Woman

April 03

Dear Diary,

April 03

I miss her more each day. I miss her eyes, her smile, her hair. I miss her endless complains and her meaningless rants about a new game. I just miss her, I miss her and everything about her. Things just haven't been the same since she left us. I think the thing I miss the most about her is the way she always made me feel better, just by her laugh.

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As I stared around her room watching her belongings I became stiff. I see her baseball that she'd gotten signed by Dwayne Wade. I remember that day. The thought of Dwayne Wade's face when my nine year old asked him to sign a Yankee cap made me crack a smile. My baby girl was a tomboy to the bone, much like me, but I dreaded it. She enjoyed it.

I miss my daughter. When she died I didn't shed a tear. The tears were threatening my eyes like an alley theif. But I didn't let them fall. I knew I had to be strong. If not for me. Then for my litte girl. She wouldn't have wanted to see me crying.

"It's okay mommy," she said wiping my eyes then proceeding to inspect me. "You're not bleeding so you don't have to cry."

I watched her being lowered into the ground. No tears. My face emotionless. I cursed God silently, asking him why I couldn't die instead. What did my innocent nine year old do to deserve this? All I wanted to do was fall to my knees weakly and cry until my eyes bled. I just wanted to fall into the hole and hold her. I just wanted to die with her.

But I didn't.

I hid it all. I allowed people to think that I was alright. I allowed them to think that I was fine with everything that had happened. Because that's what psychologists do. We allow people to think that our lives are 'perfect'. We allow society to think that we're the 'fixed' ones. When in reality, we're the ones who are most broken. Broken people trying to 'fix' broken people.

But is anyone truly 'okay'? Does smiling mean you're 'happy'? Does not crying mean you're 'strong? Does riches mean you're rich?

I've seen people walk into my office with the brightest smiles but, their eyes hold all their pain. Teenagers, swear that everything is alright then you hear they've committed suicide. I've seen people come with stiff faces, refusing to put their feelings out there, yet, just watching them you know they cry themselves to sleep all the time. And all those stars, the fame, their weight worth in money and still, they're empty.

My point is, this is a world of broken people. And I'm one of them. Though I'll never admit it.

"Adira." He calls my name in that venomous tone. "Adira!"

Adira. My names mean strong. I'm anything but. Maybe to the people looking in, I am. After all "strength is only how well you hide pain". But, I'm not 'strong'. When I look into a mirror, all I see is a woman who's lying to everybody; a woman in a situation she said she'll never be in; a woman that misses the one thing that made her happy, her daughter.

"Adira!" I hear his footsteps moving up the stairs paced slow but loud, because he want's me to know he's coming. My personal dictator. I don't make a move without his say. I eat, sleep breathe, even use the bathroom when he says so. When he says jump, he expects me to ask 'how high?' because he's my ' husband'.

Hearing the door begin to creak opening, I pull my daughter's sheets over me and let in her smell. "Adira." He says, I hear his footsteps, the bed dips and he begins to stroke my body under the sheets. "Adira." His voice calm. Too calm. "Bitch! I know you're not sleeping!"