What comes next

I filled out an application yesterday for the Metropolitan State University of Denver. Assuming I get in (perhaps it's hubris, but I'm operating on that assumption), I will start classes at the end of August.

I didn't get in to the first program -- the Teacher in Residency -- on which I had my hopes and heart set. I didn't even apply to the second and third and fourth programs I looked at. I fell into despair and spent a black month feeling wasted and old and useless.

I colored my hair crimson.

I pulled on my big girl panties and did some research and figured out that totally changing directions at age 41 is hard, but not impossible. If I want to teach science, I can teach science, but the powers-that-be are not going to simply accept my assurance that I know enough. I need proof that I have knowledge to share. So I'm going back to college to get what will essentially be a second bachelor's degree in Science (with an emphasis in Chemistry). Once I've fulfilled about 2 years worth of requirements, I'll apply to the Teacher's Ed program and move forward. I'm calling it a four year plan. I can do this.

My husband is sceptical. He, too, is feeling old, mostly because he's been working more than full time all along. He recently started using the word "retirement" and talking about how we'll have an empty nest in nine years. I believe he has visions of the two of us travelling and just hanging out together after the kids have gone off to college. The idea of me starting a career right now messes with his plans. 

Relaxing into the ease of that life -- my current life -- is tempting. No struggling to learn calculus. No dealing with fractious parents who are offended by my teaching style. Traveling and adventuring without concern for the calendar. Those are gifts he's offering me. 

I can't accept them. 

I need to contribute, somehow. I've waited a long time to get to this point. There's been a whole behind-the-scenes process of self rediscovery that had to happen before I could even start the application process. I've fought to get to this point, and I know I want to teach. I always have. 

Besides, what else would I do? A friend recently posited that I could write, not just for my blog or occasional online prompts, but really write, for publication. I'd never considered that. Honestly? I've never believed enough in myself. Lately I've been reading a lot of other peoples' work, and I can truthfully say that some of my writing is better. And I have my friend's assurance that I really do write well enough to maybe even sell some of my words. So that will be my fallback. It's good to have a back up plan. In the meantime I'll be studying algebra on Khan Academy this summer, and in the fall I'm signing up for Chemistry, Geography, and Biology. 

I'm looking forward to it.

On Our Knees

The play yard was quiet this afternoon. Parents nodded across the concrete, barely willing to acknowledge their horror on the sacred grounds of our elementary school. Strangers stood close, taking silent comfort in community. We waited, restless for the bell to ring, for our children to flood from the building, to embrace our little ones with desperate relief.

A father stood next to me. I watched as the bell shrilled and his daughter came running joyfully from the building, long hair flying, headband askew. He saw her and collapsed to his knees, unable to hold back his tears as he clasped her to him, whispering over and over "I love you so much".

We were all on our knees today. Praying. Or mourning. Brought down by fear. By horror. We were on our knees with helplessness and anger. Humbled by chance and circumstance and an embarrassing gratitude for our good fortune. Felled by sorrow and sympathy, or, for the truly unfortunate, empathy. 

I don't know where we go from here. I can think of no solutions. I have no answers. I do know I cannot, I will not, stay on my knees. I will rise up and carry on. I will hold tight to my children. And then I will loose them, that they may dance and sing and hurt and love and live. I will cherish them, and love them, and bless the days that I have with them. Because that is all I can do.

To Sleep, Perchance to Dream

Slept enough last night to dream, but wasn't rested when I woke. Sad scary thoughts are passing through my head at night.

I dreamt of climbing mountains with friends. The rocks were steep and the views spectacular, but I was uncomfortable and felt like I was going to fall. Suddenly I looked down into a crevasse and there was a woman there, obviously in distress. She was bleeding. I tried to tell everyone she must have fallen, she was bleeding from internal injuries. I watched the pool of blood grow and we looked down on her and could do nothing, we couldn't reach her. A man came up and told us there was a knife accident, that he had stabbed her in the stomach. We sat at the edge, looking down 100 feet and she lay there and bled and died, and I couldn't do anything.

I dreamt a friend called, a dear friend. He was crying and his voice was all wrong. He said he was glad I was there for the interview, because it was really upsetting him and he'd broken the door and hurt the gerbils. But I wasn't there, and I couldn't help from so far away. I couldn't do anything.

The worst of these nightmares was many years ago. I was held in a concrete basement, eyes propped open, bound to a chair. For hours I was held and forced to watch a film reel of the horrific murder of dozens of people, one after another, and I knew that it was my fault, I had caused it, I had done nothing and they were dead and it was all mine. That was more than 20 years ago and it is still vivid enough to bring tears to my eyes.

I saw a therapist after that one. She excused my poor psyche and told me these dreams were about my sense of responsibility. I don't remember anything else she told me about them. All I know is sometimes I wake up feeling like I have failed someone, that I could have, should have done better. And I carry that feeling with me through my days and nights, even when I don't have those dreams.

Reunion Redux: Once More, With Feeling!

I have posted a few (okay, several) times about my abiding sense of awkwardness and loneliness. This was particularly true at last year's UWC reunion. Nonetheless, I felt compelled to go again this year, largely because I wanted to see my first-year roommate, of whom I have fantastic warm memories. I am very glad I went. At the end of the weekend I said goodbye and embraced everyone, relishing the knowledge that twenty years and thousands of miles have not diminished our friendships. 

This year has been one of transformation for me. Having begun my personal fitness odyssey, I am no longer as overwhelmingly ashamed of my physical self. I have revisited my priorities, and am working to take care of my emotional health. I have learned to speak in the gibberish of self-help gurus.

Perhaps that's why with this group I didn't feel the need to try so very hard to impress. I was delighted to meet up with my roomie and several other people I really liked then, and still like now. We laughed, we wrote together, we reminisced. There were many hugs. It was good. I also spent time alone, enjoying the beautiful weather and some much-needed solitude. And I danced until my feet ached, joyous in the company of dear friends.

Like last year there were a number of scheduled activities, most of which I skipped this time around. One in which I did participate was a remembrance ceremony. Walking to the  garden felt like approaching a funeral, especially when I saw boxes of tissues at the end of each row of folding chairs. Still, there was a certain peacefulness sitting under the pine trees, listening to the low murmur of voices dulled by the wind in the top boughs.

Below the bright blue sky we honored benefactors I never knew, and mourned classmates I  wished I'd known better. Mourners spoke of the friendships forged at the school, and the lives changed by them. And, during a passionate speech in which he expressed his gratitude for the school, his now-deceased parents, and the twenty years of students he has taught, a marvelous teacher spoke about how honored he has been to love and be loved his students. One line rang through me like a bell: "it is easy to give love. It is difficult to receive it".

For more than twenty years I have mistrusted most affection I have been offered. Believing that I would be mocked or somehow humiliated if I responded, I practiced diffidence and deflection. I was fine offering myself, giving of myself, but I read sinister intent behind the most casual, unintentional slights. And I have missed out. I I know now that my fear came from a lack of self-worth, and I am trying to change my thinking. I will continue to give. Now I must learn to receive.

This morning I woke from a dream in which I was hurrying to catch a bus for which I was desperately late. Instead of feeling frantic and guilty, though, I grinned and hurried and just managed -- awkwardly dragging a suitcase and stumbling through doors -- to make it on board. I looked around and saw dozens of people I have known (including those I'd just seen at the reunion), all smiling. In the past I would have understood them to be mocking my ineptitude. In my dream, though, as I searched for an open seat, everyone was gesturing eagerly for me to join them. As I flopped down in the nearest available space I laughed, filled with delight at the love and friendships that surrounded me.

Through Another's Eyes

I've often wished my friends could both see themselves as I do and believe the marvelous things I see. So many of the people I know don't have faith in themselves, and few realize how impressive they truly are. I've been told that's true of me, as well.

I don't know when I lost my confidence. I think it was gradual, starting in middle school right around the time I was first bullied. Apparently it didn't show; I walk tall and pretend I am more confident than I actually am (fake it 'til you make it), but for years my foundations slowly eroded until I had no faith in anything about myself: intelligence, parenting, friendships, writing, my job. Above all I never believed I could accomplish anything. I've been embarrassed for years about the disappointing trajectory of my life.

I hit rock bottom around December of last year. I considered walking away, abandoning my current life. I thought about suicide a lot, even knowing I could never do that to the people I love. (As the child of a suicide I know something of the aftermath.) I thought about getting counseling, even though the last counselor I went to essentially told me I was being ridiculous. I almost opted for pyschopharmacology, which again would require going to a counselor.

I don't know what shifted, but in January I took control of one aspect of my life: my health. I started eating better, exercising, and getting more sleep. I started to feel better about my physical self. Then, instead of just griping about a toxic situation I was in I allowed myself to be irresponsible for once and walked away. With the encouragement of a new/old friend, I gave myself permission to stop trying so hard to make people like me. And I've started taking ownership of my life again.

I still have a great deal of rebuilding to do. It's been more than twenty years since I saw myself as someone worthy of friendship. Those doubts still creep up on me regularly – the bullies of yesteryear are unwelcome residents in my mind. However, I'm trying.

This month I have been graced with a glimpse of how others saw me for my first twenty years. As part of my college re-application process I went looking for some very old records -- IB and SAT scores in particular. My mother, bless her, had not only those but all my report cards from kindergarten through the end of my years at UWC. In each document someone had written a few words summarizing their experience with me. I read through them with tears in my eyes. I was described as bright and delightful to teach. Instructors saw me as a leader, a teacher, an intelligent and enthusiastic student. They believed in me.

For years my biggest fear has been that I am a completely forgettable person -- reliable, dependable, but the person in your yearbook you don't remember at all. I've been surprised by the outreach on Facebook from people I barely knew. Maybe I just need to see myself through their eyes.

One Shot

Look, if you had one shot, or one opportunity

To seize everything you ever wanted in one moment

Would you capture it or just let it slip?-- Eminem, "Lose Yourself"

Seventeen years ago I dropped the ball, big time. My "final" semester of college I had a 3.68 GPA, was on the dean's list for the fourth time, and was looking forward to graduation. And then I imploded. There are any number of excuses -- the end of a three-year relationship I had thought would lead to marriage and a white picket fence; starting a full-time job for the university president that felt like a conflict of interest; an arrogant professor with whom I couldn't work; a calamitous new roommate situation. It doesn't matter. I self destructed and a year later was given an "administrative withdrawal" with a final GPA of 1.85, two Fs on record, and no degree. I was 3 credits short.

This week I decided that, as a 40th birthday present to myself, I'm going to start the process of getting my degree. It's the first step towards my next goal: a teaching license.

I am terrified.

I have a habit of starting projects I don't complete. My university career was perhaps the biggest, but certainly not the last. I have abandoned friendships, ruined at least one relationship, and walked away from a career. I have tucked away five or six half-finished sewing projects, crocheted three or four partial baby blankets, written just the opening of too many stories and essays to count. Each of those is part of my personal litany of failures, the cumulative effect of which is a crushing sense of self-doubt and imminent failure. I can't even host a dinner party without a moment of panic that no one will show or I'll inadvertently poison everyone who does make it.

Now I am faced with the prospect of two or three years of classes -- assuming they'll accept me as a transfer student with that final GPA – just to get my bachelor's degree, and unknown more to get a teaching certificate. Looking at my track record, the doubts are coming hard and fast.

There is one saving grace. I believe teaching is my calling. More than twenty years ago a fellow student in my algebra class leaned over and asked "are you going to be a teacher?" I've been asked that same question, or a variant on it, hundreds of times since then. And the truth is, I love teaching; it comes naturally to me. So, if I have to get my degree to do it, I have a reason to finish.

This time, maybe I'll make it. I'm older, wiser, and have fewer distractions than I did 17 years ago. Plus, the stakes are higher: this is my one shot.

Wish me luck.

I fear . . . Myself

I fear my weakness, because it makes me vulnerable.

I fear how needy I am. I am desperate for love and comfort and validation from outside.

I am afraid of how mean and petty I can be, because I hurt people.

I am afraid of my greed and selfishness, because they disappoint me.

I am terrified by the black sludge of anger and resentment that resides in me. I fear it will erupt and burn everything around me.

I fear my strength, because it isolates me.

I am afraid of my laziness and complacency, because I don't want to disappoint.

I fear my awkwardness and lack of social skills, because they lead to loneliness.

I fear the voice in my head, because she sees all I do, and calls everything a failure.

I fear . . . Other Moms

I fear the gossiping, cutting tongues of my peers. 

Several books have been written in the past decade about mom-on-mom judgementalism. The books try to codify why women are so hard on each other, scoffing at every choice -- stay at home, work, take (or don't take) your kids to McDonald's occasionally. As far as I can tell, it all boils down to the same striving we all did when we were kids. We all want to be cool, and the easiest way to look good is to deride others. In high school it was about clothes and boyfriends and after-school activities. Now it's about houses and husbands and our children's after-school activities.

I am a good cook, but a mediocre housekeeper. I shiver in fear when my kids have playdates, because I worry about what the other mom will think of my home. I worry when my son wears the same shirt four days in a row. I say yes to activities I should decline, because I want to look "good", whatever that means. I keep quiet when I should yell, because I worry about rocking the boat.

I am embarrassed by my own cowardice, but it's so much easier to try and fit in . . .

I fear . . . Mean Kids

I wrote this poem a few months ago when my son (and family) was in crisis. My terror for his emotional safety has abated, but I am breathless with dread when I think about helping him, and then my daughter, through the emotional rocks of middle and high school.


I am one step removed
And still the name calling
And cruel games
Carve my heart.
No one told me that parenting
Meant living through middle school again.

Now, I have the added responsibility
Of guiding my son
Through these treacherous waters.

I am stuck
Somewhere left of helpless.

I know that ultimately
He must be the one to stop the noise
still I hover
On the periphery
balancing not-jumping-in
(Use your words/steps/ACTIONS)
With the fierce desire
To destroy those
Who wound my boy
(and by proxy, me)

Simmering under it all is the fear
That my son
Will become a catastrophe
Of sadness and anger.

It all comes down
To the blacktop
Where words slice
And children bleed innocence.

These are a few of my scariest things . . .

I have been challenged by a friend to write more, and to prompt me (and a few others) she gave us assignments. This week, every day I am supposed to write something, anything, on what scares me. All day today I have been ducking the assignment, because it's so personal for me. But I promised, so here goes . . .


I have always been a talker. In middle school I talked, trying to impress; in high school I talked to hide my fear; in college I talked because isn't that what college is about? I talked about politics and philosophy and music and art and traveling and dreams and fears. I talked to anyone who would listen, and many who didn't really want to, but had no choice.

Somewhen along the way, I slowed down. I stopped talking during movies. I practiced listening at coffee houses. I began focusing on the unsaid that happens between words. I learned to hear. And I became embarrassed about how much I had spoken. All along I had talked about me and me and me and me. None of the talking had gotten me anywhere. I didn't have many friends. I wasn't invited to parties. So I tried listening. I listened to heartaches and triumphs. I listened to secrets and facts. I listened until people would call me just to to talk, because they knew I would listen.

I felt important when I talked. I felt needed when I listened.


The problem is, lately I have been doing neither. I have become untethered, and my fear is that I am becoming irrelevant, and therefore invisible. I am fading, becoming a background person. Some people are the center of attention. They have charisma and shine with a particular light. Others are like movie extras. They are necessary to make the shot complete, but they blend into the background. They are invisible to the story. They are familiar and comforting in their presence, but their absence doesn't have a real impact. In fact, during the important moments, their presence is intrusive and unwelcome. 


I don't know how to fix this. I wish I could take a potion and become charismatic. I tried making myself relevant through volunteer work and community activism. I do my best to be a good neighbor, and I reach out the hand of friendship to pretty much everyone. But being useful is not the same as being a friend, and my outstretched hand is often ignored. So I retreat, finding myself hiding in books like I did 30 years ago, and, now, writing. At least with the internet I know my voice will not fade, no matter how ghostly I become.

Reunion

I drove far too fast to get there. At first I credited the freedom of travelling solo. I had no worries about snacks or potty stops. There was no peacemaking from the front seat. Instead I turned on the radio so loud the windows shook and I rocketed through the sere landscape. For once there was solitude to marvel at the bare bones of the earth revealed by twisting golden draperies of vegetation and contrasted by the endless cerulean sky. I overtook a storm and flew through it, a Valkyrie dodging cars like they were standing still. The chill rain flew in through open windows and I tasted the greys and pinks of the clouds and flew even faster. I drove more than 300 miles in four hours.

Later, at the outskirts of town, I pulled to the shoulder, shaking and sobbing against the steering wheel. I finally acknowledged that my urgency came not from joy but anxiety and the pathetic fear that no one would remember me. Once my tears dried I debated running away, but instead went forward through the sheer mists of memory overlaying the landscape in front of me.

At the front desk I stumbled through the first greetings, relieved slightly by awkward hugs. I searched for beloved faces, and the warmth of embraces offered first through Facebook, and then in person. Yet, as always, I felt as if no one knew what to do with me – including myself.

And so it was for three days. I've never been good at small talk, and what is a reunion but chit-chat? I did find some old friends, and we explored our new selves together. I basked in their company. I spent a great deal of time with other people's children, enjoying being an auntie. I caught up with people I probably should have befriended twenty years ago. But the only time it was easy was a night meander through the grounds, chasing ghosts with someone who once owned my heart. We walked, and remembered, and I surreptitiously searched for the source of my loneliness, as if I could turn off a tap from twenty years before and retroactively find happiness.

During the day I practiced polite smiles and inept escapes when the silences grew strained. I was baffled by pronouncements of great friendship from a man I had barely known, and unnaturally hurt by the woman who refused to speak to me despite two decades of distance. I hid at night in my room, staring at the ceiling and listening through the window to drunken declarations of love and undying friendship, and longing to belong. And still I searched, but by then I didn't know what I was seeking.

I caught it on my last night, for just a moment. We danced, as we'd done so long ago, in a darkened room to music that had beaten its way into my bones and heart. I swayed alone, forgetting propriety and how to protect myself and for a brief, fleeting time I felt the limitless possibilities of being 16 and surrounded by brilliance and excitement and joy – a sense that just by being there I was changing the world for the better.

I left the next morning after a few brief goodbyes, relieved that I had faced my fears. I still love the school and cherish my two years there. My memories are deep and strong and vivid. Yet I have a lingering feeling that I failed somehow to truly live my time there, and that failure has followed me since. I drove home more slowly, mourning what could have been.

Why I Don't Go To the Doctor

Ten years ago, I had a first visit with a new doctor. Before any examination took place, he met with me (fully clothed!) in his office, and we chatted. Dr. E got to know me a little. And I got comfortable enough with him that I mentioned my weight. He surprised me by saying that he wasn't terribly worried; health was more important than a specific weight.

I would have followed him anywhere.

Even though he wasn't an internist, I considered Dr. E my primary care physician. He guided me through two pregnancies with minor complications, and I saw him routinely. I could address any question to him. But two years ago he retired. Sure I still get my annual exam from the doctors in that office, but it's not the same.

Prior to meeting Dr. E, I was haunted by previous experiences with a number of doctors, who immediately assumed that any issue was a symptom of my weight. Allergies? I must eat too much. Earaches? Get more exercise. A sinus infection? Lay off the ice cream. Apparently, I was so big even bacteria couldn't escape my gravitational field.

Which is why, for me, going to the doctor is a lot like being sent to the principal.

But I've not been feeling quite right. And, to be honest, I've gained even more weight. It's time to take care of myself. So, I screwed up my courage, made an appointment, and today I had a physical.

I'll get the results from the blood work tomorrow. In the meantime, the numbers in the office were good. Low blood pressure, resting heart rate of 60, great health history. I walked a 1/2 marathon last spring, and am in training to run a 1/2 this spring. I don't smoke or drink. I eat lots of vegetables. I don't drink juice or soda, and mostly avoid junk food. I am, for all intents and purposes, healthy. Despite all that, the only thing the doctor wanted to know is: am I trying any programs to lose weight?

I must be broken, because I am obese. My weight is the only consideration.

And I wonder, why in all my years I've only ever met one doctor who looked at my self first, and then at my body. Because I know I need help, but if you only see a number on a scale, doctor, then how am I going to be comfortable talking to you about what to do?

I'll go back and try and work with this doctor. But I'll miss Dr. E every time.