After my kids were taken, I felt so empty inside. Food didn’t seem to have taste. And I hated for the nights to come. The nights felt the worst. I didn’t know if my kids were safe and warm.
Sometimes I would go in their room and sit on their beds. I left everything as they had left it. My daughter’s pajamas were still under her pillow. Their toys were waiting for them. The Lunchables were in the fridge, but my kids were gone.
Like a Bad Dream
I couldn’t put them to bed singing a song we made up called “Good Night.” I couldn’t comb my daughter’s hair. Laquesha has long pretty hair. I wondered, “Will someone take time and comb it?” I couldn’t make sure Robert’s clothes were neat. I couldn’t give him his man cologne in the morning or a goodbye kiss. These things worried me to death.
Sleep would come and it all seemed to be a dream. I would wake up thinking my kids were in their room. But then I’d go in their room and they weren’t there. Sometimes I would sit and wait for Robert to run out and give me a kiss. Or for Laquesha to run out and say Robert was still asleep. Sometimes I would even hear them calling me, like I was going crazy.
Pacing and Crying
I thought I was losing my mind. I would pace back and forth. I would sit in corners of my house unable to breathe, crying until I thought my heart would stop. I would look at the clock thinking, “My kids are eating lunch now,” or, “School is out.”
I’d think, “I’m their mother, and I don’t know if they’re safe.” I wondered if they were scared. I wondered how they were being treated. If they had breakfast every morning. If someone put the covers on them at night. It was pure torture for me.
Then September 11th came. That sent me over the edge. I didn’t know if my kids were scared. I couldn’t hold them or comfort them. I couldn’t talk to them about what happened. The days seemed to blur. I just cried a lot. I didn’t sleep much. The nights were so bad I would wait ’til day to sleep.
Praying for Relief
I began to look at myself and think, “How can I hold my life together? It seems so hard when everything is falling in.” I knew I had to hold on for my babies, but I felt so helpless. Part of me gave up believing that I would ever have my kids again. I gave up on life.
Not killing myself was a hard battle. At times, I walked down the street, praying for death to come. I prayed for a truck to hit me, for something to happen so I could die without having to do it to myself
‘We Will Be Family Again’
Fridays were the best and the worst. That day I visited my children. I loved seeing my kids, their beautiful eyes and smiles. But it just killed me to leave them. I’d feel so sad. I always cried when I got home, because they were not home with me. They should’ve been in their beds and able to play with their toys. I felt that a good mother should never have to visit her kids two hours a week in a room.
At those times, I felt I’d give anything for things to go back to the way they were: My kids playing in the park, and me taking pictures like the proud mom I am. Then I’d swear to myself, “We will be family again.” I’d look forward to that. I lived for it. And in time I made it happen.