A Pound of Oranges

Dear Mom,

I’m writing you this morning as I’ve had a battle with insomnia for quite some time. It’s really not the worst thing, I enjoy opening my window and letting what’s left of the night crawl onto the walls of my room. Lonliness doesn’t exist at 4am. I have coffee in hand and it looks like this page will soon see a few stains. You know it’s funny, my mug is chipped in the same place as yours. I think of you every morning as I take my first swig. I swear some mornings it tastes like home, or maybe it tastes like Folgers and a twisted sense of admiration. Either way, these beans have a way to clear the fog from my mind, meaning, my writing can only get better from here—

Things haven’t been the best lately. I have shrinks and I have pills. I have books and I have this journal. A couple of these are keeping me sane and it’s no surprise as to which.

You see—

I can’t say I’ve ever felt normal, just like I can’t say I’ve had a bad life. I’m not sure if I have been plagued by my mental health from the beginning, or if it’s creeped up slowly over time, its claws digging deeper as the years pass on. Sometimes I think of mental freedom the way I think of my cat. It's easier this way, always dreaming the anxiety will eventually die off before I do.

Do you recall the day I took my first Xanax in 6th grade? I remember you driving down the road as I rolled my window down. I remember the way I sang along to the radio and I remember the way you put your hand on my chest before you slammed on brakes. That string of light could never work in your favor. You glanced over at me and I could see your eyes were filled with relief and concern all washed away by a quick, brown blink. You continued to drive, I continued to sing, steady in pursuit of paralleled uncertainty.

My neighbor stopped by the other day, she dropped a pound of oranges on my front porch. She said I don’t look well and my walk has a slow, sickness to it. An intuitive woman she is, that Sheryl. She loves to lurk around every corner. She is just like a shadow, a shadow that talks back, a shadow that means well, but is disoriented by nature. In many ways she reminds me of you which brings comfort as I'm still 1700 miles away. I caught her rummaging through my recycling bin last night. I know she has been wondering if I dove back into the bottle.

I will not turn into my father.

I will not turn into my father.

Sobriety is a silly little thing, almost as silly as your light hearted approval. I can't help but love this about you just like I can't help but to carry on the wit of our blood.

Here I go:

I'm a genetic phenomenon, a breaking of the curse, a devotion only to myself.

Devotion.

Devotion.

That thing where pride and ego are both built to be demolished.

Were you devoted to a man?

How about to your career?

Or maybe to God?

Did you know him? Did you feel him? I feel him from time to time. He still feels like the same lie I knew as a child. He feels familiar and filled with forgotten acceptance. He feels like you. I hope this isn't offensive, but you can’t say you raised a Christian woman and you certainly can’t say you raised a woman who takes orders from a man.

I’m peeling back an orange now and I know my hands are going to smell all day. You know, such a pesky little thing I won’t be able to get rid of for quite some time. No matter how hard I try, I'll be partnered with this scent as the hours roll on. I know you’re too kind to ever admit this, but I’m beginning to believe some mothers may think this of their own. Their children, that is.

I was a temperamental child and you were a prisoner of pain and circumstance. A prisoner of every moment and a prisoner of perpetual sorrow.

You have always been a woman who sits between grace and acceptance. A woman who cries only when alone. A woman who'd rather float through her daughters waves of paranoia rather than wade in her own.

I'm a woman now and I'm no longer your worry.

I'm a woman now and I'm just like you.

I'm a woman now—

Fumbling.

Fighting.

Forgetting .

Oranges dripping on the edge of sunrise. Oranges dripping on a Sunday reflection.

Endlessly,

Allison Lee