I think I'm a grown-up.

Crap.

I bought a car. I know things about financing and credit and other fancy, old-sounding crap like that. And I DON'T LIKE IT.

So, I'm twenty-five. I (will) own my car. I'm working on a salary, full time. I like reading more than drinking. I worry about my regularity. I've been talking to an insurance agent about my options. There's no two ways about it: I'm a grown-up.

I never thought it would happen.

If Teaching Doesn't Work Out

1. I would love, love, LOVE to work for Sesame Street. I checked. No job openings. I loved that show as a kid. I love it now. It would still be in the realm of education. I mean, I'd probably feel guilty because I wasn't really closing the achievement gap but I don't feel like I'm doing that right now anyway. Just think about it. How cool would that be?

2. I wouldn't really love it because well, I hate driving so much, but I would be a pretty awesome designated driver. I DD'd last night and it was kind of great. I don't actually enjoy getting drunk unless I completely trust the people I'm around. Which doesn't happen often. But man, I'm an awesome DD. I let my designated drinkers pre-game. Then, we went to a house party where there was a fire. I love me some fires. I could just stand there and stare at it instead of having to make small talk. (And no wonder I don't have any friends.) Then, I packed too many people into my car and drove them to the bar. Because I was sober, I could totally use that as an excuse to not dance AND no one looked cute so I didn't leave feeling defeated. Afterwards, I drove my designated drinker around looking for an open drive-thru even though I had to be awake early this morning. But I didn't order anything because even though I was hungry, nothing sounded OMG ssoooooo good. I'd say I made a great life choice last night and now, a potential future.

I'm Yours

if you want me.

And that seems to be the problem. I've been listening to this mix I made (title: On a Last Night) for someone I once thought I knew. It's just full of these songs that I can't help but sing along to and feel alive when hearing. Twenty-five songs full. Stuck in my head--in my life--is this song by Chris Thile. It just says everything. It's amazing. But do you know what would make it perfect? If it's a song someone wishes I would hear and think of him. And that's the problem with my music. As in, the music I listen to. It's so full of meaning. It means so much to me. So much that I want to share it. I want to share the message I've heard and felt and can't articulate any better, try as I might. It's so full that I want to share it. And so I do. And I share what it means to me. Or try to.

But as much of a problem as that is, the real problem is that I'm the one giving away songs and meanings and intentions like the ones in the songs I breathe by. I'm just giving it away. No one needs to question my intentions and my thoughts because I'm just laying it all out on the line. And for a while, I thought it was refreshing to have a person like me in my life. But now I'm thinking that maybe it's really annoying. It might be frustrating. It might be... emasculating. I mean, that's just if I'm being full of myself. I just think back to all those books I felt obligated to read when I gave into guilt and obligation. And I won't link to them but my goodness, don't read a book that's written for women by a woman AND her husband if you don't want to go crazy(ier). Because you might say things like this: Those stupid books that I didn't want to read but can't let go might be onto something. Maybe they were right about men wanting to pursue women. That we needed to make it a little easier on them by not moving so much. By not having our own lives and not being... real individuals. That we need to play those stupid games where the rules get hard to keep track of. Because otherwise, all you might end up with is playlists on a medium that may eventually become obsolete professing your belonging to another person who might have skipped over the track because he didn't like the key the song was written in.

Or something like that.

I'm not sure it's something I'm willing to change yet. But maybe I shouldn't wear my heart on my sleeve so much. Or maybe I should wear it on my sleeve but try to quit trying to give it away so much. I keep thinking there's got to be someone out there for me. But maybe there isn't.

And maybe that's okay. As long as Sarah Dessen keeps writing for the rest of my life.

And I say that in jest and not really so much in jest. I don't want to be alone. But that's what I am and I should make the most of it. So I will try.

-Theresa

What I was trying to say:

I'm hardly the person you remember. Different. A little the same. A little different. I don't know. I'm just not who I was.

Of hippies and hipsters

In my life, I have been called both a hippy and a hipster depending on where I lived at the time and who I was talking to.

Here in Phoenix, they think I'm a hippy. I don't shower or shave often. I walk when I can. I like shopping at the farmers market. I like the way kombucha tastes. My favorite coffee doesn't come from Starbucks. My clothes are meant to keep me warm and I sort of ascribe to my own style.

I just feel like such a poser. Kalamazoo, aside from the people I worked with at Old Navy who probably just thought I was strange, wouldn't classify me as a hippy. I never once wanted to live at the community house. I like the way my legs feel when I shave them--I'm just too lazy to. Showering? I'd rather sleep in. Although, the people who did live in the housing co-op often got offended when I called them hippies...

Regardless, I was just thinking about Phoenix's lack of soul. Here, I'm a hippy to people because everyone has to be something. This was supposed to be a more well-thought out post. Meh.

That being said: I hate Phoenix.

-Theresa

Sundays

I'm going to church today for the first time in over a year. Well, we went to a Chaldean church for Christmas when my mom was here. But in the interest of... interest, it's been over a year. I'm excited and nervous. And a little worried that it won't feel like it used to.

And when I get back? Lesson planning and grading!!!! Yay! I have a break this week but I want to get on top of it all. And be a better teacher since they keep giving me these breaks.

Anyway, I should probably go take that shower I should have taken a few days ago.

-Theresa

A mantra, of sorts.

Or, Too Much (Not enough) Information

Help me, Fiber, for I can't shit.
It's been five days since my last excretion.

Oh, I so went there. My tummy hurts. I'm probably going to hell for using my Catholic background like this.

Four-day weekends and twenty-five

My goodness, this was a good weekend. I turned twenty-five and I spent the day just being. I cleaned my room. You'd be impressed. I haven't seen this much floor since before I moved in. I went shopping and spent time with people without worrying about where I had to be and when. And I didn't even plan one lesson. It was just... relaxing. Nice. Friday night? I recorded a Disney Channel movie based on a teen book by the same name (the book was totally better) in order to play Settlers. Then I slept in on Saturday and watched the movie in my pajamas. Being an adult isn't so bad.

But I miss my kids. Jeez. Did you see what I wrote? My kids. I mean, my students. But I like those little people. Even when they break my heart and a little bit, my spirit, I really appreciate them. We read The Kissing Hand again recently. It was a book we'd read on the first day of school but reread it for some comprehension objective I can't remember but could pull out a lesson plan to tell you. Regardless, we've been discussing what all the pictures are really showing. On the last page, Chester (or his mom) is giving the sign language symbol for "I love you." I explained to them what it meant. Now, about a third of the time I hear "teeeeesheeerrr, loooook," I see them showing me their loving gesture. The other two-thirds? A semblance of completion in a task or someone doing something wrong. Although, arguably, they're supposed to raise their hands and wait for me to call on them, which would mean that two-thirds of the time, they're breaking a rule. But that other third? It totally makes up for being called an article of clothing.

These little beings? They just wanted to be loved. Their eyes just get big with shock and sheer jubilation when I sign back to them that yes, I am so fond of them, I love them. Sometimes, I say it too. Even when I'm tired and cursing myself for not having prepared back-up plans for a substitute in order to call in sick, it brings light to my day. They know I get frustrated. I think they know I know they get frustrated. Well, most of them. But those moments when they sign to me, they're telling me it's okay. They're telling me to keep going. And in my gesture of love to them and of course, my words, the recognize that they are allowed to make mistakes. In fact, as long as it doesn't hurt anyone, I encourage it. It's how we learn. But I know for a fact, it is not a mistake loving these growing people.

I've heard people say things about how it's different when they're your kids. The love you have for people. The little things don't bug you as much. These small creatures have been nowhere in me but my heart. Their gestations periods were in women with their same last names. They go home to tell someone all about their days. But I am genuinely happy every day I get to spend with them. It makes me sad that, already, three of my students have been abruptly pulled from the school for reasons I'm not aware. I am honest every time I raise two fingers and a thumb. These people whose first language isn't English can certainly understand it.

So I miss my kids. Those people I spend most of my days with. It's perfectly rational to miss them, I think. And worry for them. And wish I was playing with them instead of teaching them grammar. Don't get me wrong--I wish I had weekends this long a little more often. But I do love those kids.

But I also understand, I feel maybe one one-hundredth of what my mother continues to feel for me. They are only mine through May so I'd better make the most of our time together. Even when I'd rather be sleeping.

-Theresa

One long week.

Rather than trying to think about this week and what it meant and what I can do to change it, I will merely present facts. My goodness, I've described many weeks as long but this one might take the cake of my post-college years. Long weeks were a given in my college years as many days lasted forty hours. I digress.

Monday night, ASU classes. Didn't go to dinner I was mistakenly invited to as I'm not black. Grad school is just like freshman year of college for many people, it seems. And I intend on not returning to that year. Home by 9:30.

Tuesday, I can't remember anything worth reporting other than I think it was the only night I was back to my apartment by eight.

Wednesday begins the fun.

*Phone call from the office. "Find someone to cover your class as soon as possible and come to the office."
*Newly arrived Arabic speaking student, shocked that anyone at the school spoke Arabic introduced herself to me weeks earlier (another teacher had told her), had been attacked by another student and couldn't bring herself to speak English or calm down. I spent half an hour in the office with a teacher watching my class and her class calming this girl down and explaining exactly why it's not a bad thing that she came to America. I done the government proud.
*Run into another Arabic speaking family who needs help with translation for a program that, ironically, teaches them English. Promise to help the following day.
*Model teacher night. Two hour meeting where I talk about how my life in the classroom is going.
*Dinner with a friend. Awesome.

Thursday, I've been outed. Administration is shocked by the fact that I'm not some dumb American who moved to Arizona but can't speak Spanish. They see my value. Damn it.

*TeachTeachTeach. I'm working hard on pulling my kids back in. I don't know what I did wrong but they're going crazy.
*Catch a teacher who fainted from a finger prick.
*Go to a training about refugees. Actually helpful.
*Back to school to help translate for parents who want to know how to buy the book in their English class among other things. Turns out, they're Chaldean.

Friday, my crowning jewel, is a half day for students.

*Feeling sick. The sore throat kind.
*Sent all but one of my students to centers because she needed someone to talk to. For an hour.
*My kids wanted to eat outside so we ate at picnic tables. The plan was that we go to recess after but there was a playground right nearby that they were instructed not to play on. Three students go for it anyway. Including Little Miss Chatterbox.
*Recess. There's a dog on the playground. Half my kids freak out, other half excited. I catch the dog but it's freaking out because so many kids are running at him. Definitely a him. Ask another teacher to call the office. Office tells us to bring him up. There's a gross patch on his neck so I don't want to carry him so I ask for string. In the mean time, kids are freaking out even more. Dog starts nipping at me and other teacher is able to help me and walk the dog up.
*Back inside. There's only a half hour of school left so, free choice time. I spend that half hour talking to the girl I already talked to for an hour about how she thinks I don't care about her and I shouldn't be so bossy. My heart broke as I tried to explain that creating rules isn't being bossy and by holding her to the same standards I hold everyone else and being fair, I actually care for her quite a bit. Given, there's family background but still. She's only six. How do I get this girl to see that I care for her?
*Professional Development. SUCKED.
*Prepare for the Fall Festival.
*Fall Festival.
*Home by 8:30.

And today? I've only left my bed to make breakfast and use the bathroom. I'm full on sick. I'm totally taking advantage of this and watching TV on hulu and reading all day. And I ate a bag of chips. Guilt free. I can lesson plan tomorrow.

Oh, and I'm turning twenty-five in a few days.

-Theresa

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?