thoughts
Those of you who’ve been here since I started this blog have already read about my anxiety. It’s the voice in my brain that convinces me to constantly panic about absolutely everything. It’s always there, taking up valuable space, despite countless attempts at serving it eviction notices. Occasionally, Anxiety brings a guest. Depression. Every time this happens, Depression crashes for a few weeks and fights with Anxiety at every turn, but eventually storms out, vowing to never return. They’re the ultimate toxic couple. Well recently, Depression has overstayed its welcome, and I believe that it and Anxiety have ordered bunk beds with the intention of making both of them permanent occupants of my brain. While I’ve grown somewhat used to Anxiety and have medication to help keep it from taking over, Depression knocks me on my ass. Every time. It is currently 9:30 p.m. on Thursday, and I haven’t left my apartment since 7:30 p.m. on Sunday. Well, that’s not exactly true. I made it out for an hour on Monday because I’d promised to have lunch with a friend/co-worker, and I’ve bailed on her far too often, so I forced myself out, though I can’t imagine I was great company. I’ve also had no contact with the outside world other than a Snapchat conversation that I regretted even as it was happening. After that, I shoved my phone under a pillow and pretended it didn’t exist. Sometimes there’s a reason for Depression to show up, as though my brain has sent out a personalized invitation, requesting its presence to help me shut down mentally and emotionally until some sort of trauma has passed. But this time, it came without warning. I have no idea why I’ve spent the past few weeks feeling lost, hopeless, and like getting out of bed isn’t worth the effort. But I think I know why it’s sticking around so long. I’ve made it perfectly clear how I feel about romantic relationships, and I continue to stand by that. But every once in awhile, my heart betrays my brain. (To my former roommate, who is a nurse, I know that your actual physical heart doesn’t really dictate romantic feelings. I know that it’s really your brain that causes all of this nonsense. But I feel like I blame my brain for enough things, so I’m letting it off the hook on this one.) Anyway. For the past several months, I’ve been living in the blissed-out world of infatuation. Despite my disbelief in love, I developed a full-blown crush on a guy who is basically everything I’ve ever wanted in a man. We talked and texted constantly and everything seemed to be going perfectly. But then Depression showed up, lugging suitcases filled with doubt, sabotage, self-loathing, guilt, and all of those other great emotions that cause you to believe you’re not worth someone else’s time. And I fell for it. Like I always do. So I backed off. I gave him the space that I’d convinced myself he wanted. When we talked, I made comments that made it clear that relationships are pointless and love can’t exist in this world. And as a result, he moved on. Now, before I continue, let me make something 100% clear. I am not currently depressed because my heart is broken. I was already depressed, my heart broke, and now I’m still depressed. Not more or less. Just equally as depressed as I was before. Which brings me to the real purpose of this post. I have a pretty awesome roommate, who also happens to be one of my cousins. And after a day of letting me mope around, sighing dramatically, he decided it was time to start a show we’d both heard about, but hadn’t watched. So we started to watch Crazy Ex-Girlfriend. For those of you who have no idea what this show is about, the theme song sums it up pretty well. Yeah, it’s a musical comedy, so it’s not for everyone. But it’s definitely amazing.
And in this show, and the main character, Rebecca, I found myself. Like Rebecca, I’ve lost parts of myself in an attempt to convince a guy to fall for me. Like Rebecca, I’ve buried my own mental health issues in order to appear normal and happy to everyone around me, especially this guy. Like Rebecca, I’ve allowed Depression to create enough doubt in myself to sabotage what could have been a really good thing. We’ve watched all three seasons over the course of the past few days, and in all honesty, I’ll probably rewatch all of it again over the weekend. Because this show deals with mental health issues in a way I’ve never seen before on television. So many of the seemingly crazy decisions Rebecca makes throughout the series are similar to things I’ve done. All of her mental and emotional breakdowns felt so real to me because I’ve experienced the same sorts of breakdowns on several occasions. And while our stories don’t exactly run parallel to one another, the way we react in various situations are frighteningly similar. Especially when it comes to fighting through a bout of depression. For the past few weeks, I’ve had to force myself to get out of bed every day. Most days, I just lie there and stare at my ceiling for hours, wondering if there’s really any point to getting up. I finally set an alarm on my phone to remind myself that I have to eat at least once every day, because otherwise, I just forget to do it. When I have to interact with other people, I plaster on some semblance of a smile, attempt to focus on anything other than how exhausted I feel, and try to find a way to answer questions with something other than just constantly repeating that I’m fine. Watching Crazy Ex-Girlfriend has helped. During the hours I’ve spent in front of this show, I felt seen and understood. I found a friend in Rebecca. I had someone who knew what it was like to want someone to help push away the clouds of depression while simultaneously fear that you’re burdening them by being anything less than perfect. I know that it sounds stupid to think that a television show can offer a temporary cure for a serious mental health issue, but that’s where I’m at right now. Though I feel better while I’m watching the show, I can’t keep it with me at all times. Which means that I’m going to have to keep working to pull myself out of this one. I have no idea if it’s going to take a few more days or if it’s planning to stay around for months. I never know. Every time, all I can do is just try to ride it out. Unlike my anxiety, I haven’t managed to find any kind of antidepressant that doesn’t completely numb me to everything. Which is sometimes fine, but also makes it slightly difficult to pretend to function like a normal human. So I guess what I’m trying to say with this post is that people suffer depression for a variety of reasons and we all have our own ways of trying to deal with it. My current way is to binge-watch Crazy Ex-Girlfriend repeatedly. I don’t know if it will continue to work long enough to see me through this one, but I’m willing to give it a shot. It is, after all, the healthiest way I’ve ever tried to overcome the advances of Depression. So if it works, I’ll see you all when I’m finally able to leave my house without feeling completely overwhelmed. And if it doesn’t work, well, I guess I’ll just go back to bed and stare at the ceiling. (One final note: I didn’t write this in the hopes of garnering sympathy from anyone. I’m just hoping to show people that depression isn’t something to be ashamed of, because it can happen to anyone for a variety of reasons.)
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On this day last year, I wrote a blog post about my hatred of weddings. In the same post I made it perfectly clear that, at that point in my life, I had no interest in getting married and was incredibly happy being single. Well, folks, this has been quite a year, and I have an important announcement to make.
I still feel exactly the same way. Sorry to disappoint some of you (cough *my mother* cough), but these past 365 days have actually made me even more content on my road to spinsterhood. However, some of you (cough *my mother* cough) are under the impression that the only reason I’m not fighting off suitors with a parasol whilst reclining on my fainting couch is that I’m just not putting forth enough effort (as opposed to the obnoxious personality I’ve spent years cultivating to scare away men). And to that, I have one response. Yeah. Duh. I’m not putting effort into a relationship because I have no interest in one at the moment. But, because I’m a good daughter (and I need to borrow $20), I’m going to take my mother’s advice and put myself out there. So I now present, for your reading pleasure, a list of the 10 reasons why any man would be lucky to date me. 1. I’m a huge fan of alone time. So if you ever want to hang out with your friends, or just do your own thing, I am 100% fine with that. In fact, I encourage it. 2. Pizza, sweatpants, and Netflix will always be considered a better date than fancy food, real pants, and an overpriced movie theater. 3. I have horrible IBS, so I won’t be at all phased by any of your gross bodily functions. (I also always know where all the cleanest bathrooms are when going on long car trips.) 4. I listen to a huge variety of music, so no matter what you want to listen to, I’m cool with it. Unless it’s Taylor Swift. Then I will politely but firmly ask you to leave. 5. With two exceptions, I’m still friends with all of my ex-boyfriends. So they can confirm that, while I have unlimited “crazy ex-girlfriend” potential, I rarely unleash it. It also means that I’m not going to demand that you un-friend all of your former girlfriends on Facebook. 6. The more interests you have outside of our relationship, the better. I try to read for at least four hours every day, so you’re going to need something you can do during that time that doesn’t involve talking to me. 7. I usually make a good first impression on parents, but if you leave me alone with your family for more than two minutes, I will drag you to every single one of my family’s dinners until the end of time. 8. I don’t like people touching me, so I won’t expect you to cuddle with me, especially when it’s 100 degrees outside. You’re welcome. 9. I’m not a fan of surprises, so you never have to worry about the pressure of trying to plan some big party for me for any reason. If I want a party, I’ll take care of it myself. 10. A long-distance relationship is basically my dream come true, so if you have a job that requires you to travel a lot or move away, we’ll work out just fine. And, if you need a little more persuasion to slide into my DMs (Did I use that phrase right? Am I hip now?), here are a few special skills I possess. 1. I know all of the words to “It Wasn’t Me” by Shaggy. 2. I can gargle the “Star-Spangled Banner.” 3. I can survive for at least a week on Wheat Thins and Dr. Pepper. (I’m not sure if this is a special skill, but it might come in handy if I’m ever stranded in the woods with a box of Wheat Thins and a case of Dr. Pepper.) 4. I can read someone’s romantic intentions within 30 minutes of meeting them, so you won’t have to waste time trying to impress me. By the time we’re done with dinner, I’ll already know how many weeks we’ll last before you run screaming. Well, that pretty much sums it up. If you read through all of that and believe that I’m the girl for you, then I suggest you immediately contact a mental health professional. And if, after extensive therapy, you still want to hit me up, don’t. Because I still don’t want a boyfriend. I might change my mind one day, but until then, set your sights elsewhere. To the boy who first used those three words:
I was 13. I was 13 and you had just turned 16, but you were only one year ahead of me in school. Maybe that should have been a red flag. I was 13 when you slipped a note into my locker, asking if I would be your girlfriend. You’d decorated it with a drawing of Tweety from Looney Tunes because my best friend told you I liked Tweety, and he was one of the cartoons you could draw. I was 13 when you shyly took my hand during a football game when none of your friends were looking. I thought I wanted you to kiss me, but I was equally terrified that you’d try. All you did that night was hold my hand, always finding an excuse to let go when someone looked our way. I was 13 when you gave me a gorgeous necklace and earring set. It wasn’t my birthday or Christmas. You just wanted to give me something as beautiful as you claimed I was. I wore the necklace every day. I pierced my ears just so I could wear the earrings as well, but I had a reaction to the metal and had to let the holes grow shut. So instead, the earrings held a place of honor atop my dresser. I had a sneaking suspicion at the time that you’d stolen them, but I was never brave enough to ask. I was 13 when you finally kissed me. Well, I don’t know that I’d call it a kiss so much as a clashing of teeth followed by your tongue so far down my throat that I had to actively suppress my gag reflexes. When I finally pushed you back you announced to everyone around us that my lips were chapped and I didn’t seem to know what I was doing. I was 13 when you insisted that I sit in the very back of the suburban, between you and a friend, on a school trip. You knew I wouldn’t say anything when you slid your hand inside my jeans. You knew your friend would be impressed by your daring. You knew that I would stare straight ahead and ignore your fingers snapping the waistband of my underwear as long as you didn’t go further than that. I was 13 when you gave me a rose made of glass because I’d mentioned how much I loved Beauty and the Beast. This time your sister mentioned that the rose had been free, but followed up by suggesting that I not show it to anyone else, confirming that you still only gifted stolen goods. I was 13 when you kicked your sisters off the couch so you could sit next to me while we all watched a movie. This time I tried to shift away from you when your hand crept inside my shirt, but I was trapped against the arm of the couch. I’ve never watched Tuck Everlasting again because I don’t see the actors on the screen. I see your face, hovering too close to mine as your fingers struggle with the clasp on my bra. I was 13 when a girl in your class told me that she’d hooked up with you, and your response was to wink at her. I earned my first detention trying to win you back from her with a note in her locker, threatening to make her life a living hell if she didn’t stay away from you. I was 13 when you implied to everyone in your class and mine that we had sex in an empty classroom during a school dance. When I confronted you about it, you pinned me against your locker and tried to convince me that we might as well prove the rumors true. I was 13 when I followed you into the backseat of your friend’s car. I let you kiss me, because I hadn’t protested before, so what right did I have to stop you now? I didn’t stop you, nor did I help, when you pulled my shirt over my head and dropped it on the floor. And you know, you might have gotten what you wanted if you’d just kept your mouth shut. I was 13 when I learned that “I love you” loses its melody when accompanied by the staccato of a zipper. Fortunately for me, I ran a mile a day when I was a young teenager, so I managed to fight my way out from under you and kick you away from me. I fell out of the car still physically, though no longer emotionally, intact, grabbed my shirt, and ran without looking back. I haven’t spoken to you since, and have no intention to do so ever again. Though I was able to get away from you, I’ve never completely left you behind. I question the gifts boys give me now. I don’t tell people I love them, and I don’t let others say it to me. I flinch away when anyone tries to touch me. My right forearm will forever bear nine slightly faded scars; constant reminders of the number of months you had complete control over me. I never read the notes you slipped into my locker after that night. I pretended I didn’t hear when your sister informed me, and everyone else at the lunch table, that you’d dumped me because I was a frigid bitch who teased you but then refused to follow through. Don’t worry; you’re not the last guy to file this complaint. It took me five years to tell anyone what almost happened between us in that car. Even then, I treated the story like a joke. I couldn’t let the one person I confided in know how terrified I’d been, or how hard the memory was to face, so it became yet another anecdote in my arsenal of amusing situations I’ve found myself in. Most of the time, I can push you to the back of my mind. I get through most of my days without a single thought of you. But you always seem to pop up when you’re least welcome. When someone opens their arms to hug me, I feel my muscles stiffen, remembering how you helped yourself to whatever part of my body you felt entitled to at the moment. When someone tries to kiss me, my lips freeze briefly, awaiting the humiliation of being shamed for my inexperience. When the best guy I’ve ever dated dared to tell me he loved me, I broke up with him because all I could hear was your breath in my ear as you tried to remove my jeans. You ruined so much for me, but I’m determined to fight back. I’m working on getting past the barricades you constructed for me. It’s slow going, but I refuse to let you live inside my head forever. I will get past all of this one day. But I hope that my face that night haunts you forever. Because I was 13. You unbelievable bastard. My last post was kind of heavy, and the one I’ve been working on is super dark, so I’ve decided to talk about something more enjoyable today. I met a real-life published author last week, which brings my interactions with published writers up to a whopping total of five. But that meeting brought back memories of the first author I met, way back in the 5th grade.
Quick side note: I used to have an anonymous blog, which I haven’t posted on for a few years. For those of you who read that one, you’ve heard this story before. For the rest of you, please enjoy. I have five or six large crates filled with notebooks, most of which contain half-finished stories that I’ve since abandoned. I keep these in my childhood bedroom at my parents’ house, where they are, for the most part, ignored by everyone. But every once in awhile, I dig through the crates to see if I can stumble upon something interesting. Unfortunately, none of my old stories deserve to ever see the light of day again, but there is one thing in those crates worth rereading. It’s a small, bright yellow book called How to Write a Story That’s Not Boring by John Reynolds Gardiner. If you’ve never heard of John Reynolds Gardiner, proceed to your nearest library immediately and check out Stone Fox. It’s written for older elementary students, but it’s still a great book, so I don’t think the librarians will judge you too much. Unless you linger in the children’s section after you’ve checked out the book, in which case you deserve their judgement. Seriously. Just get your book and be on your way. Anyway… When I was in the 5th grade, Mr. Gardiner was going around the country on a speaking tour, stopping specifically in elementary schools to talk to students about writing and the importance of reading. So there I was, piled into a crowded gymnasium with Kindergarteners through 6th graders from three different elementary schools. I can only imagine that most of them were more concerned that they might be missing recess, but I was absolutely starstruck. I’d known since I was 6 that writing was my career of choice, and I’d read Stone Fox at least a dozen times, so this was all a dream come true for me. As this was 16 years ago, I no longer remember what Mr. Gardiner said during his speech, but that could also be due to what occurred after. When he finished speaking, he hurried to pack up his stuff. He’d talked for too long and was running late for his next stop, so he wouldn’t be able to sign anyone’s books, despite our teachers telling us to bring our books for autographs. We must have been in a hurry, too, because the teachers were herding us to the buses awfully quickly. On my way to the door, I glanced back at the first famous person I’d ever been this close to and saw that he was surrounded by kids. I could hear snippets of their comments, most of which were along the lines of “I liked your book.” He responded to them politely, though a bit curtly, and they slowly faded away and returned to their teachers. In a rare showing of spontaneity, I stepped out of line and hurried back to the table where he was finally snapping closed his overly stuffed briefcase. “Excuse me, can I ask you a question?” I asked, almost too quietly to hear. Appearing to already regret his response, he sighed, “Sure.” “How do you know if what you’re writing is any good?” I asked. “Because when I write my stories, I think they’re great, but what if no one else likes them?” This seemed to interest him. “You’re a writer?” “I’m trying to be.” At this point, I shoved my ever-present notebook toward him. “I’m working on a mystery novel right now. It’s only about 30 pages so far, but what if it’s bad?” “Do you like it?” “Of course. But I’m the one writing it, not the reader, so who cares what I think?” He laughed and re-opened his briefcase. “What you think is the only thing that matters. If you like it, someone, somewhere, will also like it. If you think it’s bad, no one else will even make it past the first page.” “Really?” I found this hard to believe, but he seemed pretty sincere. “I’ll tell you what,” he said, pulling a small, bright yellow book from the depths of his briefcase. “You keep writing, no matter what other people think. As long as you continue to like it, you have to keep trying. In the meantime, see if this helps. What’s your name?” I told him, and then immediately spelled it for him. He quickly scribbled something across the top corner of the book and handed it to me. “Good luck,” he said, smiling down at me. “I look forward to reading one of your novels someday.” And with that, he walked away. Realizing that my class had disappeared from the gymnasium, I quickly ran outside to where the bus and my very angry teacher were waiting. But I didn’t notice if she was yelling at me. All I could do was stare down at the book in my hands, inscribed with: How to Write a Story That’s Not Boring by John Reynolds Gardiner Jacinta, Enjoy the struggle! John Gardiner The end of my high school teaching career began exactly two years ago today.
As the head of the English department (a title I’d earned by being hired one week before the junior high English teacher), I had inserted myself into a discussion between the principal and the junior high English teacher. She wanted to teach the novel Speak by Laurie Halse Anderson to her freshman class and had been granted permission. Until the school counselor stepped in and convinced the principal that the book would do more harm than good for the students and wasn’t appropriate for high school students. When I later approached her about her opinion, she laughed it off and said she didn’t want the book taught because the issues it dealt with would cause more work for her. Because I’m incapable of keeping my mouth shut, I chose to voice my opinion to the principal, saying that if he believed freshmen shouldn’t read the book, I would gladly teach it to one of the older grades. He tried to brush me off by blaming the final decision on the superintendent, thinking this would end the discussion. Instead, I asked for a meeting between the English department and the administrators. For reasons I will never understand, the principal decided the counselor needed to be present at the meeting as well. The other English teacher and I arrived for the meeting together, presenting a united front. I was armed with a stack of highlighted articles from one of my college professors, detailing the importance of teaching young adult “problem” novels to high school students. Before the others arrived, the other teacher looked at me nervously. “Whatever happens, you can’t let me start crying,” she said, appearing already on the verge of tears. “Deal,” I promised. “And you can’t let me start yelling.” We would both fail to keep these promises. (From here on out, I’m going to refer to everyone as if their job title is their name: Teacher, Counselor, Principal, and Superintendent. Except myself. Because you already know who I am.) “Good afternoon, girls,” Superintendent said, entering the library and taking a seat across the table from us. “It seems we’re here because Teacher wants to teach a controversial book. And Ms. Carter decided to involve herself because?” “Because I am also interested in incorporating young adult novels, even this one if possible, into my curriculum,” I replied, biting my tongue against the “duh” that begged to follow. “Young adult literature is quickly becoming a common addition to English classes, and…” Superintendent held up her hand and smiled sympathetically. “Let me just take care of this now. I’m sure that young adult literature has a place somewhere. But that place is not in a high school.” Teacher looked at her incredulously, but I didn’t hesitate to pounce. “Then where would you suggest we put young adult novels, if not in the hands of young adults?” I asked, balancing on the very edge of my chair. Superintendent rolled her eyes toward Principal, who looked away. She dodged my question and insisted, “We’re just trying to protect your professional integrity. How do you think some parents would react to their children reading a book with that sort of content?” Rape. She was referring to rape. Speak is a novel about a 14-year-old girl who is raped at a party and then bullied to the point where she stops talking, until the one teacher who bothers to reach out to her manages to help pull her out of herself enough to overcome the horror to which she was subjected. Teacher was still silent, so I nudged her, saying, “I believe Teacher prepared a letter to send to the parents before the kids started the novel.” That was a lie. I’d written the letter. But I figured they were already refusing to listen to me, so I hoped she’d have more luck. Instead, Superintendent didn’t even bother to look at the letter before pushing it back across the table. “I’m not familiar with the novel personally,” Superintendent admitted. “I hadn’t even heard of it before all of this, but after it was brought to my attention I grabbed a copy and read the first paragraph. I must say, it does not paint a very positive portrait of the high school environment. (For those of you who haven’t read Speak, the first paragraph describes the main character trying to find a seat on the school bus because the other students won’t share their seats with her. The first paragraph is maybe three sentences long.) “That’s why it’s so relevant,” I explained. “The character feels misunderstood and excluded by her peers, so she reacts to her surroundings based on those feelings. Teenagers will relate to that and be able to better understand the book and its themes.” She held up her hand, again accompanied by that smile. I was suddenly struck by her similarity to Dolores Umbridge (Harry Potter reference, for those of you who were unsure), sitting smugly on her pink throne, awaiting an unsuspecting victim to pass a little too close. Worried about falling into her trap myself, I slid back in my chair and crossed my arms over my chest. “I think it could only hurt students to be exposed to that kind of negativity aimed at education,” Superintendent explained. As though snapped out of a hypnotic trance, Teacher jumped in. She attempted to argue the benefits of the themes taught throughout the book. She held out for a few minutes before I could hear the tears creeping into her voice. I was prepared to take over, but Superintendent interrupted. “Now, I don’t want you girls to think I’m a prude,” she laughed. “Although, I have not read 50 Shades of Grey.” I saw an opening and attacked. “But a lot of our students have. They’ve read it and they’ve watched it and they discuss it. As educators…” “No!” Superintendent interrupted. “As educators, isn’t our job…” I persisted. “No!” she repeated. “It’s our job to teach them how to identify the signs of an unhealthy…” “No!” “An unhealthy relationship and to show them it is possible…” “No!” “It is possible to overcome a dangerous experience…” “No!” “Using literature that is more age appropriate.” I wasn’t aware that we’d been getting progressively louder with each interruption. By the time I was finished, though, Principal had reached over and was tapping the table next to my elbow. I looked at him, hoping he was finally going to step in and help, but instead received a warning look. “I’m interested to know, Ms. Carter, why you’re allowing your students to discuss 50 Shades of Grey in your classroom,” Superintendent said. “I can’t censor their conversations in the hallway.” I knew I needed to watch my tone, but I was determined to spit out a sentence without being interrupted again. “In my classroom, we discuss novels with literary merit.” “I’m glad you mentioned literary merit, Ms. Carter,” Principal said, speaking for the first time since arriving. “I also have not read this particular novel, but English wasn’t my content area, so I’m a little out of my depth here. But I have a hard time believing that a novel that’s been placed on the banned books list could possibly have any literary merit.” “You know that To Kill a Mockingbird, The Great Gatsby, and The Diary of Anne Frank are also considered banned books, right?” I tried not to sound condescending, but at that point I was sitting on my hands to avoid flipping the table in frustration. “It’s usually the books with literary merit that make the list because people are afraid of books that might actually make them think.” “My other concern,” he continued, ignoring me, “and I know that Counselor agrees with me, is that a novel like this might encourage some of the girls to fabricate a story about being raped in order to get attention.” I looked at Counselor to see if she truly agreed with this statement, but she averted her eyes. She wasn’t here to be on our side. “You worry that Speak, which is about an actual rape that leaves a girl in such a state of shame that refuses to talk, will cause girls to lie about being raped. But we’re expected to teach To Kill a Mockingbird, which is about a girl who actually lies about being raped in order to get someone else in trouble. I’m sorry, but I’m having a little trouble understanding your reasoning here.” “What you need to understand, Ms. Carter, is that it’s not your job to discuss these matters with the students,” Superintendent said, speaking with the deliberate slowness of someone accustomed to working with small children. “As I said, we want to protect your professional integrity. If a student approaches you about an issue like this, you need to direct them immediately to Counselor. Teaching a book like this might encourage them to think it’s okay to discuss emotional issues with you girls.” “Yeah, for instance, Ms. Carter’s Facebook post the other day,” Counselor said, finally speaking up. The post in question dealt with my yearbook girls expressing their fears of being assaulted when they went to college the next year. They’d heard so many stories about college students being attacked or raped, and they wanted to talk to me about how to protect themselves and what to do if something happened. “I wish you’d brought me in while they were talking to you about that,” Counselor continued. “Because you’re not qualified to discuss those matters with them.” “These girls trust me, which is why they chose to come to me in the first place. I went to the college they’re all going to, and I lived by myself during that summer when several girls were attacked around campus in the span of a couple weeks. I slept with a knife by my bed. I was terrified to leave my house at night or go anywhere alone. I think that makes me qualified to talk to the senior girls about fear,” I argued. “Absolutely not,” Superintendent insisted. “That is not your job.” “Back on the topic of curriculum,” Principal put in awkwardly, desperately trying to get the conversation under control again. “I don’t know that these young adult novels can be taught in a way that meets Common Core standards.” “In a college class I wrote an 85-page Common Core-aligned lesson plan over a young adult novel,” I replied. “The standards are flexible if you know what you’re doing.” Superintendent looked like she was going to slap me. Instead, she leaned back in her chair and took a deep breath. “Well, as it stands, young adult novels will not be incorporated into the curriculum here. You have to understand, girls, we just want to protect your professional integrity.” I clenched my teeth together, and I felt my nostrils flare. I bit the insides of my cheeks, refusing to allow a single angry tear to escape. Not in front of these people. “Do you have anything else to say?” Superintendent asked, looking back and forth between us. “Because if you have something to say, go ahead. It doesn’t do you any good to just think it.” "I still have a lot to say,” I replied, pushing back my chair and standing up. “But I want to protect my professional integrity.” I wrote my first resignation letter after that meeting, and promptly deleted it. It was honest, but it was nasty. If I’d handed that letter to the board, I’m sure they would have refused to accept my resignation just so they could fire me. My final resignation letter came several weeks (and drafts) later, but that’s a story for another time. Instead, I’ll end this post by saying that I don’t regret standing up for my students and their right to read the types of books that will help them grow. A few months ago, I was a guest on a panel about banned books. After telling this story (a more condensed form, of course), I admitted that if I could go back and do it all over again, the only thing I would change is that I wouldn’t have asked permission. I would have just bought the books on my own dime and taught them. To the boy who kissed me first:
Thank you for giving me my first kiss, behind the tree after CCD, and calling me “babe” before running off to claim shotgun in your mom’s van before your brother could get there. It was quick, sweet, and exactly what every girl should experience the first time her lips touch someone else’s. Thank you for being honest when you said you had to break up with me because you could never marry someone who was so bossy all the time, even though you originally said that your mother told you to dump me. (I know that we’re supposed to use the term “leadership skills” instead of saying “bossy,” but I’m fully aware that I was, and still am, incredibly bossy.) I would say that I’m sorry for trying to tell you how to live your life, but I refuse to apologize for realizing at the age of five that wanting a career as a race car driver just wasn’t very practical. And the fact that you’re not a Nascar superstar now, twenty years later, just goes to show that I was right. I’m sorry that I acted like such a baby the second time you broke up with me, when you decided to trade me in for a younger model. As a nine-year-old, hard as I tried, I couldn’t compete with a third grader, even if she did have Bugs Bunny teeth and an unfortunate haircut. Actually, you don’t deserve this apology. Instead, I’m going to direct this apology at my parents, who had to witness me sobbing across the backseat of the pick-up every time “You Were Mine” by The Dixie Chicks came on the radio (on top of being bossy, I’ve also always been just a tad overly dramatic). I am genuinely sorry, though, that I didn’t protect you from one of my friends who eventually set her sights on you. No one deserves to get caught in her claws and I could have intervened, but stayed back instead. I hope you’ve recovered in the years since. I’m sure you have, but I’m still sorry that I did nothing to help you. Well, I guess there’s nothing left to say. I hope things are going well for you, and I hope you’re happy. Thank you for being the perfect kindergarten boyfriend. P.S. Every time someone changes the channel to a Nascar race, I always listen for your name. Just in case you’re still trying to prove me wrong. I should be in Portland, Oregon right now. A few months ago, I was one of four students from my university chosen to attend the Willamette Writers Conference. To say I was excited is an understatement. A career in writing depends on connections almost as heavily as it relies on talent, so this was my chance to finally meet people who could help me achieve what I’ve spent my whole life working toward.
Then they told me how we were getting to Portland. Travelling by airplane has never particularly appealed to me, which is why I’d never flown before. I don’t like small spaces, I can’t handle being too close to the people around me, and I still get sick on an almost daily basis, which is not something you want to happen when you’re not allowed to get out of your seat for long periods of time. (Notice that at no point do I mention being worried about the plane crashing. Because I wasn’t worried about that. At all. Contrary to the belief of literally everyone I mentioned my anxiety to, I never once entertained the possibility of the plane crashing.) I lobbied to turn this into a road trip, even volunteering to do the majority of the driving, but I was shot down every time. The others always thought I was kidding. After all, who in their right mind would suggest driving over 3000 miles round trip? Notice the word choice there: “right mind” is not necessarily a phrase that I use to describe how my brain works. I even considered just driving there by myself. Unfortunately, the way my car has been acting lately, I’m not sure it would’ve made it across the first state lines. Fast forward to the day of our departure: August 11. We were supposed to take off at 5:55 p.m. So I had a full day for my anxiety to build up. Awesome. I somehow managed to not get sick in the hours leading up to the trip, so I was feeling pretty confident that things were actually going to go well. I arrived at our small, local airport at the designated time. We checked in and made it through security with no problems. So far, everything was running smoothly. We boarded the plane, I took my seat next to the professor who was taking us on the trip, and two other students sat behind us (the fourth student was already in Portland, awaiting our arrival). Take-off was easy; it felt a little like being on a roller coaster, which I’m not a huge fan of, but it was fine. I glanced out the window a few times, quickly discovering that my state is far prettier from above. I settled back in my seat. This trip was going to be fine. Then it happened. We’d been in the air for about ten minutes when the back of my neck started to get hot. Knowing my body the way I do, I immediately recognized this as a sign that I was going to pass out within the next 45 seconds. I tried to wiggle down in my seat so I wouldn’t fall forward when I fainted, only to discover I couldn’t move. The rest of my body was gradually heating up as my vision blurred. Sure that my 45-second grace period was long past, I wondered how I was still conscious. As I tried to blink away the haze that had settled in front of my eyes, my head suddenly felt as though it was submerged under water. A painful pressure settled in my ears, surrounding me with a suffocating silence, undercut by only a dull roar. Despite having frequent panic attacks, this was different. I’d never experienced one in public before, and I’d never felt paralyzed like this in the middle of an attack. Attempting to drag myself out of this, I tried to take a deep breath. Instead of pulling air into my lungs, though, I felt a weight collapse into my chest. No matter how hard I tried to breathe, I couldn’t seem to get my lungs to cooperate. Rivers of ice slid into the crevices of my brain, creating pools of pain that started behind my eyes and slowly overtook the rest of my head. Steel fingers laced between my ribs and corseted them together until my lungs and heart were smashed against my spine. Apparently we hit a little turbulence before landing. I didn’t notice. My stomach did, of course. My stomach notices everything. I have no idea how long this attack lasted, but our flight was only 50 minutes, so I assume it was around half an hour. When we finally landed in Denver, I stumbled off behind the rest of my group, not entirely sure what was going on. I gripped my suitcase in a hand that had gone completely numb, glancing down every few minutes to make sure I hadn’t released my white-knuckle grip on the handle. I followed my group slowly through the airport, my mind still not quite cleared of the fog. I had no idea where we were headed; I just tried to focus on the backs of their heads so I wouldn’t be left behind. As we worked our way through the airport, we passed a gauntlet of smells, each one more vomitous than the last. Don’t ask what restaurants they had; I wasn’t paying attention. I didn’t even notice they had a bookstore - A BOOKSTORE, PEOPLE! - until I was wandering around on my own later. When we finally reached our gate, the other two students headed off to find a bathroom. My professor tried to say something to me, but her voice was trying to reach me through a tunnel and I couldn’t make out the words. Instead, I started crying. In public. For those of you who don’t know me, that is not something I do. Ever. I’ve fainted in public. I’ve puked in public. I’ve done plenty of embarrassing things in public, but crying is not one of them. While trying to swallow down another sob, I told her that I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t get on another plane, especially knowing that in a few days I’d have to do this trip all over again. She tried to convince me that this plane was bigger; therefore, the ride would be better, but considering that I was still trying to remember how to breathe like a normal human being, I wasn’t exactly in a position to believe her. What I couldn’t explain at the time was that it wasn’t the plane itself that incited my attack. After all, the ride had been fairly uneventful. Nothing went wrong that should have caused me to freak out. I just felt like I had no control over anything and that is not a position with which I am comfortable. Honestly, it was probably the crying in public that convinced her I was serious about my inability to get on the plane. She reluctantly agreed to let me leave the group, rent a car, and drive myself the five hours home. I could tell she didn’t want to leave me there alone, but their plane was boarding, and she had to lead a session first thing the next morning, so she didn’t have much choice. As soon as my professor and the other two students left, I bolted for the nearest bathroom and threw up what little food I’d managed to choke down earlier in the day. After my stomach was under control a little, I made my way back through the airport to ground transportation so I could talk to someone about renting a car. By this point, I’d switched my suitcase from my completely numb right hand to my completely numb left hand. At ground transportation, the lady informed me that the rental car representatives no longer stay at the airport. I would have to call one of the companies, make a reservation, and then take a shuttle to an off-site location where I could pick up the car. I was looking up the number for Hertz when I was hit with a horrible realization: I only had $150 in my account. I hadn’t planned to spend any money on Thursday, and my paycheck would be directly deposited into my account on Friday morning, so I hadn’t thought to worry about it before. I had no idea how much it would cost to rent a car, plus the cost of gas on the way home and anything else I might need. So I called my mom. This is the third time I’ve called my mom crying. The first was in junior high when I got sick at camp and she had to come get me (luckily it was only an hour away), and the second was a few years ago when I got in a car accident in Omaha (which is also about five hours away, but fortunately my car was still functional after getting t-boned and I could still drive home). I tried my best to explain what had happened, but I don’t know how much she understood between all of my sniffling and hiccupping. She finally asked if I was somewhere I could calm down and breathe and I told her I had found a somewhat-deserted section of the airport. She told me to just sit and relax, she’d figure something out, and then she’d call me back. Within about a minute of hanging up with my mom, one of my friends called me. My professor had called her and filled her in on what happened, so she was checking to make sure I wasn’t huddled in a corner somewhere freaking out. As someone who has suffered her fair share of panic attacks, she understood what I’d experienced, and for that I was grateful. It’s impossible to truly understand what it’s like to be trapped inside a cage of anxiety if you’ve never been there yourself. I talked to her for a few minutes, but quickly ducked out of the conversation because I wanted to get my crying under control before too many people noticed me sitting there. After hanging up with her, I went and threw up again. On my way back to my seat, my mom called back and said that she and my aunt were going to drive out to Denver and pick me up. I kept trying to apologize to her, but she finally cut me off, saying, “Think about who you inherited this from. I get it. It’s not your fault.” This, of course, started me crying all over again. She promised to call when they got close, and then hung up. By now, the feeling was finally returning to my hands, causing them to shake almost uncontrollably. But, my stomach being what it is, didn’t care that my hands were busy, and forced me to half-drag my suitcase back to the bathroom so I could dry heave for a few minutes. This time all that came up was a little bit of blood, which led me to realize that at some point I’d bitten a small chunk out of the inside of my right cheek. With my body now somewhat back to normal, I settled in to wait for my mom and aunt to make the five-hour trip to Denver to pick me up. The first few times I heard another plane take off my chest tightened and I had to remind myself to breathe, but eventually the planes just became additional background noise that I learned to ignore. I tried to read, but the headache that had started on the plane made it difficult to focus on the words. I tried to scroll through Facebook and Twitter, but looking at my phone screen for more than a couple minutes at a time made my stomach threaten to rebel all over again. So I hunkered down in my seat and observed the constant activity around me, occasionally texting the friend who’d called me earlier to update her on my mental status. I couldn’t help but hope that something good would come out of this and I would run into a celebrity who had a layover in Denver. No such luck. I was, however, quite entertained by a guy down the row from me who decided to spend his four-hour layover calling every single one of his Tinder matches in an attempt to woo them to the airport for a quick hook-up before his flight left. He wasn’t having much luck either. These hours spent in the airport provided me plenty of time to think, which isn’t necessarily the best thing for me. And during those hours, the guilt started to sink in. Guilt that I’d messed up a trip that had been in the works for months. Guilt that my professor had wasted grant money on my plane ticket and conference registration. Guilt that my professor was now forced to pull her attention away from preparing for her presentation in order to worry about having left me behind. But with the realization that I couldn’t change any of that, humiliation started to take over. Having an emotional breakdown is one thing, but having one in public is significantly worse. I kept replaying the looks on my travelling companions’ faces. The looks that scream, “What is her problem? Why is she acting like that?” I began to wonder what would have happened if I’d given in to the panic in the way I usually do, where I claw at my throat in an attempt to help myself breathe and scream through gritted teeth into my clenched fists and curl up into a ball in the hopes that if I make myself small enough the anxiety will pass through my body more quickly. Would that have clued in my companions to the torture I was suffering? Or would I have come across as simply attention-seeking and overly dramatic? I thought about the fact that, upon returning to school in the coming weeks, I would be confronted by people who assume I was just being a baby and I should have pulled myself together and gotten onto the next plane. But I also reminded myself that there’s nothing I can do about that. So instead of trying to defend myself to those people, I’ll just have to congratulate them on being one of the lucky humans who never experiences paralyzing anxiety. Finally, around one in the morning (Mountain Time), my rescue team arrived. Despite their sketchy sense of direction, my mom and my aunt were the perfect duo to swoop in and save me. As soon as I got in the car, I was fully prepared to start crying again as I apologized, “Sorry you guys had to make this ridiculous trip because I can’t handle my life.” My aunt immediately reminded me that both she and my mom suffer panic attacks and insisted that I not feel bad about what happened. They then proceeded to spend the drive home cheering me up. We finally made it back to my aunt’s house around five in the morning (Central Time), where I choked out one final apology to my mom before falling asleep. This failed trip taught me something incredibly important about myself. I have to start trusting my own instincts, regardless of what other people think. If I had insisted on driving myself instead of flying with the others, I would be in Portland right now, meeting people who could help kick-start my career, or wandering the aisles at Powell’s Books (which, let’s face it, is the real reason I wanted to go). But instead I did what I always do: I let the opinions of others make me doubt myself. I knew from the beginning that my anxiety issues wouldn’t mix well with being trapped in a giant tube in the air, but I allowed myself to believe the people who told me that my fears were ridiculous (this goes back to the whole “you don’t have to worry about the plane crashing” thing, which, again, was never something I was worried about). So from now on, I’m going to listen to myself regarding whether or not I’m comfortable with doing something. Because, let’s face it, it’s almost always the people who don’t deal with anxiety who try to play off others’ fears as infinitesimal, so who in their right mind would let someone else control their decisions? Although, as I mentioned before, “right mind” isn’t exactly something I possess. For those of you who don’t know me, I feel compelled to admit that I’m a bit competitive. And by “a bit” I actually mean that I will stoop to embarrassingly low levels in order to win even the most meaningless competition. As expected, this unwillingness to lose gracefully tends to get me in trouble. A lot. Especially when I was younger.
As a kid, I had two primary interests: books and music. When it came to books, no one could match me. I read constantly. When the school held a year-long reading contest in which you could exchange pages read for prizes, I took no prisoners. While my classmates would proudly hand in their signed reading logs that claimed they’d read 20 pages, earning themselves a candy bar, I would scoff, revealing my own log (to which extra pages had to be added constantly) and winning sweatshirts, t-shirts, and a canvas folding chair, among various other prizes. I cleaned house on the big prizes. (I still don’t know of a career in competitive reading, but if you hear of one, let me know.) Music was another matter entirely. I don’t think it’s bragging to say that I have musical talent. I play several instruments and I’ve been singing since I learned to talk. I work hard and I practice. But it was never quite enough. My biggest competition in the world of music has always been the same person. For the sake of anonymity, let’s call her B. (This is definitely just an arbitrary letter and in no way resembles the first letter of her name.) Anyway, B was one of my first friends. She was also the one who forced me to accept the fact that, when it came to singing, I was lacking in one important area: volume. B, on the other hand, had more than enough volume for the both of us and I was always a little offended that she wouldn’t share. I’m not entirely sure when my friendship with B turned into a diluted form of professional jealousy, but let’s just say it wasn’t pretty. It became difficult for me to remain friends with her because I could feel myself beginning to resent her. If a song called for a soloist, B was the first choice. If someone needed a singer, they called B. When it came time for the National Anthem at games, there was B, mic in hand (not that she really needed it). She never rubbed it in my face and always seemed a little hurt that I could usually be counted on to point out some imaginary flaw in her performance. I’m not proud of my behavior. I wish I could blame it on the fact that I was in junior high, but I think the truth of the matter is simply that I was being a bitch. When it came time for high school, I was given a choice. There were four high schools, located equidistant from my house, and my parents allowed me to choose where I would spend the next four years of my life. It would have made the most sense to attend the school B was at; my mother had been a teacher there, I knew most of the kids who would be in my class, and it had the smallest class sizes. Instead, I picked a different school, mostly because it had a great reputation for its vocal music program and I knew that without B around, I might have a chance at being the star. (Fun fact: It took all four years of high school, but my senior year I did get the lead role in the musical, so I’m going to go ahead and call my plan a success.) Being at different schools, B and I didn’t cross paths as often, at least not in a competitive sense. Then, one Christmas Eve changed everything. (My word, that sounds cheesy. I apologize. Bear with me as I explain.) Every Christmas Eve, our church gathers together all the singers and we have a choir. It’s easily my favorite part of Christmas. There are two members of the choir who always sing “O Holy Night” together while everyone is silently kneeling after Communion. It’s gorgeous and I’m 97% positive that the congregation would riot if it didn’t happen. Anyway, one year, the two people who always sing it weren’t going to make it to mass. We had two options: skip it and hope no one noticed, or take a chance on two new people. I’m not sure how we managed to convince all of the adults involved (including my mother, who plays the organ for Christmas Eve), but somehow it was decided that B and I could try “O Holy Night.” The major downside was, because I had such a soft voice, we’d have to sing in the microphones up front instead of singing from the choir loft like the other pair always did. For a couple days, my mother helped me learn the alto part, as we just assumed B would sing the melody. Then, when we showed up for the first practice, something miraculous happened. B’s voice cracked when she got to the higher notes. I’d never heard her do that before, and haven’t heard it happen since. But I couldn’t help but cheer internally when it was decided that I would sing the melody and B would jump down to the harmony part. It had taken years, but I’d finally found something I could do better than B. Sure, she could belt to bring the house down, but what did that matter to me? That octave above high C was my home. Those notes were the friends I’d made as a small child when I begged my mother to play every song from The Phantom of the Opera until I knew all the words. I never hesitated on the high notes because I knew that no matter how lost I might be in the real world, I could always find myself in those notes I knew so well. B and I sang “O Holy Night” together several times after that first success, and we never disappointed. That song stripped away our years of competition and all of my petty jealousy. We sounded perfect together. But then we grew up. We went to different colleges and pursued different passions. I followed the route of books and academia. B continued with music, eventually forgoing a teaching job in order to find her place on an opera stage. I still go home every Christmas Eve and “O Holy Night” is now my solo (though, this past year one of my nieces took over B’s part). B doesn’t come home as often, as she’s busy living her dreams. She performed with her college opera group during school and just this summer spent time in Chicago and New York performing. Looking at everything B has accomplished in the past few years, the younger version of me still wants to feel the pangs of jealousy. But who I’ve become is too busy being insanely proud of my oldest friend. She’s grown immensely as a singer over the years, both in volume (which I honestly didn’t think was possible) and in range. When I hear her sing now, I get a little teary-eyed, remembering where she started in that elementary music room, shout-singing along with the rest of us. I know that our days of singing together are over. Her voice has grown too large for us to ever blend properly again; unless she stood 20 feet back from her mic and I put mine inside of my mouth. But that’s okay. I truly believe we’ve both found what we needed from the music that’s always lived inside of us. She has her performances, the crowds, and the standing ovations. And I have that high note at the end of “O Holy Night”; which is really all I ever wanted. Before we begin, I need to know how many of you are familiar with Christine Miserandino’s “Spoon Theory.” If you know all about it, you can skip the next paragraph. If you’ve never heard of it, I’ll try to explain.
Miserandino created the “Spoon Theory” to help a friend understand what it’s like to live with lupus. Every morning you’re given a certain number of “spoons” and each activity you engage in throughout the day costs you a “spoon.” (Okay, I’m tired of doing the quotation marks thing, so from now on I’m just going to say spoon.) Because of the limited number of spoons, you have to carefully weigh all of your decisions to determine whether or not it’s an activity worth depleting your spoon supply. Miserandino explains that simple tasks like getting out of bed, showering, and putting on clothes cost one spoon each. By the time you manage to drag yourself to work, you’re already running low on spoons. If you manage to make it through your entire day, you might have one spoon left when you get home, so you’re forced to choose among making yourself dinner, doing something fun, or just falling into bed as you cradle your one remaining spoon and pray it will carry over into tomorrow. (For more information on the Spoon Theory, check out Miserandino’s original post at butyoudontlooksick.com.) For those of you who skipped my explanation because you’re already familiar with the Spoon Theory, you may start reading again. Everyone with me? Great. Now, I don’t have lupus, so my spoons aren’t affected exactly like Miserandino’s. Instead, my spoons are stolen by severe anxiety and mild depression. Also, for the purpose of this post, I’m going to refer to my spoons as “pencils,” because I’m specifically discussing how my anxiety disorder affected my life as a teacher. So, I tentatively present to you, the “Pencil Theory.” Actually, before I get too far into this, I feel the need to include a disclaimer: My teaching experience was not normal. The situation I found myself in was more of a freak accident; one that my teacher friends find appalling because the series of unfortunate events I endured is extremely unusual. So if you’re considering going into teaching as a profession, don’t let my story scare you away. Also, I won’t be covering everything that happened during my short-lived teaching career, because I need to save some stories for the memoir I’m working on. This post focuses solely on how my teaching experience affected my mental health. Okay, here we go. For real this time. I taught high school English for one year. I’d worked as a substitute for a year and did a semester of student teaching, so I felt more prepared than many first-year teachers. I also come from a long line of teachers, so I had plenty of sources I could turn to for advice. This helped make the beginning of the school year far less stressful than it could have been. For the first few months, I genuinely enjoyed teaching. Of course, there were hiccups every now and then, but I expected those and tried not to let them get to me. Then, in November, everything changed. (To be honest, I don’t know if things actually changed in November, or if I was just blissfully unaware of the cracks in the system for the first three months.) I’ve always suffered from anxiety and depression and I’ve had infrequent panic attacks since I was a teenager. But in November 2014, all of that became significantly worse. My anxiety caused me to get sick every single morning before I left for school, sometimes to the point where I had to call in for a sub or risk having to carry a trash can around while I taught. My depression made it difficult to drag myself out of bed in the first place, and usually the only thing that coaxed me out from under the covers was the sudden need to vomit. My formerly infrequent panic attacks were now occurring at least three times a week. This continued from mid-November to mid-May. I spent half a year of my life completely consumed by this unrelenting beast. But why? Why did this happen? This is where the “Pencil Theory” comes in. While I didn’t realize it at the time, all of my increased anxiety was caused by the severe daily depletion of my pencil supply. Let me explain. Every morning began with sacrificing pencils by being sick for at least 15 minutes. I don’t know how many pencils are contained in that much vomit, but as you know if you’ve ever had the stomach flu, it’s exhausting. If I knew a particularly stressful day awaited me (which happened more often than not), the vomiting would subside long enough for me to curl up in a ball on my bathroom floor, clawing desperately at my chest as I failed to pull enough air into my lungs to convince myself I wasn’t really dying and the walls weren’t actually closing in on me. After my heart finally realized I hadn’t just run a marathon, I could peel myself off the tile, spend a few more minutes kneeling in front of the toilet, and then find something to wear that would complement the purple bags that my sleepless nights thought perfectly accentuated my eyes. Armed with significantly fewer pencils than I possessed upon waking, I could finally leave my house. Upon arriving at school I was bombarded by pencil thieves in the form of my co-workers. Two pencils to the male teachers who refused to respect my personal boundaries because they craved attention from one of the few single women in town. A pencil to the co-worker who would legitimately spy on the teachers and report everything back to the principal, despite having no context for anything she’d seen or heard. A pencil to the co-worker who seemed trustworthy, but also did some pretty shady stuff that I inevitably ended up taking the blame for. Three pencils to the veteran teachers whose favorite pastime was reminding me that “this is how we’ve always done things; stop trying to implement new ideas.” A handful of pencils to the co-worker who needed constant validation that she was good at her job, that she wasn’t getting fired, that yes we really were friends. And this was all before the first bell. Then come the students. Don’t get me wrong; I loved my students. Most of them were perfectly fine and I didn’t have problems with them. But they still took pencils. The good kids asked politely to borrow a pencil, which I gladly gave even though I knew that if they remembered to return it, it would be a mere stub of its former self. The kids who tried to behave, but just weren’t great at school required their own set of pencils, which I handed them without being asked, knowing I’d never get them back, but hopeful that these pencils would give them the confidence to keep trying. Then there were the asshole students. (Don’t look so offended; you all know kids like this. And if you don’t, you probably were a kid like this.) The asshole students were the ones who marched up to my desk, grabbed a fistful of pencils, and spent the entire class period sharpening them down to unusable nubs and then biting off the erasers for good measure before tossing them in the general direction of the trash can on their way out the door. I had one student who was brilliant, easily my best student, but by the time she reached my class at the end of the day, her own pencil supply was dangerously depleted. So if I had any left I would loan her a few of mine, hoping that would be enough to get her through that final hour before she could go home and curl up inside herself until she learned to breathe again. By the time the final bell rang, I was lucky if I still had a handful of eraser crumbs left, much less a full pencil. But my day wasn’t over yet. After school consisted of detentions, make-up tests, IEP meetings, conferences with parents, committee meetings, play practices, forensics practices, forensics competitions, yearbook duties, concession stand duties, basketball games, etc. Oh, and my personal favorite: ambushes from the principal and superintendent who made a habit of calling me in with no warning to demand I change certain aspects of my teaching style despite the fact that they never came in to actually watch me teach. Most of these activities could have been mildly enjoyable (well, not so much the administrative ambushes), except I usually had to lock myself in my classroom, curl up behind my desk, and hyperventilate/sob for a few minutes before I could even consider engaging in social interaction again. If some miracle allowed me to drag myself home before nine, possessively clutching any remaining eraser crumbs or slivers of graphite, exhausted, nauseated, and in desperate need of a long shower cry, I was greeted by piles of papers to grade, lesson plans to create, and an endless barrage of messages from a co-worker insisting I come over because she needed constant human contact from the moment she woke up until she finally fell asleep. Now, math isn’t my thing, so I have no idea how many pencils I was expected to dole out for at least 18 hours every day for six months, but I’m positive that it’s significantly more pencils than I had in my possession. And after digging myself into a bottomless pit of anxiety for half a year, I finally knew that it had to stop. Quitting my job wasn’t easy, but the never-ending strain on my mental health ultimately led me to walk away from teaching - possibly forever. As I’ve mentioned, my severe anxiety disorder was not the only reason I quit teaching, but it was the most important. While I wish my first and only year of teaching had been a better experience, I’m a little bit grateful that it ended as horribly as it did. Without the snap of that final pencil, it’s entirely possible that I would’ve listened to everyone advising me to stick it out for another year, and I honestly don’t know if I could have survived that. But I recognize now that I have to be careful how I distribute my pencils throughout every day, and this was a lesson that I needed to learn in order to understand how to better help myself so I never get sucked into that tornado of anxiety again. So if you take nothing else from this post, please remember that you own every pencil you’re allotted each morning and no one can demand that you hand any over. And if someone tries to steal one of your pencils, offer to sharpen it first, and then aim for the eye. In my twenty-five years of life I have been in at least ten weddings and attended several more. I hate weddings. Even if the couple is perfect for each other (they’re usually not), I hate going to weddings. I still go if I’m invited and I usually bring a present (or at least a card with $20 in it), but unless I’m required to help with something at the reception/dance, I almost always cut out as soon as the recessional music dies away. There are several reasons for this, but I don’t feel like getting into those right now, so I’m just going to focus on the most important one.
While making small talk at the reception (something I’m notoriously terrible at), the conversation inevitably turns to, “And when are you getting married, Jacinta?” I used to laugh and give some vague time in the future, like after college or after I had a good job or after I found a boyfriend. Not anymore. Now I shrug and answer as honestly as possible: “Probably never.” (Cue looks of horror from everyone within earshot.) I haven’t always been opposed to my own marriage. For a while in my youth I eagerly planned every detail of my wedding to the point that all I needed was a man to stand at the altar and let the perfection of my vision work around him. But things have changed. I’ve accurately predicted the failings of too many marriages. I recognize what causes incompatibility between two people. I’m all too aware of my own inability to tolerate another human being for more than a few hours at a time, and apparently marriages are supposed to last for a lifetime, which, I’m not great at math so correct me if I’m wrong, but I’m almost positive that a lifetime lasts more than a few hours. Now don’t get me wrong. I’m not saying that no one should ever get married. Some people get married and live happily ever after, and that’s awesome. I’m just saying that I, personally, don’t feel the need for me to ever get married. Obviously, this isn’t written in stone (mostly because I’m too lazy to chisel all of this into a rock), and I might one day get married. But I’m not holding my breath. I’m also not worried about it. I mean, I kind of want kids at some point, but not enough to settle for someone I probably wouldn’t want a miniature version of. Besides, there are so many kids who need adopted, so should I ever decide that I definitely want children, I have options. In the meantime, I’m going to just continue to enjoy being super single. I’ll go on dates that will probably end with me politely explaining that, no, he can’t come back to my apartment because he’s already surpassed my two hours of human contact and I now need to be alone for at least forty-eight hours to recover. I’ll attend weddings, regardless of whether or not the couple has a chance at staying together, and sneak out before anyone engages me in conversation. I’ll grimace politely when people make comments about the fact that I’m not married and not getting any younger. But most importantly, I’ll continue to do whatever makes me happy. And right now, I’m happy doing my own thing and figuring out who I am and what I want out of life. And if marriage is never in the cards for me, so it goes. P.S. Don’t tell my nieces about this post. They’re overly concerned that I’m going to die alone. |
Jacinta M. CarterProfessional Book Nerd Archives
March 2019
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