I teach now.

Kids are great. I tell myself this almost daily, because to think otherwise would be the end of me and my career, and then I'd be one of those teachers who burned out in a year of teaching, and I'm nothing if not determined not to be a cliche/statistic. My hipster nature strikes again.

Every day, I remind myself that I love doing this thing. Some days, the thought just occurs to me spontaneously, because I rediscover it to be true. Some days, it's what I mutter as a mantra, a phrase that keeps the smile from slipping off my face as I stand at the whiteboard, marker in hand, waiting for an answer that I eventually cave and give to blankly staring students.

Kids are great, though. They really are. They have such interesting thoughts (and isn't "interesting" such a good word, because it has so many definitions, all of which apply to students). They teach me so many interesting things about themselves, about me, about the world as they see it. Essays are snapshots of students' worldviews, a constant reminder that the world is bigger and broader and more diverse than I will ever be able to comprehend on my own.

They say everyone should work in the service industry at some point; it's supposed to teach compassion for those who do the jobs no one wants. To get perspective, I'd recommend reading a semester of student essays. 

I make no promises, to myself or otherwise.

I want to write again, because I'm trying to get better/do better/feel better, and writing always helps.

If nothing else, it's a sort of. Record. I guess. Of what's going on, what I'm up to, how I feel about it all. And what I'm into, right? Fannish stuff ends up here more often than not as well.

So I'm going to write a bit, maybe, hopefully, if I can remember and find energy for it. Here goes nothing.

Thinking about things

I want to think about things.

If I think about things, I care about things.

I want to think about things and then care about things.

If I think about things and then care about things, I want to do things.

I want to think about things and then care about things and then do things.


But if I think about things, I might care about things.

And then if I think about things and care about things, I might do things.

And then if I think about things and care about things and do things, I might fail.


So.

I don't want to think about things and care about things and do things and fail.

I won't think about things and care about things and then do things.

I won't think about things and then care about things.

I won't think about things.

At all.

neverending nightmare

i'm. Furious. That it has come to this point.

That I am at this point and I can't seem to get out from under the point of this . . . . thing pressing down on me. I'm skewered in place, immobile and fluttering, like the oft-metaphorical butterfly in a case.

Can't move. Can't think. Can't scream. Can't do a single thing to make it at least . . . feel better.

I want so badly to finish up, be done, chuck this pointed, heavy rock off my center and breathe again, but that would require me to act. And I can't.

I'm so scared so scared so scared of what will happen if I try and fail, if I try and don't fail, if I try at all.

it's a goddamn lit essay, but I'm stuck and sick and I want to see it burn.

pls @anyonewhocanmakeitstop

i keep making vaguely suicidal jokes and references on this post, but that's not great, is it. probably shouldn't put that out there for the public.

 

*delete*

it has been a hell of a year.

and it's not done. it's not over yet.

i just need it to be over.

Within, without

the closet door sticks
a hesitant heaviness to the handle

but I yank it open.

close
closure
close door
close her in

crisis

it's stuck.

she is me
she is free
we can be
we must be

but I scrape it shut.

the closet door clicks
a lost lament in the latch

It goes in cycles.

It is...very frustrating to be fractured. You have a couple of days that seem okay, and you try on a smile or two, and they don't hurt. You let yourself imagine a future where that is normal. You feel almost....good.
And that is exactly when it all goes to hell and you realize suddenly that leaving the house today was a mistake all by itself. Everything is too much: lights too bright, voices too loud, and there is somehow a rumbling growl under everything that shakes you to your spine. You are stuck on a bench, frozen there, unable to get up and go home but about to cry in public if you stay.
You thought you were past this, and you hoped that things were getting better. Guess you just forgot that you're fractured.