Dear Vanessa,

The first year after you died, my drug of choice was lorazepam. Enough to feel like I was living ten feet underwater. I did the math back then. Three pills and I could still take Luciana for a walk and stay on the sidewalk.

I don’t take that much anymore. I’m not ten feet underwater. Most days I can see the surface.

I have ADHD. Not the TikTok version, where it comes with a request for a like and follow. Having ADHD sucks. It’s not fun. And taking medication for it is legit. It’s prescribed. I’m not buying pills from a college kid in a parking lot. Please don’t email me.

I take enough Concerta to work through the day. That’s the whole goal. The pill is swallowed with water. Not snorted through the nose. I’m trying to get through the day and be employed the next day.

And the days are long. My job is insane. There have been a lot of days this year that look like this. Work from 8 to 5. Pick up Luciana. Put her to bed. Open the laptop back up and work from 8 to 11 figuring out whatever new tech I need to know by tomorrow.

Technically I’m a principal engineer. That’s a fancy title for a mediocre engineer trying really hard not to suck at his job.

When I pick Luciana up, I want more than anything to just stare at a wall. This is supposed to be the fun time. She is three. She is cute. She is really fun. She is also an asshole. She is exhausting. I really want to stare at a wall.

I don’t. Well, sometimes I have her jump on my back over and over again while I lie on the ground. Jumping on Daddy is good exercise for her, and it involves the least amount of movement for me that doesn’t involve putting her in front of an iPad.

I really want to just stick her in front of the iPad.

The drugs keep me going until she’s asleep.

It’s messed up. I count the time until she goes to sleep so I can get a break. Only to miss her when she’s sleeping. Brains are stupid.

So the cocktail changed. Uppers to get me through work. Downers so I can fall asleep. Repeat.

The downers rotate. Whatever sleeping pill of the week works. I’ve tried them all. Even Ambien, which I will never take again. Same nightmares I always have, except they feel more real and I can’t escape them. It’s like the opposite of lucid dreaming.

With lorazepam, I was acutely aware I couldn’t take fifty pills a day forever. That was the one good thing about being that broken. It was obvious. Everyone could see it. I could see it.

This version is sneakier.

I’m climbing a mountain with no end in sight. At first it was grief. Now it’s work. Eventually I’m going to fall off. I can’t do this forever.

I’ve always had impostor syndrome at work. Every engineer does. That kind I can grind my way out of. The one I couldn’t grind my way out of was with your parents.

Your parents have worked hard jobs their entire lives. A lot of different ones. Right now your mom watches babies at church. The same job you had when you were a teenager. Your dad is a janitor. At 86. Only a couple hours a week. That doesn’t seem like a lot. But I don’t expect to be able to recognize my own face in a mirror at that age.

Next to that, me being tired felt like a joke. Who am I to be tired? I sit in a chair and type.

That’s over now.

This year I worked 120 hours in two weeks on a contract worth a bazillion dollars. If I didn’t show up, they were screwed. Not inconvenienced. Screwed.

Somewhere in those two weeks I stopped feeling like a fraud next to your parents. Not because I think they didn’t work hard. They did. They still do.

In the book I said nobody could replace how proud you made me. Nobody did. I had to do it myself.

I finally have self respect.

Just in time to fall apart.

Besitos,
Michael