to force myself to get out of bed and function, despite the extreme depression I find myself battling, I would feel lucky.”

But I said nothing. I nodded and tried to act sympathetic to her dilemma. She went on and on.

“It was a catastrophe, Riah. I spent all night making those Robot sugar-free Capri-Sun juices. They were the cutest things you ever saw. Then when Regina Wallace walked in with Robot juice boxes made from Hi-C I nearly fell out. First of all, Hi-C is pure sugar. Secondly, it’s made of paper. Capri-Sun is silver just like a robot and I bought the low-sugar kind. She didn’t even have hers labeled to the students from her kid like I did. Mine were personalized with glitter pens. And would you believe the kids all wanted hers? Of course they want sugar. She should be ashamed of herself.”

She barely takes a breath during her juice box craft tirade before continuing.

“But that was not the worst of it. The other mom who brought a drink, Kelsey Clover, she brought mini bottles of Pepsi with bows tied on them. For one, Pepsi is disgusting, and for two, who brings soda to an elementary kids’ party? I just had to leave the classroom at that point and breathe. I was so appalled.”

I just shrug and pat her on the shoulder.

“I’m so sorry you worked so hard on those robot juice boxes and then no one wanted them. I am sure they were the cutest ones there.” The insincere words tumble from my mouth, and I just want to go write a letter to the person who created Pinterest and tell them to fuck off.

I look back out the peephole and decide for certain that I can’t do it this morning. Nope. I turn and tiptoe back to the kitchen. Just as I step on the floor, my foot meets with a wet coldness. I look down, and what do you know? Gigi puked on the kitchen floor and I’ve stepped right in it.
Fabulous
. I’m going back to bed.

“No one is immune to this darkness.”

I WATCH BOTH kids push their canned green beans around their plates in between arguing with each other. Every night it’s the same thing.

Cook dinner.

Serve dinner.

Kids eat and argue.

Referee the kids.

Kids make a mess.

Clean the kitchen.

Rinse and repeat.

Day in and day out.

“Stop looking at me, Devin!” Desiree screams.

She glares at her brother.

“
You
are looking at me. Stop looking at
me
, you buttface,” Devin fires back.

“Moooom, he called me a butt face!”

I roll my eyes. “Both of you stop it.”

I’m tired. So very tired.

She sticks her tongue out at him. He returns the gesture. This is my dinner every night. Grayson is at his own dinner tonight, many nights, most nights. I look at both of them, our kids. My eyes shift from him to her, her to him. I then look back at the empty chair where their father sits…when he’s here. He’s at his job. I’m at mine.

He’s working.

I’m slowly disappearing.

His office has file cabinets full of important paperwork. This house is my file cabinet, my prison. It’s piled high, full of bitter regrets, hidden pains, angry words and broken promises. He pretends he has no choice but to attend these dinner meetings when I’m the one who has no choice. My job has no beginning and no end. Or does it?

There's nothing worse than pretending. Acting like someone or something you're not is the worst form of personal Hell. I haven't felt the need to morph like a chameleon in years as badly I feel it lately. Today is no different. It's a couple of hours before Grayson is to arrive home from work. He’s actually going to be home at a decent time today. I need to put on real clothes and clean the house up some before he gets here. The sink, it's full of dirty dishes that need to be washed. Our bedroom is wrecked. I've spent most of the day in bed. Soon the kids will walk through the door. Trepidation anchors itself in the pit of my stomach. My old friend Guilt nudges my conscience, and the twinge of pain I feel from lacking the motherhood thing stings.
It will get better.
I will do better at this mom thing eventually, right? Yes, granted they are seven and ten, but I have to get better at being a mom. I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror and dark circles mock me. They taunt me.

You're falling, Riah.

You're slipping down that dark slippery slope, and you aren't even trying to stop it.

You're in denial.

Instead of doing the things I know I should be doing, I’m scrolling through Facebook on my laptop. Why do I do this to myself? Maybe I’m just a masochist and love to torture myself with everyone else’s happiness, scrolling through their picture-perfect lives. I know nothing is ever as it seems on social media, though it still makes me feel shitty and lonely.