The Voices in my Head - by The Voices in my Head

When I went to orientation after enrolling in college, they gave me an envelope to open in case of emergency. I have no idea what it contains. They didn't tell us. But it is supposed to be my lifesaver in the event that I feel like I am going to drown. We are not to open it unless we are truly serious about quitting.

The envelope is bright red and it is tucked between the plastic cover of my orientation notebook. It has been there since the day I signed up. I have not opened it, I haven't even touched it since that day.

In my mind, the envelope represented something negative. If I touched it, it meant that I am about to do what I usually do when I am doing something I have always wanted to do...QUIT.


I thought about that envelope today. I almost opened it.

Then, I came here...and I read some comments from Adrian, JoeBlogg, and Ash on my 'The Greatest Quitter Ever' post.

The envelope remains hidden away, untouched. Where it will stay...until I graduate with my degree.

This has nothing to do with you...the reader. It is just a public format where I am writing down a promise to me. A promise that I feel really good about. A promise that I feel I can keep, now that some people have shared with me that they were there...they know.

I am grateful to them...that the emergency, red envelope of quitting remains sealed.

I also remembered an exercise that the Directors of the college I am enrolled in made us promise to do. They asked us to visualize this...but I am going to write it. It's what I do...it's what I am obtaining my degree to do...seems appropriate.


Sometime in May 2009

I am nervous. Shaking...scared to death. I can't stop crying, I am so emotional. My makeup is trashed and there is no need to reapply, although my kleenex has a lovely look, now.


My husband stands beside me, my rock, my friend, my keeper of the Kleenex. My children are standing there, too.

My oldest daughter, Mercedes is crying...my compassionate one who cries anytime someone else is doing it. She is proud of me. She is seventeen and one of my best friends. I can see how proud she is of me. Fresh tears spring forth as if sourced by an artisian well.

Jeff is busy keeping the two of us adequately supplied in tissue. He is stressed. He can't figure out where to put the used ones and he is afraid he will run out of clean ones.

My oldest son, Maverick...now fifteen, tries not to cry. He busys himself with his cellphone. Too much emotion. He's feeling uncomfortable. Everyone passing by smiles at the spectacle we are making of ourselves. He's proud of me...but "God...rein it in a little!", he is thinking. I grab him and hug him. He laughs, sort of...when I pull away, his eyes are red...just a little.

My youngest daughter, Drew is smiling. Happy for me. Just a radiant smile. At fourteen, she is lovely and composed, but deliriously happy for me. She laughs at her dad and tries to help him dispose of the nasty tissues.

My youngest son, Isaiah, twelve years old, my angel. He has reddish blonde hair, big blue eyes. He has his arm around me. Our special bond over the years never more precious to me than at that moment. My little man...tall enough to put his arm around his mama, supporting me like a rock.

I look at them and I remember in a rush of emotion, the games I missed to complete an assignment, the times I didn't do their laundry to complete an assignment, the times I was too tired after completing an assignment to help them with their assignments. I think of all my husband has had to do to make this moment possible for me.

For this one thing I demanded for myself.

They never complained.

"Thank you...so much...for letting me do this." I say, just as the program starts.

I turn from them and walk towards my seat amongst the graduating class of 2009, with a sealed, red envelope in one hand and a Kleenex that had seen better days in the other.