What it is about driving

that I hate so much is that there is so much going on at one time that it's overwhelming to catalogue it all and keep as much in my control as possible at the same time. I get anxious while driving because I am hyper-aware of the world around me. I notice when a car or truck is swerving a little or when other drivers are on their phones. As I notice this, I worry that they won't notice that I'm a nervous driver, my grip on the steering wheel tightens.

It's not that I've become less aware. It's that my awareness no longer causes as much of a physical reaction. And it's not some special breathing technique or mantra I repeat. It's a generic of effexor that allows me to drive on roads I've learned the curves of. Unfortunately, I still react as I did before if it's a road I haven't driven before. Or if it's night time.

Because my dad so constantly reminds me that I need to take care of myself, I began to feel more and more broken because my fear of driving was a way that I was not taking care of myself. My fear of driving was just one more thing about me that wasn't quite right. And I wanted to fix it so I could take care of myself. Not because I really want to drive. No, I hate driving. I wanted to fix it so that I felt a little less unloveable.

Of all the things I've learned in the last year, the one that I think will stick with me for a while is that no matter how much I want to be loved, I can't force it. I can't make anyone love me. I know, I know. I need to love myself. And I do. Just not with the same passion that I love others. And so, unfortunately, I still continue to feel unloveable. And so, though I am putting more life pieces together, I am still broken. I am still not whole.

This isn't post-break-up pain. This is just the realization that as much as I want to take control of my life, some things are just uncontrollable. And that weakness I have that becomes so much more apparent when I have to drive might be a blessing because it made me feel like I needed to do something. So I went on an anti-anxiety/anti-depressant. And it made a difference in my life because I can drive more often. And it made a difference in my brother's life because he's still alive. Because he sees my weakness as a strength. Because, though I may feel unloveable, I know that I am worth love. I know that I deserve love.

I deserve love.

And that is why I am single. Not because I am unloveable. Because I'm not. Though I may be crazy and passionate and want to be nice and love life and everything in it, I am not unloveable. I will not settle for thinking that I am.

-Theresa

It was me who pulled away.

In all fairness, he moved but I did the actual emotional separation. He was worried I'd think he'd abandoned me. In some ways, he had. Phoenix was definitely not my first choice for this year and I ranked it higher than I would have if it had not been for him. Regardless, it's where Teach For America placed me and I would have moved wherever they ended up placing me. But there were some things early on in our relationship that a normal person would have let go. But no, not me. I internalize these things and I take them personally. Why? Why do I take everything so personally? Because I'm all I've got. Because, like my dad so kindly reminds me every few months or so, if I don't take care of myself, no one else will. And being mean is not taking care. It's not caring.

I think about everything I say before I say it. Well, for the most part. I won't be held responsible for the quick wit of my tongue. But if I think I might hurt someone with my words, I hold those words in for as long as possible to ensure that I really mean them. He didn't do that. He said what he was thinking and never really apologized for it, even if his opinions changed. Two months after one specific fight, he realizes that it's pretty normal for first year teachers to be working as much as I've been working. But he never apologized for the comments he had made. He never apologized for putting his future ahead of me and never mentioned it until yesterday.

Because he had a tendency to not think how I would take things, I had a tendency to take things personally. Because he knew that about me, I assumed he didn't care. I told myself he didn't really care. I convinced myself that he didn't love me. Although, I'm fairly certain that that's true. And I wouldn't let these things go because... Well, it didn't feel like he loved me. So I've spent these last six months looking for proof that he didn't love me. It wasn't hard to do. He rarely told me. I felt like I annoyed him. I didn't feel like myself. I wasn't what he wanted. In a woman or in a life. And I had myself convinced. He was abandoning me. He didn't love me.

But as I sat on the opposite end of a couch, I wondered if it had maybe been me all along. I put other people first. And I resented him for always wanting to spend time with me because I wanted more friends. And my goodness, I really do take everything personally. I could have made an effort to visit him. I could have taken a page from his book and just told him what I was thinking the first time I thought it. And asked a doctor for a prescription without quite so many side effects. I could have loved him. And I might. But as I laid on the opposite side of the couch and realized that he was lying down because it was his last defense, the words "so this is it?" just echoed in a room that had never echoed before. And I could do was apologize. Over and over. All I could say was sorry. Because I hadn't tried hard enough. Because I felt like I was abandoning him. I asked him if he ever thought about breaking up before and he'd said yes but never said why he didn't do anything about it. And we didn't talk about the fact that we didn't kiss when he walked in the day before. And he didn't hold my hand while walking. We didn't talk about that. We hugged and he left. He let me know he was back to his apartment, recommended a band and I haven't heard from him since. I fear I won't ever hear from him again--the only consistent person in my life for longer than a year is gone because... Because I scare easily. Fight or flight, right? I think this was both. I was fighting for myself, which is why I left.

I'm sorry that I wasn't all in. I'm sorry that I didn't let my defenses all the way down. That I didn't let you love me, if you had wanted to. That I was afraid to tell you the truth. That I didn't make you love me. That I waited so long to tell you. That I didn't try harder. That sometimes, I was afraid to talk to you. That I couldn't accurately describe that fear. That I miss you. I'm just so sorry that I hurt you.

I'm writing at a coffee shop because I need to catch up on work during break and I can't write much more right now without looking like that crazy girl in the corner. So I'm going to work on lesson plans. And I guess that I'm going to work on moving on. Isn't it supposed to be easy for the breaker?

SCF

Doesn't quite have the ring that SWF does. But I am. Single, now, I mean. And it was hard. It had been a year. More than. And I liked him more than I admitted. It was a front so as to make it easier. But it didn't. It rarely does, my stupid methods of self-preservation. Well, they suck. I don't regret my decision, I don't think. It seemed the right time. If there is a right time. It was the most honest talk we'd ever had, I think. I think and I think and I think. I don't know what else to say. Just that I wish I had more friends to call and talk about this. This? Life. That I wish I had more friends to talk to about life.

The Return of the Coffee Addiction

I was doing so well. I didn't need coffee to wake up or stay up or get through the day. And I didn't need to replace it with anything else either. I could drink coffee when I wanted to enjoy the flavor instead of when I needed the effects.

And then, Last Week happened. Last Week was just rough. Some old health problems remerged. A problem I haven't dealt with yet hasn't gone away. I'm a teacher and I go to school. Just... Rough. So, Monday morning, I made myself a cup of coffee in the morning and it tasted good. Really good. But I only drank half of it and I didn't feel guilty. But then Tuesday showed up and I was tired from class the night before so I made more coffee. This time, I finished my mug before school even started. Every morning since then, I've caffeinated myself. People, I didn't mean to. It just happened! And now, I can't hurt the coffee's feelings by not taking it to work with me every morning. Coffee would feel sad and abandoned. Coffee came all that way from Columbia or Africa to the store to my cupboard, which is an awfully long way to go and then get ignored. So, I'm just doing a service, you know?

The coffee understands. The coffee's back. And I'm sorry I ever let coffee go in the first place. Coffee just... knows me. Coffee gives me the jitters and that feeling in my stomach that no one nothing else does. So coffee is back in my life and I'm not ashamed of it anymore!

Now, I'm going to go get a refill.

-Theresa