Page 21 of Fair Trade
My mother would make appearances every now and then, a strained smile in place. Because it seemed like the cultural expectation of her being present and hosting family get-togethers was stronger than the grip her depression had on her.
We later found out that she had something called secondary infertility. It’s a condition where someone who’s previously been pregnant can no longer conceive for some unknown reason.
I’ve researched this condition numerous times, and the one flashing acronym that pops up among the rest, the one that always makes my stomach drop, is PCOS. The same condition I have. One that is hereditary and, apparently, shared by many women, especially women of color.
It’s why I try not to think too hard about motherhood.
Why bother yearning for something that may never happen for me?
Not like I can grieve something I’ve never had. Right?
Besides, I have a lot to be grateful for.
Before I entered high school, my mother finally went to therapy, and shortly after that, she got on medication that would help with her depression.
It wasn’t an instant fix, but with time, I got my mom back.
The newer, stronger version of her.
We’ve since gone to therapy as a family, and her guilt about not being present in my life for a few years was gut-wrenching.
It felt like she had been taken from me for a while, and when she returned, we had to learn who we were to one another again.
But I’m older now. I understand the disease better, and I can confidently say that my mother has always loved me deeply. That the disease was the reason she could not show up for me during moments I needed her the most.
Yet even after many sessions of therapy of my own, I still can’t seem to convince my brain that the lessons I learned during that time aren’t true.
I can’t convince my brain that I am enough.
That the people who love me will stay.
And that only I can determine what I deserve.
I knew the email was coming.
The all-staff meeting to introduce the new team owner that came from HR.
What I wasn’t expecting was the direct email that came from Nick shortly after.
It takes everything in me not to reply with a bunch of middle finger emojis. Instead, I ignore the rage bait and show him that one of us is capable of remaining professional.
There.
I did it. I managed to respond to my new boss in a positive, professional manner.
And it could have remained that way.
Had he not immediately responded to my email with only two words.
Seems like we’re playing it his way then.
Good thing I know exactly what my next move will be.
ten
I’m being a dick.
I know I am. But I can’t help it. Something about being wrong about her makes me feel uncomfortable in my own skin.
