Big Brother Waking up in the hospital, everything changed. I could feel my mother’s hand in mine before I opened my eyes. Feeling the warmth of her hand brought me back to when I was a kid. I could feel the warmth of my mother, sitting next to me on the couch. The warmth of the television screen as I leaned in, anxiously watching the woman on the screen pull the name from the envelope. Straining to hear the words over my pounding heart as she read, “And the winner of Big Brother 2012 is…” The next sentence would change the trajectory of my life forever — or at least that's what it felt like to ten year old me. That was one of the many nights that I stayed up, past my bedtime, to watch an episode of Big Brother with my mom. It was a sacred Tuesday, and Friday night tradition in our household. We spent countless hours in front of that old box television together. Those nights meant the world to me as a child. Being a single parent, I watched my mom work long hours, trying to keep up with the bills. I watched her come home exhausted, only wanting to go to sleep. I always felt guilty blaming her for the lack of time she had spent with me. But on those nights that Big Brother was on, it was our time. It was the time with my mom that I really cherished, being able to bond over that common interest gave us the bridge to talk about everything else. A simple conversation about the show would carry us to conversations about anything, from the intense politics of the 3rd grade playground, to my mom's new job prospects. As I got older, the bridge cracked. We grew distant. First, it was the move, when the bank took over our house. I secluded myself, and my mother did the same. Neither one of us knew it was the beginning of the end. Then genetics. A common trait I didn't know not only lived in me, but my family too. A mental prison that has been plaguing my family tree for years, poisoning the roots and working its way up. I thought I was struggling alone, so I kept it in. The years trekked on. I continued to fall deeper into my depression. The bridge finally fell when we got rid of cable. My mother and I knew the days of Big Brother were over. The shadow of depression continued to follow me everywhere. It impacted every part of my life. The shadow created a wedge that nothing could seem to squeeze past. I needed to break free from its presence. The depression followed me into the kitchen, then into the medicine cabinet as I found the pill bottles. With shaking hands I dumped the pills into my palm. I sat for a moment, staring up at the popcorn ceiling. I took the pills. Waking up in the hospital, everything changed. I felt my mother's hand in mine before I opened my eyes. I wanted to tell her everything, tell her that I’m sorry, that she shouldn't blame herself, that I loved her. But I couldn't, not yet. That night we sat in a silence that said everything we couldn't. A whisper of regret blanketing our latched hands. In the hospital, I slowly opened up. That's where we decided to rebuild the bridge. A relationship that had been reduced to rubble, we would rebuild. It wouldn't be overnight, but we would do it. We had to. And that's where we are now, making small changes. The first of which — cable. So tonight, as me and my mother huddle together around the T.V., watching Big Brother again, 10 ½ years older, 10 ½ years stronger, 10 ½ years wiser, I know that I am going to be okay.

Big Brother Waking up in the hospital, everything changed. I could feel my mother’s hand in mine before I opened my eyes. Feeling the warmth of her hand brought me back to when I was a kid. I could feel the warmth of my mother, sitting next to me on the couch. The warmth of the television screen as I leaned in, anxiously watching the woman on the screen pull the name from the envelope. Straining to hear the words over my pounding heart as she read, “And the winner of Big Brother 2012 is…” The next sentence would change the trajectory of my life forever — or at least that's what it felt like to ten year old me. That was one of the many nights that I stayed up, past my bedtime, to watch an episode of Big Brother with my mom. We spent countless hours in front of that old box television together. Those nights meant the world to me as a child. Being a single parent, I watched my mom work long hours, trying to keep up with the bills. But on those nights that Big Brother was on, it was our time. Being able to bond over that common interest gave us the bridge to talk about everything else. A simple conversation about the show would carry us to conversations about anything, from the intense politics of the 3rd-grade playground, to my mom's new job prospects. As I got older, the bridge cracked. We grew distant. First, it was the move, when the bank took over our house. I secluded myself, and my mother did the same. Neither one of us knew it was the beginning of the end. Then genetics. A common trait I didn't know not only lived in me but my family too. A mental prison that has been plaguing my family tree for years, poisoning the roots and working its way up. I thought I was struggling alone, so I kept it in. The years trekked on. I continued to fall deeper into my depression. The bridge finally fell when we got rid of cable. My mother and I knew the days of Big Brother were over. The shadow of depression continued to follow me everywhere. It impacted every part of my life. The shadow created a wedge that nothing could seem to squeeze past. I needed to break free from its presence. The depression followed me into the kitchen, then into the medicine cabinet as I found the pill bottles. With shaking hands, I dumped the pills into my palm. I sat for a moment, staring up at the popcorn ceiling. I took the pills. Waking up in the hospital, everything changed. I felt my mother's hand in mine before I opened my eyes. I wanted to tell her everything, tell her that I’m sorry, that she shouldn't blame herself, that I loved her. But I couldn't, not yet. That night we sat in a silence that said everything we couldn't. A whisper of regret blanketing our latched hands. In the hospital, I slowly opened up. That's where we decided to rebuild the bridge. A relationship that had been reduced to rubble, we would rebuild. It wouldn't be overnight, but we would do it. We had to. And that's where we are now, making small changes. The first of which — cable. So tonight, as me and my mother huddle together around the T.V., watching Big Brother again, 10 ½ years older, 10 ½ years stronger, 10 ½ years wiser, I know that I am going to be okay.

Big Brother Waking up in the hospital, everything changed. I could feel my mother’s hand in mine before I opened my eyes. Feeling the warmth of her hand brought me back to when I was a kid. I could feel the warmth of my mother, sitting next to me on the couch. The warmth of the television screen as I leaned in, anxiously watching the woman on the screen pull the name from the envelope. Straining to hear the words over my pounding heart as she read, “And the winner of Big Brother 2012 is…” The next sentence would change the trajectory of my life forever — or at least that's what it felt like to ten year old me. That was one of the many nights that I stayed up, past my bedtime, to watch an episode of Big Brother with my mom. We spent countless hours in front of that old box television together. Those nights meant the world to me as a child. Being a single parent, I watched my mom work long hours, trying to keep up with the bills. But on those nights that Big Brother was on, it was our time. Being able to bond over that common interest gave us the bridge to talk about everything else. A simple conversation about the show would carry us to conversations about anything, from the intense politics of the 3rd-grade playground, to my mom's new job prospects. As I got older, the bridge cracked. We grew distant. First, it was the move, when the bank took over our house. I secluded myself, and my mother did the same. Neither one of us knew it was the beginning of the end. Then genetics. A common trait I didn't know not only lived in me but my family too. A mental prison that has been plaguing my family tree for years, poisoning the roots and working its way up. I thought I was struggling alone, so I kept it in. The years trekked on. I continued to fall deeper into my depression. The bridge finally fell when we got rid of cable. My mother and I knew the days of Big Brother were over. The shadow of depression continued to follow me everywhere. It impacted every part of my life. The shadow created a wedge that nothing could seem to squeeze past. I needed to break free from its presence. The depression followed me into the kitchen, then into the medicine cabinet as I found the pill bottles. With shaking hands, I dumped the pills into my palm. I sat for a moment, staring up at the popcorn ceiling. I took the pills. Waking up in the hospital, everything changed. I felt my mother's hand in mine before I opened my eyes. I wanted to tell her everything, tell her that I’m sorry, that she shouldn't blame herself, that I loved her. But I couldn't, not yet. That night we sat in a silence that said everything we couldn't. A whisper of regret blanketing our latched hands. In the hospital, I slowly opened up. That's where we decided to rebuild the bridge. A relationship that had been reduced to rubble, we would rebuild. It wouldn't be overnight, but we would do it. We had to. And that's where we are now, making small changes. The first of which — cable. So tonight, as me and my mother huddle together around the T.V., watching Big Brother again, 10 ½ years older, 10 ½ years stronger, 10 ½ years wiser, I know that I am going to be okay.

Big Brother Waking up in the hospital, everything changed. I could feel my mother’s hand in mine before I opened my eyes. Feeling the warmth of her hand brought me back to when I was a kid. I could feel the warmth of my mother, sitting next to me on the couch. The warmth of the television screen as I leaned in, anxiously watching the woman on the screen pull the name from the envelope. Straining to hear the words over my pounding heart as she read, “And the winner of Big Brother 2012 is…” The next sentence would change the trajectory of my life forever — or at least that's what it felt like to ten year old me. That was one of the many nights that I stayed up, past my bedtime, to watch an episode of Big Brother with my mom. It was a sacred Tuesday and Friday night tradition in our household. We spent countless hours in front of that old box television together. Those nights meant the world to me as a child. Being a single parent, I watched my mom work long hours, trying to keep up with the bills. I watched her come home exhausted, only wanting to go to sleep. I always felt guilty blaming her for the lack of time she had spent with me. But on those nights that Big Brother was on, it was our time. It was the time with my mom that I really cherished, being able to bond over that common interest gave us the bridge to talk about everything else. A simple conversation about the show would carry us to conversations about anything, from the intense politics of the 3rd-grade playground, to my mom's new job prospects. As I got older, the bridge cracked. We grew distant. First, it was the move, when the bank took over our house. I secluded myself, and my mother did the same. Neither one of us knew it was the beginning of the end. Then genetics. A common trait I didn't know not only lived in me but my family too. A mental prison that has been plaguing my family tree for years, poisoning the roots and working its way up. I thought I was struggling alone, so I kept it in. The years trekked on. I continued to fall deeper into my depression. The bridge finally fell when we got rid of cable. My mother and I knew the days of Big Brother were over. The shadow of depression continued to follow me everywhere. It impacted every part of my life. The shadow created a wedge that nothing could seem to squeeze past. I needed to break free from its presence. The depression followed me into the kitchen, then into the medicine cabinet as I found the pill bottles. With shaking hands, I dumped the pills into my palm. I sat for a moment, staring up at the popcorn ceiling. I took the pills. Waking up in the hospital, everything changed. I felt my mother's hand in mine before I opened my eyes. I wanted to tell her everything, tell her that I’m sorry, that she shouldn't blame herself, that I loved her. But I couldn't, not yet. That night we sat in a silence that said everything we couldn't. A whisper of regret blanketing our latched hands. In the hospital, I slowly opened up. That's where we decided to rebuild the bridge. A relationship that had been reduced to rubble, we would rebuild. It wouldn't be overnight, but we would do it. We had to. And that's where we are now, making small changes. The first of which — cable. So tonight, as me and my mother huddle together around the T.V., watching Big Brother again, 10 ½ years older, 10 ½ years stronger, 10 ½ years wiser, I know that I am going to be okay.