thoughts
What I’m about to say might surprise some of you:
I love to read. Okay, now that we’ve gotten that shocking statement out of the way, I’d like to discuss the moment I truly understood my own love of books. When I was a freshman in high school, my brother (a sophomore at the time) was assigned to read To Kill a Mockingbird by Harper Lee. To make sure he actually did the reading, my mom sat with him and they took turns reading out loud. I was trying to do my own homework, but was quickly distracted listening to them. One line in the second chapter particularly spoke to me, when Scout realized, “Until I feared I would lose it, I never loved to read. One does not love breathing.” As soon as they set down the book for the night, I picked it up and continued reading, getting through more than half of it before my mom took it away and made me go to bed. The next night, I waited impatiently for my brother to finish his assigned reading so I could again steal the book and finish it. The next school year, it was my class’ turn to read To Kill a Mockingbird. Even though I’d already read it and knew what was going to happen, I eagerly re-read it and enthusiastically participated in class discussions. (Unfortunately, my teacher quickly realized this wasn’t my first time reading it and forbade me from answering any prediction questions.) Since that first time, I’ve read To Kill a Mockingbird several more times, having the honor of teaching it every one of my six years of teaching high school. It is easily one of my favorite books of all time. So why am I discussing this book now? I would love to tell you; thanks for asking. In just over one month, I will be starting a new teaching job. I will be back at the high school from which I graduated and I will be stepping into the position previously held by the teacher who first introduced me to To Kill a Mockingbird. And readers, let me tell you, I am terrified. Not only because I’m taking the place of one of the best teachers I’ve ever known, but also because I have no idea what I’m doing. I know, I know. How could I not know what I’m doing when I’m about to start my seventh year of teaching? Well, it’s simple really. I’ve been winging it this whole time. No really. Ask anyone. When people ask why I became a teacher, I tell them it’s because my only skills are a nearly limitless knowledge of books and an underlying tone of sarcasm in literally every sentence that comes out of my mouth. What better way to exercise these abilities than to teach high school English? So why am I suddenly worried that (literal) book smarts and sarcasm won’t be enough? Well, for one thing, this is a much bigger school than my previous schools. And for another thing, this is the first time I’m following up a legitimately great teacher. Up until now, the bar has always been set fairly low by my predecessors, so as long as I kept the students mostly under control and actually convinced them to attempt the majority of their assignments, I was basically winning. But now, I’m taking over for a teacher who is loved, respected, and amazing at her job. In case you hadn’t realized it yet, readers, all of this means that my days of winging it are pretty much over. When I went in to pick up my classroom keys, I got to talk to my former teacher. She asked if I was excited and I told her I was too busy being nervous to feel any other emotion. And, just like when I was her student, she knew exactly what to say. She focused on what she knows I’ll be good at. She told me that she’s excited to see how I instill my own love of reading into the students she’s leaving behind for me. She admitted that she hasn’t done as much with reading these past few years, focusing more on writing skills, but she has no doubt that I’ll fill in the gaps she left. And that was exactly the confidence boost I needed. I’ll be the first to admit that I will never be “Teacher of the Year” material. I have a lot of solid ideas, but I’m not always the best at following through with them. I roll my eyes at dumb answers and occasionally tell unruly students to sit down and shut-up. I take 3-6 business months to grade a stack of essays. I am the definition of unapproachable when parents try to come yell at me. However... I can recommend a book for literally any kid. I don’t care how much you hate reading, I can find something you’ll at least be able to get through without wanting to claw out your own eyes. I know how to design project options that will appeal to any type of learning style. I have an internal radar that beeps the second comprehension dawns in a student’s eyes while tackling a particularly difficult assignment and I can practically teleport across the room to let them know how pumped I am for them. What I’m trying to say is that the thing that helps me succeed as a teacher is my ability to connect with my students. My kids, if you will. Even the difficult ones. And for me, an introvert who dreams of someday being a recluse, I’ve only been able to create and foster these connections through books. Because while some teachers pride themselves on how quiet their students are, I secretly love the outraged yells when Simon crawls out of the vines and into the circle of boys, or the first stone hits Tessie Hutchinson, or they realize the people are being kept alive in the cellar to serve as food for their captors. (Bonus points if you know all of those literary references without Googling them.) But my absolute favorite thing? When students spend the weeks after Chapter 11 of To Kill a Mockingbird greeting me with “Don’t you say ‘hey’ to me, you ugly girl!” Because they know how much I love that line. Though I may not churn out class after class of top scholars, that will never be my ultimate goal as a teacher. All I really want to accomplish is leaving students with a positive memory of reading. Even if it only comes in the form of momentarily getting away with calling their English teacher an ugly girl.
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To the boy who did the right thing:
When I was 15, I thought you were perfect. I thought I wanted you desperately. I thought you and I were destined to be together forever. I didn’t care that you were 20 years old. Now that I’m in my 30s, I cringe to think of the way I attempted to throw my teenage self at someone who was already an adult. I also think of the myriad of ways this relationship could have gone horribly wrong. After all, I am now the teacher who waves a literal red flag at my students when they tell me about issues in their relationships. But things turned out fine. Because of you. Because you did nothing wrong. Instead of indulging my crush and leading me on, you gently explained that our age difference would make a romantic relationship inappropriate. Instead of letting me follow you into your car late one night, you firmly told me that you were going home and that I needed to do the same, because I absolutely was not getting in with you. Instead of reciprocating my shameless flirting, you encouraged me to turn my attention to boys my own age. Nothing ever happened between us. You let me down easy, but in a way that left no room for doubt. You broke my heart, but in a way that allowed me to quickly put the pieces back together and move on. I know that my story is unusual. I essentially set myself up to be taken advantage of by a man who could have done what he wanted and walked away, claiming I’d asked for it. But I got out unscathed. Because in my case, you were a real man. You knew that a relationship with me would have been wrong, even potentially predatory, and you turned it down without hesitation. I’ll never know if you genuinely weren’t interested or you were just being a truly good guy. And really, it doesn’t matter. Whatever your reasons, I thank you. It cost me only fifty cents to change how I look at life.
The change occurred during the summer after my first year of college. This was the summer I performed in a community theatre production directed by one of my high school teachers. It was the summer I fell in love for the first time. It was the summer I read a book that would change the way I think about love for the rest of my life. To get a true feeling for where I was at in life at that time, we have to go back to June of 2010. I needed to find a costume for the play, so I decided to browse through a local thrift store for some cheap clothes I would never wear again. After about fifteen minutes of fruitless searching, I realized that I wasn’t going to find anything. However, I am my father’s daughter, so I feel guilty if I walk out of a store without buying anything. That’s how I ended up browsing the much-to-be-desired book section. Now, anyone who knows me knows that I can spend over two hours in a bookstore and still need more time. But this wasn’t a bookstore. This was three shelves stuffed with a frightening conglomeration of children’s books previously owned by the world’s most destructive kid, trashy romance novels from the days when Fabio was still relevant, and cookbooks filled with recipes that would give Paula Deen pause. Frustrated by my wasted trip, I turned to leave. That’s when a flash of yellowish-orange caught my eye. Shoved in the corner of the second shelf stood a short, fat book. The spine had been re-taped so many times that it was impossible to make out the title, so I jimmied it free from its perch. The cover was in bad shape as well, but I could make out The Thorn Birds, though the author’s name (Colleen McCullough) was unreadable. I knew only two things about this book. 1) It had been on our reading list in high school but no one ever read it because it was so long. 2) An episode of Reba referenced it. Other than that, it was just another book I hadn’t read yet. I checked the back cover for the price: $2. I set the book on the counter and began to dig through my purse for my wallet. The cashier commented on the sorry state of the book, realized it had been wasting away on that shelf for at least the two years she’d been working there, and offered it to me for fifty cents. I gladly accepted her offer. Upon returning home, I flipped through the book to check for missing or damaged pages. To my delight, I discovered that the inside of the book had likely never been read, despite the outside giving the appearance of being an actual doorstop. The pages were immaculate; free of coffee stains, highlighted passages, or dog-ears. But between the play and taking summer classes, The Thorn Birds were forced to hang out in their nest on my bookshelf for a couple of months. (Yes, I am aware that the book isn’t actually about birds. But that sentence popped into my head and I liked it, so you’ll just have to deal with it.) Toward the end of that summer, I rescued the book from my shelf and curled up to read. Mary Carson immediately became my favorite. She was a total bitch who made no attempt to disguise her desire to throw Fr. Ralph from grace. (I should probably warn you at this point that though I have a small crush on Fr. Ralph, I mostly think he’s kind of a self-serving jackass.) I also loved that Mary Carson was such a complex character beneath the surface. Every move she made tortured her, as her decisions were a constant battle between destroying Fr. Ralph and admitting that she loved him. The former usually won out, as revealing her love would make her weak because not only was Fr. Ralph a priest, but he was also a few decades her junior. Then, the heroine of the story was introduced. Meggie Cleary, as a child, was me. We were both the youngest girl (though she had only brothers), were mercilessly teased by our older siblings, had little interest in spending time with other girls our age, and spent a great deal of time being criticized by our mothers. As adult versions of ourselves, we had much less in common. Until later, but I’ll get to that in a minute. Now, for those of you who have read The Thorn Birds or watched the miniseries, I’m sure you can imagine the havoc this book was wreaking on my brain, which had been formed by a strict Catholic upbringing. At 19, I was sure I understood everything about everything; therefore, I couldn’t wrap my head around why God would allow these two people to fall so deeply in love when it was impossible for them to be together. (Yes, I’m aware they’re fictional characters, but we all know these types of relationships happen in real life, too!) As I mentioned before, I read this book shortly after I fell in love for the first time. Or, at least, what I thought was love. But, much like Meggie Cleary, I had fallen for a man who was always going to put his ambitions above me. It wasn’t quite the same scenario, as I wasn’t chasing someone who had promised himself to God, but to my overly dramatic self, I believed I completely understood Meggie’s pain. Much like Meggie and Ralph, this guy and I kept finding ourselves drawn together, but the timing was just never right. He knew how I felt, he entertained the idea, and then he left. Now that I’m an adult myself, I understand that he did absolutely nothing wrong. He was a man who recognized that a teenage girl had a crush on him, and he (wisely) chose to remove himself from the situation. But at the time, it felt like my whole world had crumbled. I sought refuge in The Thorn Birds. I considered this guy my own personal Fr. Ralph: A man I would forever want, but could never have. (I warned you that I was a little bit dramatic.) I allowed my imagination to run wild with “what could have been” scenarios, creating an epic – though ultimately doomed – love story out of what was actually a teenage crush on a guy I’d known for a couple months. While I hate to admit it, I was behaving a bit more like Romeo Montague than Meggie Cleary. As I got older, I outgrew that first love and moved on. But I never left behind my feelings for The Thorn Birds. I’ve watched the miniseries multiple times, also forcing several friends to sit through the whole 8 hours with me. I didn’t pick up the book again, though, almost as if I was scared of what I would find inside its pages this time. Finally, this past spring, I decided to reread the book. Twelve years after my first reading, I again immersed myself in this story that had touched such a raw nerve the first time. And to my horror, I realized how little I’ve actually changed. Once again, I found myself imitating Meggie Cleary by being in love with someone I can’t have. Once again, I was sidelined by someone who put their own wants first. Once again, I was absolutely crushed. But this time was also different. I didn’t let myself slip into the depths of despair over this new love. I didn’t rail against God to ask how dare He allow people to fall in love when they couldn’t be together. I didn’t fall apart. It’s most likely just a weird coincidence that the two times I’ve read this book were also the two times I’ve fallen in love. Or maybe I’m just destined to have poor judgment in my pursuit of romantic partners. But just in case there is some sort of weird magic in that book, I should probably wait another 12 years to reread it. Just to be on the safe side. I turned 8 two days before the Columbine shooting. In the 23 years since, one of the only things that's changed is how quickly the media has to shift focus to the next mass shooting. One of the other things that has changed is how teachers are treated. Politicians, parents, newscasters, and even people with no connection to education have opinions on how we should do our jobs. They don't trust us to choose and teach our own curriculum, despite that being what we have literally been trained to do. But despite their lack of faith in our intelligence and ability to perform the job for which we were hired, they have no problem asking us to sacrifice ourselves to save their children. In many cases, they even believe we should carry our own firearms in order to neutralize the threat in the event of yet another school shooting.
As I've said many times, being a teacher was never the career I wanted. I've tried to walk away from it, but somehow always end up back in the classroom. I'm fortunate to currently have a principal who supports me and the rest of her staff, and co-workers I get along with. But that wasn't always the case. And for many teachers, it still isn't the case. I didn't write this piece as a dig at my current district, but as an observation of today's teaching profession as a whole. When I write something that will be posted on here, I usually spend a lot of time on it. I'll often agonize over a single paragraph for hours, making sure every word is the exact one I meant to use. This time, I just wrote from the heart. Because while teaching isn't what I hope to do forever, as long as I'm here, I will fight to protect my fellow teachers. JOB LISTING FOR AN AMERICAN TEACHER Ideal Applicant Must Have:
Benefits: Making a difference in the life of a child.* *Only available if the difference is made in a way pre-approved by admin and veteran teachers who have “always done it this way.” Quick Note: I originally wrote this a few years ago when my anxiety and depression were pretty close to the worst they've ever been. In the years since, I've gotten on the right dosage of medication, found a job with a boss and co-workers I love, and have discovered much healthier ways to cope with my mental illness. So, while parts of this post might seem rather hopeless, I would like it to be known that I am currently in a much better place than when I wrote it.
Have you ever thought that maybe you don’t have anxiety, you’re just being a baby about everything? I stared at my computer screen, immediately feeling a tightening in my chest until I reminded myself to breathe. The question, tweeted by an old friend I followed on Twitter but had lost touch with in real life, wasn’t necessarily directed at me. My name wasn’t included anywhere, and she hadn’t posted it on my timeline. It was a subtweet at best, possibly not even a reference to me. But the timing was too suspicious to be coincidental. Just hours before, I’d posted a long, painful, semi-confessional piece on my personal blog, recounting how my increasing anxiety and depression led me to the decision to quit my teaching job. Before posting the piece, I’d asked a couple people to read it as I was afraid of sounding like I was whining or looking for attention. They all assured me that this wasn’t the case, so I went ahead and uploaded it, sharing it to Facebook, Twitter, and Tumblr for the world to read. But now I was confronted with this tweet which my paranoia (a side effect of my anxiety, by the way) assured me was this former friend’s response to my blog post. My first instinct was to take down the post, delete my entire blog, curl up on my couch, and never leave my house again. After a few minutes of thought (and several frantic texts to one of the post’s early readers), I realized I needed to calm down, ignore the tweet, and go back to living my life. But it just keeps bothering me. One of the more annoying aspects of my anxiety is the inability to let go of things that bother me. I should have been able to assume that tweet had nothing to do with me and move on to something else. Instead, I continue to feel a desperate need to explain myself all the time. I want people to understand what it’s like to live with a brain that constantly tries to undermine the rest of your body. The courage to talk openly about my anxiety and depression came from the same source as most of my inspiration: a book. In this case, the book in question is Jenny Lawson’s memoir, Furiously Happy: A Funny Book About Horrible Things. In this book, Lawson writes about her struggles with mental illness, but also includes humorous anecdotes about finding ways to cope with the hand she’s been dealt in life. After reading Furiously Happy, I decided it was time to let people know what I was going through. But that tweet, which seemed to be calling me out and discrediting my words, now makes me wonder if I wasn’t clear enough about what it’s like to live with anxiety and depression. So please, allow me to explain further. The women in my family have a long history of anxiety and depression, but we’re all affected in different ways. Mine started to pop up in junior high, though at the time it was referred to as “teen angst” or a “phase” I would soon outgrow so no one really took it seriously. Through most of high school, I found ways to deal with the overwhelming numbness that would arrive unexpectedly every few weeks, leaving me unable to interact with my friends and family normally. Considering how my feelings had been brushed aside years before, I assumed that it was best to keep everything a secret. So instead of talking to someone about my frequent inability to make it through the day without locking myself in a bathroom stall to cry or hyperventilate, I struggled to find other ways to overcome these issues. Unfortunately, as a teenager, I didn’t know of too many outlets other than those showcased on television or in movies. This led to years of self-mutilation and eating disorders in desperate, misguided attempts to exert control over my own life in any way I could. As one might guess, these methods were less than successful. Once college rolled around, I started to find other people who suffered from similar alternating feelings of numbness and panic, so I tried to combat my issues the same way they did: alcohol. As many of you know, though, alcohol consumed in large quantities is actually a depressant; so I would wake up the next morning unable to get out of bed, not because of a hangover, but because of an overwhelming feeling of hopelessness. The constant partying also took a toll due to my inability to engage with large groups of people for extended periods of time. This led to an increase in the frequency and intensity of the panic attacks I’d experienced on and off for the past few years. I eventually severed ties with my wilder friends, graduated college, and accepted a job teaching high school English. For a few months, things seemed to settle down. I was coping with my depression better than I had in years and I’d stopped having panic attacks. But shortly before Thanksgiving that year, my anxiety returned in full force. It caused me to become physically ill every single morning before I left for school, and I often taught my classes with a trash can beside me, just in case. Several times I called in sick because no amount of self-bribery could convince me to drag myself out of bed. I visited several doctors during that year of teaching, each of them diagnosing me with something different: irritable bowel syndrome, a potential ulcer in the lining of my stomach, gall bladder issues, etc. But extensive testing proved all of these wrong. Eventually, as I explained in one of my first blog posts, my anxiety was one of the biggest factors in my decision to quit teaching. In the years following, I’ve continued to suffer from extreme anxiety and depression. I finally found a doctor who seems to understand, though. Through a series of appointments, she not only finally found medication that helps me cope without turning me into a zombie, but she also helped me understand exactly what is wrong me. Allow me to provide a breakdown of how my anxiety and depression affect me. I have trichotillomania – pulling out one’s own hair – to a fairly manageable extent. For the most part, I ignore the hair on top of my head, though in the past I’ve been forced to create some rather unique hairstyles to cover up small bald patches. I primarily focus on less noticeable sections of hair. For instance, I often pull out my eyelashes in clumps. Fortunately, I wear thick-rimmed glasses that I can easily hide behind. I always wish that my fingers would naturally gravitate toward my eyebrows instead, as that would save me a lot of money on waxing appointments, but it’s probably for the best as I would likely just pluck out the entire middle section of one eyebrow instead of just focusing on the stray hairs popping up outside of my brow line. I also have dermatillomania, more commonly known as skin-picking disorder, which causes my face to look like I’m perpetually caught in a cycle of acne most people outgrow after high school. When I get particularly stressed, my legs break out in spots. When these spots originally showed up several summers ago, I assumed they were mosquito bites, but their continued presence into the winter months ruled out that possibility. A rather preoccupied nurse at a health fair once glanced at them for about a second before assuring me they were the adult manifestation of being in close proximity for a prolonged period with a small child who was suffering a chest cold. This would have been an acceptable diagnosis, had I been around any ill children during the three months since they’d started appearing. Regardless of where these spots come from, I pick at them until they bleed and eventually become infected (especially if I continue attempting to shave my legs in spite of them), leading parts of my legs to appear as though I once suffered from a mild case of smallpox. My hands suffer the brunt of my anxiety, though. I bite my fingernails until they’re bloody messes. Then, when my teeth can no longer grip the fingernail, I’ll chew at the skin around my fingernails, sometimes peeling off strips of skin all the way to the distal interphalangeal joint (yeah, I had to look up the name of that). Not only has this knocked me out of the running for a hand-modeling contract, it also causes a lot of pain whenever I wash my hands or try to cook or eat anything containing salt or citrus. Washing my hands with hot water or showering also exacerbates the rash that often covers the backs of my hands when I’m feeling particularly anxious about a situation. As my anxiety has worsened over the years, I’ve found myself increasingly unable to engage in activities I used to enjoy. I’m the youngest of six children, I have thirteen nieces and nephews, and there are a boatload of cousins on both sides of the family. We get together for family dinners way more often than just Thanksgiving or Christmas, so we’re all close. These miniature family reunions were once my favorite things, but the past couple years have found me searching for excuses to get out of them, or making up a reason to arrive late and leave early. Most of my family members have a vague understanding of why I’m suddenly terrified of being pulled into a conversation with people I’ve known my entire life, but I constantly worry they’ll believe I’m just being rude or that I need to grow out of whatever I’m currently going through. Going out with my friends has also become a dread-inspiring experience. I’ve lost track of the number of times I’ve cancelled on plans at the last minute because, even though I managed to drive to the restaurant, I can’t convince myself to get out of my car and join my friends inside. Some of them who understand this. Some of them either think it’s weird or that I’m just being flaky. The times I do manage to make it inside the restaurant, sit down, and order as little as possible in case my stomach decides to go on strike that day, I almost always have to excuse myself to the bathroom, not because nature is calling, but because I can feel my lungs starting to rebel against their natural proclivity to breathe. While in the bathroom, I run through a list of excuses for why I suddenly need to leave, though I ultimately reject all of them because I can’t remember which ones I’ve already used on this friend. Eventually, I sulk back to the table and do my best to keep up with the conversation while simultaneously counting every breath to keep myself calm: four seconds in, six seconds out, four seconds in, six seconds out. Despite my best efforts, the back of my neck will usually start to get hot, which used to indicate I had a 45-second grace period before passing out, but now just means that I’m slipping into panic mode. To combat this, I’ll wrap my hands around my ice-filled drink for a few seconds before trying, and likely failing, to appear nonchalant as I place my cool hands on my neck. There are times I don’t even bother to order food when I eat out with my friends, both because my stomach can’t handle much when I’m anxious and because it’s too much for me to try to eat, follow and contribute to the conversation, and continue breathing at a pace that won’t induce hyperventilation. While I’ve never been known as a people person, these past years have rendered me borderline reclusive. Though my anxiety hounds me almost relentlessly, I almost prefer it to the days when depression slinks in, usually just before dawn, wraps around my slowly awakening brain, and renders me immobile until it grows weary and falls temporarily dormant. But maybe I’m overdramatizing the situation. Let me try again. Have you ever carried a book bag completely stuffed with large, hardcover textbooks, a few novels, some notebooks, a laptop, and assorted other school-related items up three flights of stairs? I did that every day in college. But for me, when I finally reach the top and gratefully let the bag slide off my shoulders, the weight remains. My depression continues to drape itself across my shoulders, caressing the back of my neck and gently curving my spine before delivering a sucker punch in the general area of my kidneys. I cannot remove it. I wear it like the itchy sweater you didn’t have the heart to throw out because your grandma knitted it just for you. But fortunately for me, my depression occasionally takes a vacation. I sometimes spend days, even weeks, leaving my house, showing up to work on time, buying groceries, and behaving like any other human being. And I hoard those experiences, as mundane as they may seem, because I know, with no warning, the day will come when I’ll have to struggle to even turn on my phone long enough to call in sick to work. This is accompanied by the additional brain power of having to manufacture an excuse for my absence as it’s hard to find a boss who will accept the truth that I physically cannot get out of bed due to the overwhelming sense of hopelessness that’s trying to seduce me with the temptation that it would be easier to forfeit living in order to escape ever feeling this way again. I’m not writing this to garner sympathy, though. I don’t expect anyone to read this and suddenly drop everything to coddle me and assure me that things aren’t as bad as they seem. I just want people to understand that I don’t act the way I do because I want attention or because I’m being a baby. I have a legitimate illness; it’s just not one that people can see, so if they don’t suffer from something similar, they find it difficult to empathize. But I haven’t given up hope. I take medication every day that helps subdue my tendency to panic. I was recently prescribed additional medicine that I’m only allowed to take in case of a full-blown anxiety attack, which I fortunately haven’t had to use yet. Through my blog posts, I’ve discovered that some of my friends are dealing with similar issues, which has provided me with a network of people I can rely on if I need to talk to someone. And I’m slowly learning how to drag myself back when my depression tries to entice me closer to the edge. The road to normalcy is long, overgrown, and lonely, but I refuse to turn around because nothing good awaits me back there. The stigmas associated with anxiety and depression are finally beginning to fall away in our society, and I for one am extraordinarily grateful that, at least to my face, I’ve been met with only positive responses to my writing about my struggles. And if the only negativity I’ve earned is through an ambiguous tweet, then I think things are going to turn out all right. Those of you who know me are already aware of my love of setting goals for myself and then completely failing to follow through. So, in keeping as on-brand as possible, I came up with a list of things I would like to accomplish in my 30s. However, I’ve given myself a slight out. I am in no way obligated to succeed at any of the items on this list, I just have to attempt them. My hope is that by going a little easy on myself, I’ll do a better job of holding onto the motivation to actually achieve a goal or two.
Now, in order for this to be a true Jacinta list, many of the items on it are ridiculous and impractical. But, it’s my list. If you want normal goals, make your own list. 1. Keep a daily journal. I used to keep a diary when I was a pre-teen, but eventually started making up stories about my life because I was so bored with the mundanity of my reality. Here’s to hoping that keeping a journal (which sounds far more adult than “diary”) will be more successful, and honest, this time around. 2. Practice my various instruments once a week. In 2020, I attempted to practice the piano and guitar twice a week and was moderately successful. Hopefully I’ll practice everything more often than once a week, but this way I won’t feel as stressed during busy weeks to find time to squeeze in another practice. (I also may or may not have bought a ukulele. And a harmonica. Because, really, can you ever have too many instruments?) 3. Submit a piece of writing once a week. This is something I need to get way better about. I have several poems and a few short stories finished, so it’s time to find them homes outside of the saved folder on my computer. So far I have three poems and one short story published, so we’ll see if I can add to that significantly over the next decade. 4. Pray a novena three times a month. When I tried to say the rosary and the chaplet every day in 2020, I discovered that I really enjoyed taking that extra time out of my day to pray. So now I’m trying to do it again, but I’m going to pray them in novenas in order to pray with more specific intentions. I don’t know if I’ll get in three every month, but I’ll do my best. 5. Post on the blog once a month. Those of you who actually follow this blog know better than anyone how bad I am about posting frequently. I had the best intentions when I started it, but I tend to forget I even have a blog sometimes. But I’ve made myself a chart to keep track of how often I post, so maybe that will remind me to actually write and post something on a semi-regular basis. 6. Learn to braid hair. If you know me in real life, then you’ve seen my hair and know that the most I can handle is a lopsided ponytail. My sister and one of my nieces are great at braiding hair, though, so I am planning to ask them to teach me how to do it. (In all honesty, I keep seeing TikToks of women doing Viking-style braids and I am obsessed. So that’s the real motivation here.) 7. Finish my Max novel. Just over three years ago, I started writing a novel about a cult leader who is also a serial killer. Along the way, though, I got sidetracked by researching cults and serial killers, and ended up neglecting the actual writing. You’d think that finishing a novel in the next ten years should be easy, but for me, it’s not. Because I still procrastinate like I’m back in college. 8. Finish my teenagers novel. During my senior year of high school, I wrote a trilogy filled with characters very loosely based off myself and my friends. Going back and reading it as an adult, I realize how terrible it was, but also recognize that it has potential. So I’m giving the whole trilogy a complete rewrite to see if I can make it significantly better. 9. Finish my werewolf trilogy. I had a dream a few years ago that was just a room in New Orleans with the curtains blowing in the breeze from the balcony and a woman singing in French. And from that dream, I started writing a Steampunk-esque trilogy about supernatural creatures facing off against humans who hate them. I have all three books completely outlined; now I just have to sit down and do the actual writing. 10. Finish my Ripper novel. The last time I attempted NaNoWriMo (where you write a whole novel in the month of November), I failed spectacularly. But I also got a few thousand words of a book that constantly shifts perspectives and also features a character who may or may not be Jack the Ripper. I’m a little bit in love with one of the characters in this book (not the Jack the Ripper character, surprisingly enough), so I’d like to see where else I can go with it. 11. Find a literary agent. This is something I should have started working on years ago. But I figure now that I actually have a full-length novel finished, I should probably put a little more effort into making this happen. 12. Perform in a musical. I haven’t been in a musical since high school. I auditioned for two in college, but the director at the time was one of those people who already has the cast decided before anyone even shows up to try out. But I really miss being on stage, and I’m hoping that I can get my anxiety under control enough to start performing again. 13. Cook an entire meal -- appetizers to desserts -- for others without help. Cooking has never been one of my favorite things, but that’s mostly because I live by myself. It takes longer to cook something and clean everything afterward than it takes to actually eat the meal. Because of this, I usually just throw something in the microwave or go out for meals. But I want to learn how to cook real food, and I figure that cooking for other people will make the experience more enjoyable. Or more stressful. We’ll see. 14. Meet Karen and Georgia. The My Favorite Murder podcast is one of the few things that never fails to cheer me up. I love listening to Karen and Georgia, and attending one of their live shows is one of the highlights of my life. So once we get the pandemic under control and people start touring again, I plan to not only attend another live show, but also try to get meet-and-greet passes. 15. Put more energy into maintaining important friendships. I don’t want to be one of those people who is only a good friend to those I see every day. I’m decent about keeping up with text conversations, but I want to go beyond that and actually visit some of the friends I don’t get to see as often. And in between visits, I’ll try to send letters or maybe actually talk on the phone to some of them. (Okay, let’s not get too crazy. I will never like talking on the phone. Ever.) 16. Learn to ride a horse. There is no reason I need to do this. But I used to love riding horses when I was little, so I want to see if I can still do it without getting thrown and breaking my entire body. 17. Tour the American south. This is mostly an excuse to go to Georgia, but I would like to see the rest of the South. Except Florida. I have absolutely no desire to visit Florida. 18. Plant an herb garden. I assume this is the easiest type of garden to plant and maintain. Please inform me if I am mistaken. 19. Plant a vegetable garden. I probably won’t do this until I have a house of my own, because I don’t think my landlords would appreciate me digging up the backyard of their rental property in an attempt to plant a garden. Or, if I’m not going to be buying a house anytime soon, I can always use my parents’ backyard. I’m sure they’d love it. Maybe. 20. Learn to swim. Should I have learned to swim long before I turned 30? Yes. Will I actually learn how to swim in my 30s? Doubtful. But I’m going to try. 21. See a show on Broadway. Again, this kind of relies on things beyond my control. Broadway has to open back up, for one thing. But I’ve loved musicals since I was five, so it would be ridiculous if I never went to New York to see an actual Broadway show. 22. Visit Prince Edward Island. Watching the 1985 version of Anne of Green Gables is one of the most vivid memories from my childhood, and I’ve wanted to go to Prince Edward Island ever since. Ideally, I’d like to take my nieces with me, but I think this could also be a fun trip to do on my own if they don’t want to go. 23. Set up the Dramatic Hope Foundation. Ten years ago, one of the best teachers I’ve ever had died. Since then, I’ve been attempting to find a way to honor her legacy. One of the things I came up with was a theatre camp for junior high and high school students, the proceeds of which will go to teachers diagnosed with cancer. I don’t know if I’ll ever manage to pull it off, but I have to try. 24. Get to 1,000,000 pages read. I’ve been tracking my reading since May 2005, and I always believed it would take a year or two to reach one million pages. Oh, how naive I was! It’s taken me 16 years to get to 416,454 pages, so I clearly have a ways to go. 25. Travel on an airplane. If you’ve read this blog post, you know why I need to learn how to travel on an airplane without having a complete mental breakdown. 26. Plant some fruit trees. Honestly, I’ll probably never get around to doing this. But I would like to be able to stand next to someone, stare at a row of fruit trees, and brag about being the one who planted them. 27. Finish reading all of the books I own. At last count, I own 1,087 books. So far I’ve read 394 of them. I think you all understand why I need to work on this goal. 28. Learn to speak Spanish. I took Spanish for two years in high school and one year in college, but I didn’t really learn that much. My hope is that I’ll be more motivated this time around. 29. Learn American Sign Language. American Sign Language is one of those things I believe kids should start learning in elementary school so everyone can communicate, regardless of hearing capabilities. But, since I didn’t learn it as a child (other than the alphabet and the Pledge of Allegiance), I’m going to attempt to learn it as an adult. 30. Plant a vineyard. This one is completely unnecessary and I blame it 100% on repeated viewings of the Lindsay Lohan version of The Parent Trap. 31. Finish my Summer of Stephen challenge. Unless Stephen King dies before I turn 40 (which he’d better not!), there is no way I will finish reading/watching all of his work. But I definitely need to start putting a lot more work into it. 32. Work on a PhD in English. I really just want to see Dr. in front of my name. 33-38. Work on degrees in psychology, music, mortuary science, criminal justice, law, and a program to become a medical examiner. None of these are really necessary. But I still don’t know what I want to do with my life. So why not do a little bit of everything? 39. Make every pie from the Sugar, Butter, Flour cookbook. I am obsessed with the musical Waitress, which led to buying a cookbook with recipes based on the plot of the show. I have never made a pie before, but I’m determined to try. 40. Volunteer/work for the Innocence Project. This is just one of those causes that I feel drawn to. I can’t really explain why. 41. Raise an ostentation of peacocks. I can only blame Flannery O’Connor for this one. 42. Start a bee colony. I briefly considered having the goal of taking a lover in my 30s. But then I decided I’d rather have a colony of bees. 43. Learn to hunt with a bow, gun, and spear. You can’t read as many end-of-the-world books as I do and not come to the realization that you have absolutely no survival skills. 44. Travel around Ireland and Scotland. Of all the places I want to go, these are the countries I most want to visit. Hence, needing to learn how to ride on a plane. 45. Learn to butcher various animals. Once again, I need survival skills. Because I have none. 46. Buy a van or bus to turn into a tiny traveling house. This is another set of skills that absolutely do not have. But I’ve spent too much time scrolling through Instagram accounts of people who’ve turned buses into traveling homes, so now I want one. 47. Run a marathon. Considering the fact that I ran for about two minutes the other day and almost died, I seriously doubt I’ll manage to do this. But if you see me out jogging so slowly that it looks like walking, mind your own business. 48. Learn taxidermy. This one can probably be blamed on my love of Jenny Lawson and her menagerie of taxidermied animals. 49. Learn how to flip a house. Do I watch way too many hours of HGTV? Yes, yes, I do. 50. Walk the Camino de Santiago pilgrimage. I read about this in a book a couple years ago and have wanted to attempt it ever since. I’ll have to get in way better shape first (and be able to ride on a plane), but this is something I definitely want to put in the effort to actually do. Once again, it’s highly likely that I will fail miserably at most, if not all, of these. But I’m going to try. Wish me luck! To the boys I never should have dated:
I decided to combine the two of you because you were so close together and I was so absolutely wrong for both of you. Also, I’m going to write this one in a different format than Parts 1 and 2, because it’s easier. And funnier. Plus, I already kind of wrote about the two of you for a class, so I’m going to recycle parts of that paper. Here we go… “Damsel in distress” is never quite how I would describe myself. I’m fairly independent, can more than hold my own in a verbal sparring match, and possess the scrappy fighting skills necessary in a family with five older siblings. I’ve never really needed, nor wanted, someone around to protect me. But when I was a junior in high school, things changed a bit when I started to get to know my best friend’s younger brother. Up until that point, I’d considered him my younger brother as well. A cute, chubby kid, two years behind me in school, he never really crossed my mind, with the exception of occasionally wishing that he wouldn’t yell my name quite so loudly when he saw me from a distance out in public. Seriously. You can only handle someone screaming your name down the frozen food aisle at Wal-Mart so many times before you start mentally calculating how long you could survive hiding in one of the freezers before turning into a human Popsicle. Then, at the start of my junior year, my best friend left for college, leaving me behind to take care of her brother, who was now a freshman. I’ll be honest. I tried, unsuccessfully, to avoid him for the first couple of weeks, but he always managed to track me down (not an exceptionally difficult task, considering the population of our school was around 150 students). I can’t explain why I was so resistant to his friendship. It’s not like hanging out with a freshman could have dropped me any lower on the social ladder. All of my friends my own age had abandoned me at the end of sophomore year over a minor disagreement, so having him around should have been a blessing. And it was kind of nice. Sometimes. Until someone my own age came along. This boy was a genius. Despite being good at basically everything, he never said much, which is why he never had trouble fitting in with everyone. His silence is always part of what attracted me to him, as I swing back and forth between loving the sound of my own voice and wanting the entire world (myself included) to just shut up for a few hours. We were a good couple. Cute. Smart. Balanced. Then he asked me to the Homecoming dance. Unfortunately, it took about two slow songs for me to discover the true reason behind Boy 1’s frequent silences. (Oh, by the way, I’m now referring to him as Boy 1.) Anyway, I quickly realized that Boy 1 had absolutely no personality. He was in the middle of telling me a story he’d already told me four times that night (I also happened to be present for the origin of said story, as I was one of the “characters” in it) when I managed to catch Boy 2’s eye from across the dance floor. (And, obviously I’m going to call my best friend’s younger brother Boy 2.) Without hesitation, Boy 2 set down his Pepsi can, straightened his clip-on tie, and strode toward us, slowed only by the occasional dancing couple. “Excuse me,” he said, affecting a pompous British accent. “May I cut in?” Boy 1 looked down at him in disgust. I wasn’t sure if this was due to Boy 2 interrupting our dance, or if he just didn’t like him, but I had a flash of hope that maybe Boy 2’s presence would inspire Boy 1 to actually do something interesting. No such luck. “Sure, man,” Boy 1 said, stepping back. Boy 2 squirmed between us, gently placing one hand on my hip, taking my hand in his, and pushing his butt out enough to bump Boy 1 away from us. With more energy than the song required, he pranced us between closely held couples, jarring a few of them apart by accident. I thanked him for saving me from what was possibly the most boring evening of my life, pulled away, and then spent the rest of the evening avoiding pretty much everyone. At the end of the night, however, my brother refused to unlock the pickup and let me in until I said goodbye to Boy 1. “I want you to have this,” Boy 1 said, handing me a small drawstring bag. “But don’t lose it, or my mom will kill me.” “Um, okay,” I replied, suddenly terrified to open it. “See you Monday?” Like I had a choice, considering most of our classes were together. “Yeah. See you.” Before I could walk away, Boy 1 wrapped his arms around me and pulled me to his chest. Unfortunately, I’d been in the process of turning away when he grabbed me, so he ended up smashing his chin into my shoulder. Undeterred, he held this one-sided embrace for a good ten seconds before releasing me, leaving my brain just enough oxygen to sympathize with all of those rabbits who suffered at the hands of Lennie Small. When my brother finally let me in the pickup, I opened the bag to discover Boy 1’s class ring dangling from a thin silver chain. See, the cool thing to do when I was in high school was to ask your girlfriend to wear your class ring on a necklace as a means of marking your territory. It was slightly more modern than carving your initials into her skin, and slightly less barbaric than peeing on her like a dog with its favorite hydrant. I knew I had to give the ring back, as I could think of no universe in which I wanted to be Boy 1’s girlfriend. But the ring was blue and sparkly. Fast forward to a week later, walking down the hall, Boy 1’s ring resting safely against my chest. School was over for the day, so the hallway was relatively empty, other than the athletes who lingered at their lockers after school in an attempt to escape the first few minutes of practice. “Going home?” Boy 1 asked, appearing at my locker, already wearing his shorts and practice shirt. I informed him that I had play practice that night, so I’d be hanging out in the band room doing homework for a few hours. He offered to walk me there. As we turned to walk down the hallway of the music wing, he tentatively reached over and took my hand. Keep in mind, this wasn’t a fingers laced, palms perfectly lined up, Lennon and McCartney tuning up their guitars type of hand holding. It felt more like I was suddenly wearing a too-tight, weirdly clammy bracelet that I had no power to remove from my wrist and which was compelling me forward against my will. Just before we reached the stairs leading down to the band room, I managed to wrestle my arm away from him by pretending I needed to find something in my bag. Not noticing I had stopped, he went ahead down the three steps. As he opened the band room door, I heard what I can only assume was a Powhatan war cry. A creature resembling a large bear cub launched itself through the doorway and wrapped its paws around Boy 1’s torso. They fell to the ground in a jumbled heap of limbs, both screaming in various tones of determination and fear. Finally recovering from my shock, I made out the actual shape of Boy 1’s attacker and half-heartedly ordered Boy 2 to get off of him. He reluctantly rolled off, but remained on the floor, panting and sweating. “What are you doing?” I asked. “Waiting for you,” he replied. “Mom told me to see if you wanted to come over for dinner before play practice.” “So you were planning to go all quarterback on me when I opened the door?” I asked incredulously. “Quarterbacks don’t tackle,” Boy 1 wheezed. “They play offense.” As if I cared. “Of course I wasn’t going to attack you,” Boy 2 insisted. “You’re tiny. I would’ve killed you! But I saw you guys coming down the hall, and I figured he’d be a gentleman and open the door for you.” “You’re an idiot,” I reminded him. “Yeah, but that’s why you love me.” We shared a look, but I quickly broke eye contact. I noticed Boy 1 watching us, and I suddenly felt incredibly guilty. “Hey, can you give me a minute?” I asked Boy 2. He agreed and again closed himself in the band room. I sat down on the bottom step and rested my hand gently on Boy 1’s arm. “I’m sorry,” I began. “But this thing with us? I just can’t. I’m sorry.” He nodded, but refused to meet my eyes. Metaphorically kicking him while he was literally down, I unclasped the chain from around my neck and handed his ring back to him. Boy 2 and I waited an appropriate amount of time before we started dating, but that relationship was also doomed from the start. We got along wonderfully and he was always fun to be around, but he was just too much of a little brother for me and we managed to last for only a month or two. I have no idea what Boy 1 is up to now, as I haven’t spoken to him since our second year of college. We remained friends throughout the last year and a half of high school, but things were never quite the same between us after I dumped him. Boy 2 and I are still friends, though no longer as close since we don’t live in the same area and he’s now married with a family. Though I never should have dated either of these boys, I can’t necessarily say that I regret either short-lived relationship. They both taught me how to quickly recognize what I don’t want, and they both helped me realize that my personality and needs are completely unsuited for certain types of guys. Also, those of you who know either of these guys in real life absolutely do not need to draw their attention to this post. While I think Boy 2 would find it funny, Boy 1 probably would not. And let’s face it, he’s been through enough. I’ve always been terrible at New Year’s resolutions. I make them, I think they’re great, and then I give up about a week into the new year. But this year, I’m attempting them again. And I’m hoping that by posting about it, I’ll have an added incentive to actually follow through. Probably not, but we’ll see. (I also realize that it’s taken me over half the month of January to get around to writing this post, but I’m clearly still a work in progress.) So, without further ado, here are my goals for 2020.
1. Read at least 100 books. I wanted to attempt 366 books, but considering that I’ve read only 4 over the past 17 days, it’s probably for the best that I’m not going for a book a day. 2. Write at least 10 new poems. I have a folder full of poems that I’ve written over the past several years, but I haven’t written any new ones lately. And since poems aren’t too long, I figured 10 was doable. 3. Submit at least 20 poems. I somehow managed to get one of my poems published in an online lit magazine in 2019, so I’m hoping that if I submit at least 20 this year, I’ll get a few accepted. 4. Write at least 2 new short stories. After years of believing my ideas were too big to be contained in a short story, I’ve recently discovered that I kind of love writing short stories. I feel that I’m able to really showcase my love of a twist ending in my short stories, so I’m looking forward to writing some more this year. 5. Submit at least 5 short stories. I had one published in a print anthology in 2019 (and got paid $5 for it!), so I’m going for it again this year. 6. Finish writing at least 1 novel. If you’d look through the folder on my computer labeled “In-Progress Novels,” you would find 26 unfinished novels. And though I haven’t yet picked which one is getting most of my focus this year, I am determined to move at least one of those novels into the folder labeled “Finished Novels.” 7. Apply to writing workshops. My only hesitation with this one is how ridiculously expensive all of these writing workshops are. Which is why I just said apply. Then, if I’m accepted, I can decide whether or not I can afford to actually go. 8. Run a 5K. I decided that none of my goals were going to be about losing weight, because I don’t have a healthy relationship with that. However, getting back into shape by taking up running again might not guarantee that I will lose weight, but it will help me not sound like I’m dying whenever I climb a long flight of stairs. 9. Post a #TBRTuesday picture every week on Instagram. This one is entirely to get more bookish Instagram followers. 10. See a live show. Despite how much I hate being around other people, I absolutely love going to concerts, musicals, plays, and comedy shows. I’m definitely going to one, but hopefully I find a couple others I can make it to as well. 11. Take a road trip to Savannah, Georgia. I have wanted to move to Savannah, Georgia for years despite the fact that I have never been there before. So I figured I should probably check out the place before I decide for sure whether or not I want to live there. 12. Get a passport. Considering how well I do on planes (see this post for more info on that), I have no real reason to get a passport. But who knows? Maybe I’ll drive to Canada at some point. 13. Learn how to sew. In the 8th grade, I made a t-shirt quilt for my oldest sister. Now, I want to make one for myself. Unfortunately, I did not save all of my meticulous notes telling me how to make a t-shirt quilt. So I’m going to buy a sewing machine and re-teach myself. Those of you who know me in real life are probably already aware that this can only end badly. 14. Learn to play the harmonica. There is no reason for me to do this. Which is partly why I want to do this. 15. Practice the piano at least twice a week. I started taking piano lessons when I was 6, but then quit during high school. I can still play fairly well, but I’d like to get to the point where I wouldn’t be embarrassed to play in front of someone else. 16. Practice the guitar at least twice a week. I taught myself to play the guitar when I was 16, but then didn’t practice much throughout college. Now that I don’t have a roommate who might find it annoying, I can actually play my guitar without assaulting someone else’s eardrums. 17. Visit my friends and their kids more often. Most of my friends live within a few hours’ drive from me, yet we just don’t see each other that often. It’s true that adult friendships are hard, especially if you don’t work together and live in different towns, but I’m determined to put more effort into my friendships this year. Plus, my friends’ kids are awesome, and I love hanging out with them. 18. Perform for an audience without puking. I used to do this all the time and absolutely loved it. But since my anxiety started to get the best of me, I haven’t really been able to perform anymore. But I’m working on it, and we’ll see if I manage to succeed. 19. Ride in a car more than 20 miles. This one probably seems weird to people who don’t know me that well. Let me explain. No, there is too much. Let me sum up. I get extremely car sick when I ride in a car. I can drive with no problems, but I can’t be a passenger. I’ve gotten to the point where I can ride for 12 miles before I have to throw up, so I’m hoping I can keep increasing that distance. 20. Post on the blog at least twice a month. This is the only way I’ll ever get caught up on my Summer of Stephen posting. 21. Get rid of unused stuff. I have way too much stuff that I don’t need. So I might as well give it to people who will actually use it. 22. Cook at least once a week. Knowing myself the way that I do, this one is least likely to happen. 23. Get a new tattoo. I have three at the moment and it’s been almost three years since my last one. It’s time for a new one. Don’t tell my mother. 24. Say the rosary every day. I usually do this during Lent, but I’m going to try to do it throughout the whole year. 25. Say the chaplet every day. Same explanation as #24. 26. Wake up at 5 every morning. Sometimes I can do this for several days in a row, and sometimes I barely drag myself out of bed before 7. So we’ll see how this one goes. 27. Learn to change a tire. As a single woman who likes to go on road trips, this seems like something I should be able to do. 28. Learn to drive a stick shift. Much like the harmonica thing, this is mostly unnecessary. But that doesn’t stop me from wanting to do it anyway. 29. Apply to Project LIT. I learned about this at the Kansas Association of Teachers of English conference back in October, and I figure that if I’m going to continue to teach high school English, this would be a great thing to get involved in. 30. Visit the Mother Cabrini Shrine. I climbed all the stairs to visit this shrine when I was little, but haven’t been back since. I also don’t remember much other than the fact that there were so many stairs. So now I want to go back and see if I can hold onto more than just the exhaustion of climbing the stairs. Well, that’s all of them. I have no idea how many I’ll manage to accomplish, but I’ll try to keep you posted. Wish me luck! I am a bitch. At least, that’s the impression you’d get from looking at my face. I am a walking advertisement for the term “Resting Bitch Face.” For those of you unfamiliar with Resting Bitch Face, or RBF, it’s an expression on a person’s (usually a woman’s) face that makes them appear angry or annoyed, when they are actually just relaxed or concentrating on something. When someone displays RBF, they aren’t putting any thought or effort into their facial expression. If you or someone you know suffers from RBF, you’re probably familiar with the phrase, “This is just how my face looks.” Proof that RBF has always been my face’s go-to expression: Except, my face doesn’t naturally fall into this neutral, bitchy expression. I actually work really hard at it. Because unless I actively work at making my face hold still, it moves. A lot.
My face moves so much because I have Tourette syndrome. Tourette’s is a nervous system disorder characterized by repetitive movements and noises, often referred to as tics. When most people think of Tourette’s, they assume it involves randomly yelling obscenities at the worst possible moments. While that can be a symptom of Tourette’s, it’s not one of the more common tics. I’ve actually never met someone in real life who suffers from that particular tic, though movies and television would have you believe that that’s the only form of Tourette’s. (I think it actually only occurs in about 10% of people with Tourette’s.) The majority of tics involve involuntary facial twitches, body jerks, and vocalizations. I’ve seen a girl who frequently jerks her shoulder forward in a way that looks incredibly painful. I’m just waiting for the day she dislocates her shoulder, but she doesn’t even seem aware that it’s happening. Another Tourette’s sufferer almost constantly moves his head in a series of short, rapid nods. Tourette’s takes on different forms for different people. Most of my tics live inside my face. Let’s start from the top. My eyebrows wiggle. First, the left one will raise in two quick wiggles followed by two wiggles from the right and ending with both raising together once. This occasionally leads to people thinking that I’m doing this intentionally, which is usually fine, unless we’re in the middle of something serious. For instance, on a date, involuntary eyebrow wiggling can be cute and suggestive. At a funeral, however, not so much. I blink my eyes way more than an average human being. And if I’m not blinking, then I’m probably winking, back and forth, one eye and then the other. But I’m not always just rapidly blinking/winking. Sometimes I squeeze my eyes shut for a few seconds as though trying to block out a sudden bright light. Again, this one isn’t too terrible. Unless, you know, I’m driving. Closing your eyes for a few seconds while driving isn’t really the best way to make your passengers feel safe. Staying with my eyes for another moment, I also roll my eyes too much. Most people roll their eyes to express annoyance, but I do it without realizing I’m doing anything. So I kind of just always seem annoyed with what’s going on around me. Now, that’s not entirely off the mark. I do find most things annoying. However, I would prefer to not involuntarily roll my eyes while my boss is asking me to do something. My eyebrow- and eye-related tics are actually one of the main reasons I switched from wearing contacts to wearing my glasses full-time. It’s a lot easier to hide what your eyes are doing behind a pair of thick-rimmed glasses. My nose also gets in on the Tourette’s party. You know that cute thing some girls do where they scrunch up their noses? Well, it’s slightly less cute when you scrunch your nose several times in quick succession. Then it just looks like your nose itches but you’re too stubborn to just scratch it. My mouth is probably the most long-suffering victim of my Tourette’s, though. Contrary to popular belief, I actually smile a lot. But I’m not smiling because I’m happy. I’m smiling because my brain is telling the corners of my mouth to pull back sharply in a sort-of weird grimace that could be confused for a smile if you don’t look too closely. I also lick my lips to the point where they are basically always chapped. It doesn’t matter if I’ve just eaten, if it’s a hot and dry day, if I’m in the shower, if I’ve just put on chapstick or vaseline, etc. When my brain decides I need to lick my lips, it’s going to happen. If I were more skilled with the whole flirting thing, I could probably use this one to my advantage, but I’m super awkward so that’s never going to happen. (I have a few vocal tics as well, but those are harder to describe in writing, and they don’t really connect with my main reason for writing this post, so I’ll save them for another time.) The reason I’m talking about my Tourette’s probably seems completely unrelated to my earlier comments about my RBF, but I wouldn’t have one without the other. Kids can be incredibly cruel to people who are different, and having no control over your facial expressions is a sure way to draw unwanted attention. Now, I was never bullied for my facial tics, at least, not to an extent that I couldn’t handle. But I also knew that kids would sometimes imitate my expressions or make rude comments. I tried to explain to them what Tourette syndrome was and even gave a presentation over it at a school-wide competition in junior high (which I won, by the way). But for many people, if it’s not something they’ve experienced, it’s hard to make them understand what it’s like. So instead of trying to educate others, I worked on controlling my face. I practiced staring at myself in the mirror, keeping my face completely still, and counting slowly. If anything twitched, I had to start over. And this “training” finally started to work. After awhile, my face just kind of settled into an expressionless mask that, while hiding my tics, also made me look uninterested and pissed off at the world around me. It’s not always possible to keep my tics in check, though. If I’m sleep-deprived or experiencing a lot of anxiety, then my brain can’t focus enough to control my face and take care of other simple tasks at the same time. The fact that I’m a teacher makes it even harder, because I’m trying to simultaneously pay attention to my students, talk to them, write on the board, remember how to properly cite sources in MLA without looking them up for the millionth time, and keep my face from freaking out. By the time I get home every afternoon, I’m exhausted from attempting to appear normal all day. So as soon as I walk through the door, I go straight to my room, lie on the bed, and just let my face do whatever it wants for a while. My face probably moves the most, though, when I’m reading. As I’m sure you all know by now, reading is my favorite thing. And when I read, I let myself get completely lost in my book. Which means that my brain is 100% occupied, so my face is free to basically have its own little dance party. I actually had no idea this was happening until my mother pointed it out to me one night while I was reading. Ever since then I try to hold my book so that it’s either hiding my face or I have to look down at it. So if you see me and I look like I want to punch someone, just know that it’s taking a lot of effort to make that happen, and it’s exhausting. And if you see me and my face is doing something strange that you’ve never seen it do before, well, then I’m probably in desperate need of a nap or am on the verge of a nervous breakdown. Either way, maybe don’t comment on it. My face is my face, and it takes most of the energy I have to make it seem natural. Like millions of other music lovers, I’m more than a tad obsessed with the musical Hamilton. But a year ago, one of the songs began to hit a little too close to home. In the context of the musical, “It’s Quiet Uptown” narrates Alexander and Eliza’s struggle to deal with the death of their son, along with Alexander’s attempts to apologize to his wife for all the mistakes he’s made. Though most of the show is told from Aaron Burr’s point of view, this song features Eliza’s sister, Angelica Schuyler. That perspective change is where the song connects with me. Because regardless of how it’s used in the context of Hamilton, “It’s Quiet Uptown” is essentially the story of an aunt dealing with her own grief while also trying to help her sister and brother-in-law after the death of their child. On August 11, 2017, I became an aunt dealing with my own grief while also trying to help my sister and brother-in-law after the death of their child. Quinnley Marie was the 5th child in a family of 8. She was the 9th of my 13 nieces and nephews. She was a dancer, a singer, a drama queen, an artist, a born leader, and one of the prettiest little girls I’ve ever seen (and I don’t just say that because she had my chin). She was 8 years old. I won’t go into the details of Quinnley’s death except to say it was unexpected and shocking. It also taught me more about grief than I ever wanted to learn, and made me hyper aware of the way we treat people who are going through the loss of a loved one. Immediately following a death, everyone outside of your inner circle reacts. You’re hit with a seemingly endless deluge of texts, Facebook messages, casseroles, visitors, flowers, cards, etc. This continues for a few days until the funeral. And then everything goes back to normal. Except it doesn’t. Everyone else slips back into their everyday lives and goes on as though nothing happened. But if you’re the one grieving, you no longer have a normal life to return to, because a huge part of your life is now missing. And as much as you expect that bubbly little girl to come skipping through the door at any minute, you know it’s never going to happen again. I used to be a spectator to the grief of others. Not to say I’d never lost someone before, but most of those deaths were grandparents, older relatives, or people who had been sick. Even the few younger people I’d lost were separated enough from me that I was able to mostly pull myself together and move on once the funeral was over. I used to send a quick text or Facebook message after a death and consider my work done. I’d shoot off a “Thinking of you” or “Let me know if you need anything,” comfortable with the knowledge that my grieving friend or acquaintance was unlikely to take me up on the offer. I used to scribble generic “Sorry for your loss” sentiments in hastily purchased Hallmark cards and toss them in the mail. I never stopped to think that I could have used my talent for words to convey a genuine, heartfelt message. After Quinnley’s death, I was astonished by the number of people who reached out to my family. They brought enough food to fill several freezers, dropped off games to keep the other kids occupied, and donated money to help with funeral expenses. Friends, relatives, co-workers, and sometimes people we barely knew went out of their way to help in any way they could. Despite everyone doing their best to make things easier for my sister, her husband, and their other kids, I couldn’t help but feel overly protective of them. I found myself hovering around my sister, ready to step in if she appeared upset or on the verge of tears. I tried to keep her other seven kids and the rest of my nieces and nephews in sight at all times, which isn’t the easiest task. As soon as I woke up every morning, I drove over to their house and I stayed until everyone else left and the kids were in bed. After the funeral, most people drifted back to their own lives, leaving the rest of us to figure out what came next. This time together made me more grateful than ever to belong to such a large family. And because we all live within an hour or two of each other, we were able to easily show up if anyone needed someone. But then it was time for school. The kids had to learn how to get through their classes and sports practices without breaking down and my siblings, parents, and I had to return to work and do our jobs without letting on that anything was wrong. We’ve all been doing this for a year now, and I honestly don’t know that it’s gotten any easier. I can’t speak for the rest of my family, but for me, I still have to drag myself out of bed every morning and put on a brave face to get through the day. I cry at least once a day and I talk to Quinnley every night before I go to bed. Three days after the funeral, I got a tattoo of a “Q” and an eighth note on my wrist in memory of her and it’s always the first thing I see when I wake up. I’ve used the word “grief” several times in this post, but it’s not a strong enough word to truly convey how it feels to lose someone you love. I’m a writer, and I still haven’t found a word that feels right. I desperately wanted to end this post on a hopeful note, but I can’t. Because the wound is still too raw even a year later. Maybe someday I’ll have some words of wisdom to help other people fight their way through this kind of pain. But for now, I’ll just leave you with this: |
Jacinta M. CarterProfessional Book Nerd Archives
March 2019
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