sing your song.

L. Frank Baum would be proud.

It's been a weird week of twisty, fucked up turns. I'll be honest: I've had the holy living shit scared out of me, and the experience turned me weird and skittish - quite frankly, I'm not sure who to trust right now. I am still trusting in people to do the right thing, but on a constant, contingency plan basis. Waiting for the other shoe to drop and somebody to take off a mask and reveal the Scream guy underneath. And we've still got about 2 weeks till Halloween. Maybe it's just this month. Maybe in November, the month of Gratitude, the feels will be on nicer things. And in December, the month of Light, they'll center around hope and spirit. (Kumbayah, my mofos.)

But this last week. Jesus god. Holy nefarious, Batman. At this point, I completely get why (for example) on Twitter well-known people not only get to get themselves a little blue check but often also refuse to interact with other Internet people on a regular basis. It's dicey out there, sweet Reader(s). Live your lives, but don't let anybody in too far until they really, truly prove to you who they are and exactly why they want to know you and what their intentions are.

For someone who got to deal with a crazy Internet stalker 10 years ago, I've been pretty open to people and fairly unafraid to be real on this blog...I try to use my best judgment on what to tell you, how much to share, and how to do it in a way that won't land me on the 5 o'clock news or in court. I have regularly opened myself up here to judgment, scrutiny, mocking, enemies disguised as friends/friends disguised as enemies, the mentally unstable and the absolutely disturbed, and all the ass crazy, fucked up Internet stalkers planet Earth has to offer. 

Because I refuse (REFUSE) to be forced into silence. I will NOT live my life in fear, though I do regularly make sure all my doors and windows are locked and all my important accounts have secure passwords. 

I just think all the stress and freaked out moments are worth it in the end if something I say or share connects to or helps someone else out there. We are a storytelling species; I don't know any other way to be and quite frankly if I'm NOT writing or telling my stories, I'm very serious: I'm not okay. So I come here to tell stories, my stories, and whoever decides to stop by can read about what's going on in my life if they're interested, as well as how I'm dealing with all of it and the thought processes - however messy or all over the place dysfunctional - that are sorting it all out in my brain. I put it all out there knowing whoever stumbles upon me and my writing can judge me, hate me, love me, (mis)understand me, or find me ridiculous and pointless and go get some fresh air. I think Humanity is a big, stinkin' mess. And I like it like that.

That's the whole point of blogs, and writing. Vent your spleen. Be openly ridiculous. Haphazardly joyful. Live freely. Ask for help. Plead for mercy. Try your hand at comedy writing. Be dramatic. Write down some of your own little soap operas. Make mistakes. Make friends. Make enemies. Earn fans, score haters. Gain stalkers. ...All of that. Isn't Life one big, glorious chaotic mess? I do love it with all of me, even the moments that find me sobbing uncontrollably in a fetal position clutching an empty tub of Sea Salt caramel gelato and/or a half-empty bottle of wine. I don't like them as I'm working through them, but when they're over I appreciate them for the spiritual muscle-building moments they are.

And if you - like me - are an expressive creative and so inclined, you can live it all out loud on a blog and occasionally social media if you can be concise. It's why Al Gore made the Internet, sweet people...He did it for all of us. (Blessed be his name.) (Where IS Al, by the way? I hope he's well and busy at work creating the next big thing that will guide us all to more navel gazing and the leaving of sociopathic-level comments in comments sections of online news blog articles, comments that clearly indicate we didn't even read the whole article because who has time for reason when psycho judging is so much fun?) (Sorry...I was reading some comments sections of education articles on HuffPost earlier today and lands, fellow Internet users. Logic is your friend, use it.) 

...Though I've heard some people start blogs to earn money and/or gain notoriety and fame. Which is not why I started this blog. Because you have to get enough readers (which I do not).

So. Whoever wants to can come here and read, judge or not judge, like or dislike me, wish good things for me or cast curses upon me and all my descendants. Doesn't bother me, because ultimately I'm going to keep on keeping on. I've spent a long, loooong time working hard to figure out what matters most to me and who I am. I know myself. I know my quirks, I know my pathologies, I know where I usually flunk at Life and where I tend to soar. At the end of the day, I'm a nice person; I am who and what I say I am no matter what you decide to think. If someone wants to hurt me or hate me or wish me ill because they didn't like something I said or did or whatever their reason/s, that says more about them than it ever will about me. You shall not destroy my faith in Humanity's ultimate goodness or the power of connection via storytelling. 

(That all sounds very dramatic and cryptic, I'm sorry. But it's how I'm doing things right now. Dramatic and cryptic.) (We are now in Phase 3 of Amy's Big Life Changes, FYI.)

Can I tell you a story that I love a lot? 

There are a people in Namibia, on the continent of Africa, called the Himba. The Himba believe a person's birthday isn't the day they're born or even the moment they're conceived. When a Himba woman decides she wants to have a baby, she goes away from the village and sits under a tree (or wherever she will not be eaten by a lion). She doesn't move or leave that spot until she hears her baby's song. Once she knows the song, she goes back to the village and to the man who'll be the baby's father. She teaches him the song, and they make love, singing the baby's song until it's created. And even after that, they sing the song to the fetus as it grows.

When the baby is born, everyone who helps bring that baby into the world sings the song. As a Himba child grows up, people in the village constantly sing the child's song to him/her - if they fall down, they are picked up and their song is sung. When they get sick or scared, someone sings them their song. As they grow, they constantly hear their song - through every milestone, every rite of passage, every sickness, every celebration, every sad moment, every happy moment.

And, as a Himba tribe member lays dying, every person in the village who knows their song will come to their side to sing it to them as they leave the world. So, in Himba culture, your song is sung to you at every moment, from the time before you are even conceived, to the moment you take your first breath, to the moment you take your last. And even after you are gone, those who remember you will sing your song. 

Another time the Himba sing someone's song is when a tribe member does something that upsets the balance. If a member of the tribe steals something, hurts someone, or violates any other societal norm, they are brought to the center of the village and everyone who knows that person's song stands around them in a circle and sings it to them over and over, until they are brought to their knees in repentance. Because the Himba don't believe in good or bad, sin or salvation. They believe that, when we do bad things, it isn't because of a God or a Devil or because people are bad or good. It's because they believe that when people do bad things or make poor choices, it's because they've forgotten their song. Because their songs are who they are; their songs are their souls. 

You are your song, your song is you. What's your song? Mine is Somewhere Over the Rainbow. It defines me, it has been with me for a very, very long time, it is almost a part of who I am. I chose it for myself when I was seven, from the moment I first saw Judy Garland sing it on my family's 1970s television. I was spellbound and it was stamped on my soul for life. When I hear it, all of the happiness and goodness from my childhood wrap me up and make me feel safe and hopeful and loved and warm. Any version of it - the original movie version, Israel kamakawiwo'ole's version of it, The Ramones' punk version, Jimi Hendrix's rock star god take, Ray Charles's blues-y interpretation. When I hear that song, no matter what box it's wrapped up in, I feel love. 

You know what's really interesting to me? The Wicked Witch doesn't have a song. She's the only main character in the movie who doesn't get a song. I think that's kind of important, for some reason. If you don't have a song, you ought to think about maybe finding you one. I asked Miss M the other day what she thinks her song is and, after dealing with a lot silly flippancy and ridiculousness and one gigantic emotional power struggle meltdown, she decided she liked Three Little Birds. Good choice, though I do not anticipate this sticking as her song...I bet she's going to finally end up with Madonna's Bitch I'm Madonna featuring Nicki Minaj which she likes to watch on YouTube over and over until I have to beg her to switch it to Katy Perry or One Direction. 

At any rate. Stories matter. Not living your life in fear matters. Being real matters. Being kind matters. Being careful and protective of yourself also matters, too. Staying open matters. But so does quietly closing a door if you discover you've opened it to something unsafe. And songs matter. So go get you a song if you don't have one, and sing it or listen to it sung to you whenever you need to feel safe or loved or remember Who You Are. Don't forget that Wicked Witches never win, and that a single, well-placed kiss and a comfy pair of sparkly red shoes can have more power over all the fucked up evil in the world than the entire nuclear arsenals of all the countries in the world. Or that sometimes all it takes is choosing a good song that speaks to your soul to remind you who you are and why you're here. It's all good, because we are Music. 

Unless you're a Wicked Witch. (But this a water-y planet, sooo...we'll see how that works out for you.)

3 beautiful things.

It has been a weird, sad day Internet. My home feels happy (except for the potato chip crumbs Miss M has left all over the floor, and the markers and the electric outlet plate she miraculously chipped a giant piece off of this morning with her 6 year old thigh of steel). I fixed my bedroom curtain rod (until it unfixes itself). I have cleaned and done laundry. I have called the apartment complex and had them fix my air conditioner leak for the 2nd time since moving in, and now the bedroom carpet can dry again and be re-padded for the second time, and I can hope and pray there will be no molding issues (they did spray something). 

This is my safe and sacred space, and I think I am going to buy some sage from amazon.com and smudge all the negativity out. I only want peace and love and happiness to be here with the falling curtain rods, chipped outlet plates, leaky air conditioning unit, re-padded a million times bedroom carpet, and random art materials strewn everywhere. 

But I have spent today very sad. Distressed, worried, and sad. And discombobulated. And yet blessed and grateful. And very very detached from it all, yet sad. I am all over the place, emotionally. 

So Miss M and I went to Starbucks and then my 2nd favorite outdoors space. I'd have gone to my 1st favorite one, but it doesn't have a playground and my 6 year old doesn't enjoy long hikes. I went there today because (1) I'd been on a phone or a laptop all day...literally, from like 9 AM to 2:30 PM or whatever, and that's not healthy, and (2) I was sad, and (3) I remember Elizabeth Gilbert telling me a story about a time she was incredibly sad, so sad she didn't think she'd make it out of the post office she was in, and then something inside her (God, her soul, her inner Oprah, whatever) told her: Liz, go find 3 beautiful things. It's okay if you want to mourn your life and be sad, if that's how you want to spend your time today, but you're not allowed to until you find 3 beautiful things. And she did - she walked out of the post office and 3 gigantic circus elephants walked past her (nothing magical; the circus was in town and it was a city-approved parade) (also, Liz didn't really tell ME this tale, she told me and about 20,000 other attendees at the Oprah's Live Your Best Life seminar last year). 

So this is what I did today. I took my daughter to my favorite natural space, and I requested the Universe please help me find 3 beautiful things. This is what I found:

These gigantic orange mushrooms. There were many others,
but this cluster was amazing. How does Mother Nature come up
with bizarre shit like this? And they are blooming because of
all Her rain. I was gobsmacked by them, and She is totally forgiven.

This tiny waterfall. If you go to my Instagram account
(social media links up on your upper right), you can
hear it via video. Waterfalls make me happy.
The big ones are powerful and majestic and good for blowing
your mind; but little ones like this make me think of peace and
fairies and how gentle Mother Nature can sometimes be
and how everything (EVERYTHING) must keep flowing, keep moving on.
Water constantly changes and flows, and so must we.

And then I could not find a third thing. I kept looking and looking, thinking:
well, maybe how the sun plays on the leaves; that's pretty beautiful. Or maybe these leaves
that are just now beginning to turn colors, that's quite lovely. Or maybe those clouds up there,
that look like wisps of cotton moving across the sky; well done, Mother Nature.
And then I looked up ahead of me and saw HER, and thought: Oh, well of course.
She's the most beautiful thing in my life, and I never have to go far to find her.
Ta da! Third beautiful thing. Mission accomplished.

Here's the deal McNeals: I have no idea who I am right now or what I want. I think I want to have sex with someone, and then I decide nope - too messy and complicated. I think I want to be open to new ideas and all kinds of people, and then I decide nope - people are fucking exhausting. I think I want to start up an exercise program and then I just laugh and laugh at myself because Life and work schedules and Insomnia. And then I cycle back around, and go: just shut up, get over yourself, and make it happen. It'll be fine. And then something else will happen and I'll be all: fuck this shit. 

I just want off the roller coaster at this point, I think. 

So after M and I got back from our Nature Quest, I sat down with a new notebook I bought today. I decided I shall flood the Universe with requests until It starts to cooperate with me. (The Universe actually always cooperates with you; it's just that It does it on Its own sweet time and sometimes what shows up doesn't look precisely like what you requested, but fair enough...it'll do. Which is why I advise you to always keep your Universal requests simple and to-the-point, or very very precise and detailed...and then be prepared to accept whatever shows up.) 

I will write letters to It, confessionals and notes of gratitude and lists of things I want. Some of it I may share here, because my very nature is to share and do it as brazenly and as publicly as I can. I keep saying this is because I think sharing our experiences and stories connect us, but maybe I'm really just an attention whore at heart. 

What I am certain of, that's been a standard certainty going on 4-5 years now is the following:

1. I want to be peaceful, loving, and kind. 

2. I want to be loved and treated kindly.

3. I want to be able to know who to let in, and who not to. Trust issues are tremendous psychic blocks for me, and I'll confess: I have no idea how to work through them. I give up, Trust Issues. I have no idea who to trust now. I'm a runner; if I even sense you may leave, I like to leave first. But because I've been abandoned so many times by so many people who promised they'd never leave? I am always ready to be abandoned. 

I would like to find a Master Teacher who will teach me how not to do this. I think I keep looking, but maybe I'll just sit back and let the Universe bring him or her to me. I think if I keep asking, It will. Hopefully before the end of the decade.

4. I want to be open to all kinds of new experiences and people. Trust issues make this fairly impossible.

5. Eventually, I do want to love another man again. But I want that man to be kind, funny, smart, open-minded, non-judgmental, not critical, emotionally available, real, whole, artistic/creative in some manner, honest, loyal, confident, tall, and good in bed. Is that too much to ask? I will not settle for less. I am determined and ready to be alone forever if I can't have every single thing on that list.

However. Because I've done the Oprah Create Your Best Life seminar, I am painfully aware that before I can have anything on that list, I need to resolve my trust issues. And then learn how to be whole and love myself. I have no idea how to start this. So I guess I'll just ask for help. Please help.

And I'll keep going outside, looking for 3 beautiful things each day, and write letters and notes and demands to whatever may care or be listening and cross my fingers that there is such a thing out there, listening and caring. Because I DO believe in magic, I guess. I mean, my god. There are gigantic mushrooms in the world. There HAS to be magic as well. Right?

gifts of darkness.

Dear Atheist Reader(s): wherever you see "God," Heaven," or "Angels," just
insert "Richard Dawkins," Stephen Hawking," and "Christopher Hitchens and Margaret Sanger."
It still works, I promise.

I went to see a counselor today. She knows me. It's a working, professional friendship at this point. We don't do coffee; we do office meetups. Every so many years, for a few months at a time. And every time I go back, she goes, "Well, I'd ask you how you are, but I see that you're here sooo...come on in! Your hair looks great, by the way!" 

Her file on me, which she's been keeping since 2007, is about 2 feet thick now. Which I'm actually pretty happy about, because ha! Turns out, back in 2007? I was saying the SAME fricking things I said in 2009, then again in 2011, and in 2014. Today when I sat in the office with her and started, I went, "Well, I'm just a big mess and don't know what the hell I'm doing or why." And she flips through 2 feet of notes and goes, "Yes. That's exactly what you said when we first sat down in 2007...and then again in 2009...and 2011...and 2014." 

So basically: same shit, different decade. 

Have I told you about my favorite poet and poem? My favorite poet is Mary Oliver. She wrote a poem called "Box of Darkness" and it goes like this:

That's my favorite poem. Ever. I learned about boxes of darkness from a man named Steve, and he taught me that what Mary wrote is absolutely true: someone can give you a box of darkness and it's not necessarily a bad thing. 

For example, Steve's box of darkness was so big, and so dark, it broke my heart into a billion little pieces that took me forever to put back together, and some pieces I still can't locate. I've had to learn to let them go, and be okay with having a heart that's a little chipped in spots. 

And yet. 

Steve's big box of dark had me so hurt and upset, that I sat on the floor of a bedroom at my parents' house one night, holding his box of darkness, my tears dripping into it. But then, my dad quietly came in and sat down next to me and just...sat. In the dark. Silent. For a very long time. Probably not knowing where to start, unsure of what to say. Finally, he awkwardly stroked my back and told me what a bum Steve was, and that he was glad I wouldn't be with someone who couldn't see what a gift I was, that Steve hadn't deserved me anyway. My dad hugged me (awkwardly) and said, "Because you're smart and beautiful and I love you." And then about a year later, my father died. So that's a memory I get to keep in my heart now forever and ever: the one time my dad told me I was smart and beautiful and I clearly heard him say the words, "I love you."

Thank you, Steve, for what your box of darkness gave to me that night.

I don't know how many boxes of darkness I have handed out to other people in my life. I hope it's not more than, say, five. And I hope they were all as helpful as the Steve box.

Today, I talked a lot about why, since 2007, I've been so up and down. Why am I fighting Life so hard? Why am I struggling? Why does this pattern keep happening? But then she noted today was actually very different, because even though I'm saying the same things, I'm (literally) not in the same place. I've taken an action. I'm on my own now. And even though I'm still struggling, I've taken a step forward. And any step forward, however small? That's progress. And Life is not about a series of successes, it's about a series of small progresses.

And then we talked about when I'd be ready to take one more step forward and then another step and another, and she said only if there was no chance I'd go back to a life with C. And so we talked at length about that, and we looked at her notes. What I most noticed from her notes was a continuous pattern between C and me, wherein I'd be told I wasn't ever going to really be enough. In one session, he said he knew I was the perfect raw materials for building who he knew I could eventually be...and he was still building me. In another session, he talked about wanting me to reflect back to him who HE wants to eventually become. 

And this, at heart, is the C problem: When do I get to be just perfectly raw and not have to be sawed and hammered and bent and molded? And when do I get to see a reflection of who I want to become? Who's going to reflect that back to me? These are important questions seeing all summed up in, literally, DECADES' worth of notes, had a big, crazy impact on me. I needed to see them from someone professional's side, and talk about them and why I'm not crazy to have them. Because I've got a girl who's going to have to ask herself these same questions one day.  And ultimately, my whole reason for existence these days is Miss M. I want her to be happy. I want her to be loved, as is. I don't want her worried about reflecting anyone else's reflection but her own (she will have to, eventually, because her father knows who it is she's going to be...and this will be very hard for him, if/when she has a different idea). 

And so I closed a window today. I quietly, gently, sadly closed a window that, I'll be honest and tell you: I was kinda sorta leaving cracked. A bit. Just in case. I really, really miss the safety and security of being with someone else; of not having to do it all. But I took a deep breath today and went ahead and made the decision to firmly shut and lock it. 

And I took C's box of darkness and closed its lid. It's sitting with me right now, for the moment, because I'm still kind of attached to it. It's The Known. But when I'm ready, I'll tuck it in the back of a closet somewhere, next to Steve's. And the other Steve's (there were actually 2...ask me if I'LL ever date a Steve again). And my dad's. 

I've learned a lot from C. He's been one of my life's greatest teachers. The reason I am the way I am right now has a lot to do with him. C taught me about good taste - in people, in material things, in restaurants, in adult beverages. C turned me from Kentucky girl to cosmopolitan Atlanta woman. C also taught me the best way to get good customer service over the phone (ask THEM to help YOU). I learned it's okay to say you're excellent at something; you don't always have to be self-deprecating. C taught me how to throw a good barbecue AND a great dinner party. C pulled me out of my shell. I will always, always love C. Forever.

But when it's time to let go, you just have to...release. Hug it to you, tell it thank you, and let it go.

Today, I was given resources and contacts so I know what (legal) steps to take next, where to go, who to talk to. I know what I need to do to keep moving forward. Which I thought would make me scared and sad, but really just left me with a deep sense of calmness, and peace. I am sad. But I am also calm. I'm at peace now. That's really huge. I'm not angry anymore. I only want good things for C, and I want him to be happy and at peace, too. 

I realized today I haven't really been at peace with myself about my decision to move out. And this is what progress, baby steps, looks and feels like. And the closing of boxes and windows and doors and the packing up of hopes and dreams and memories. 

C gave me a box of darkness, and I gave him one, too. And so boxes of darkness are gifts we unknowingly give one another, essential building blocks of growth. And sometimes important memories. The End.

.........oh wait no! Ha! All this peace and calmness talk. You do know that there will be moments of melodrama and angst here still, yes? I mean, I'm a pretty pretty princess on the inside, with a penchant for melodrama. Yes, yes...I'm peaceful and cool right NOW. But don't get comfy. Winter is coming - I think next weekend is Daylight Savings Time, which means the days will be shorter. Less daylight, longer nights? That's when I get REAL dramatic. 

I'm just saying: I can see the light at the end of the tunnel now. I'm still in the tunnel. But I see some light. (It'll be better when we're back in Summertime, though, because daylight lasts longer and I get more sleep.)

fragile china rabbit in a bull shop.

"You disappoint me."

-Pellegrina, from The Miraculous Journey of Edward Tulane

I've written here before about Kate DiCamillo's The Miraculous Journey of Edward Tulane. If you haven't read it, your heart is missing out. So is your soul. 

I just finished reading this to my class. I cried two times in front of them, reading it. Two little girls and a little boy cried with me and two other kind-hearted children brought us tissues. I'd stop in different places and ask them what they were wondering - what's going on? Why did he or she say or do that? What will happen now? They made connections, they laughed at all the right parts (mostly when Edward the china rabbit is naked), they gasped at the horrible moments. At the end of the book, they clapped. We all agreed: this book is an amazing book. None of them increased their reading levels. None of their writing improved. They certainly didn't get better at number sense. But their connections and hearts exploded, just a little. And I fell in love with them all even harder.

You guys, I've probably been given a classroom of the most generous and good-hearted children in the history of this school. I just met with most of their parents, and I understand why that is now, because their parents are sweethearts. I don't know if I can move their data the way the new system is demanding I move it. Right now, I don't care. I would just like to sit and read them stories all day, and listen to theirs, and teach them how to write them down. We can pull in Math and Language Arts and Science and Social Studies wherever. But can we do it via Story? Please, new public education system?

Edward Tulane is a story that'll speak to you. If it doesn't, something's very wrong with you. It's a story that I'm just going to re-read on my own over the coming days. Because as I was reading to them, it hit me: bits and pieces of Edward's story are bits and pieces of mine. I am on a miraculous journey, of sorts. And along the way, I'm learning how important it is to stay open. To remember that not everyone I meet on my journey is going to disappoint me. To do this, I think I'm going to have to be more discerning and teach myself to figure out who's a friend disguised as an enemy, and who's an enemy disguised as a friend. Because this is where I always tend to get lost and fucked up.

A friend told me last night that I'm too trusting. I let people in too far, too quickly. I give them too much information, before I know if they're even the kind of person who will handle what I've given them with care. Other friends, in the past, have echoed this about me. C once told me my naivete is my best and worst quality. 

Yet on an ironically bizarre flip side, I have so many trust issues because I've had so many people in the past teach me that being very direct and confrontational is a Bad Thing. And because I've had my heart broken in the past so many times or I've been taught over and over that I'm not enough, it's left me in a situation where I usually don't trust ME. So I end up bonding with people who are very bossy. Or the highly manipulative. Or dishonest game players. Or just dishonest people period. Or maybe they're all just very very nice, but are too much of a fucked up mess to really be a true friend to anyone. 

So here's what happens: I meet someone along my journey. They seem kind and good-hearted. They're smart and funny and I really just thoroughly enjoy them as a human being. I don't ask much from anyone except that they be real with me, and don't play games or manipulate me. All I ever ask of people is to mean what they say and say what they mean. And that's because when I tell YOU something, I mean it. If I can't mean it, I don't say it. What I say to you comes from my heart. I don't know any other way to do it.

So what happens is this: they say kind, friendly, good-hearted, and funny things to me, and I heart them real hard. They promise me they're my friend, and I believe them. Because when I say those types of things I always mean them, and so I just assume when others say those types of things, they mean them too. And then I tell them too much. I let them in too quickly. I assume, too swiftly, that other people don't have hidden agendas. I suck at games, and it never ceases to shock me when it dawns on me other people actually enjoy games, the thrill of game strategy. This is what disappoints me most about other human beings, I think: when they treat other human beings as games. People are not games. We are not.

So when something happens that really underscores that this is not the case, that someone has said they are my friend and then does something a real friend wouldn't do, my heart is always broken. People disappoint me. If you've read Edward Tulane, and you are as fascinated by the character of Pellegrina as I am, you'll completely understand me when I say that. 

Here's another thing about me: I'm naive but not stupid. When your heart has been broken by others enough, you learn. When someone's behavior starts to change, you know to start reading between the lines. Because all your past experiences have taught you this is where the disappointment, the heart break part starts. You wake up to what's really going on, because even when the other person insists they're telling the truth you know they aren't. Your gut knows something isn't jiving. But you've also learned it's not something you can confront them with, the conversation will be exhausting or upsetting. Because maybe they really believe it's the truth. Or maybe they're very desperate not to be seen as a bad person, or whatever their motivation is. 

I promise, Internet: I'm naive but not stupid. Please, please don't ever treat me like I'm stupid. That's the absolute worst thing someone can do with me, or anyone else for that matter. Just be honest. I hate it when people aren't honest about what they really want. Once I figure out you've begun treating me as a game and aren't being honest with me, I lose all respect for you. And then I get really really angry. And then I get really really sad. You disappoint me.

And I'm too trusting, but once you teach me that you're not really trustworthy, once you really show me how you weren't worthy of however close I let you get to my protective bubble, we are done. You're going to have to come through in a really big way to prove to me that I'm wrong about you. In my experience, game players aren't really interested in doing that. Once they figure out they've been figured out, game over. They go find a new person to start up a new game with. But who really won your game? Who lost? Seriously, I could write blog entries on that for days. (Answer: there are no winners when you do this. Everybody loses.)

I'm trying not to build as many walls. I'm trying to learn to live outside a protective bubble. But other people keep disappointing me, and so I find myself continuing to lay bricks, gluing pieces of reinforced steel to my bubble's walls. This has made me really angry. But also very, very sad. Just like Edward Tulane, the fragile china rabbit.

The good news is that The Miraculous Journey of Edward Tulane is also about hope and redemption. Really, it's a perfect example of American mythologist Joseph Campbell's the Hero's Journey tale - someone is called to action, to take a journey. Along the way s/he meets friends who are enemies and enemies who are friends. S/he fights many battles, both winning and losing along the way. Finally, towards the end, the hero is losing everything; s/he has a Dark Night of the Soul moment in which the decision must be made: go on or give up? If the hero gives up, all will be lost. If the hero chooses to go on, then s/he must make a change. The change will be the hardest thing s/he has ever done, but the transformation after it's over will be magnificent and all will be won. 

I really want to put the Coda (the wrap up at the end of the book) to Edward Tulane here for you to read, because it's probably the most moving and lovely summary of a story I've ever read. But I'm worried there are people who've come here and haven't yet read this book, and I don't want to ruin it for them. If you're in a Dark Night of the Soul, this story will break your heart wide open. If you're not, it'll get you through a Dark Night once you're there. And if you're really living Life, you will be. 

So I'll just leave you with my Coda:

Once, there was a girl who loved the world. She loved its mountains, its oceans, its prairies, its forests. She loved its animals and its people. She trusted someone completely, who broke her heart. But she still loved the world. So she trusted again. And someone else broke her heart. But she still believed in love and the goodness of the world, and so she trusted again. And someone else disappointed her. And on and on this went, until one day she decided to live in a very hard bubble so no one would ever disappoint her or break her heart again. 

But her heart wasn't really happy in the bubble. So once in awhile, she'd let it out. And it would get punched, and then she'd get angry. She'd go back into her bubble where she'd punch and kick at the world outside, hoping some of the punches or kicks would hurt the world even though she knew: if you're in a protective bubble of steel how could it? 

What she really wanted was someone to love her, understand her, and accept her as is. All she ever wanted was a good friend. What she really hoped for was someone who would be a friend who didn't also want to play games with her at the same time. The girl sucked at games. Because what she really wanted most of all was for someone to mean what they say, and say what they mean.

.......that's it. That's as far as I've gotten writing my Coda, since my journey hasn't ended yet. And this morning I'm also thinking about C, whose heart I have smashed into tiny pieces. I wonder how his heart is going to recover, and where that karma will be written, ultimately, as part of my story's Coda. I think because I'm painfully aware that, once you break someone's heart, once you disappoint them, they'll become part of your story and you theirs. Forever and ever. Whether you want that or not. Tread lightly when you invite someone into your game, sweet Reader(s). The stakes are always so high.

At any rate, Edward's Coda is a ton better, because he kinda sorta gets his heart's desire at the end but in a way he didn't expect. And isn't that just how Life is? The Universe will always give you what your heart has always wanted, but maybe not in ways you'd have ever expected. So be careful what you wish for, and what you decide to invite in.

detached ghost sightings.

That could be a portal, and they could be passing through.
(I'm joking. I borrowed this from an online magazine
called uncube magazine.)

I have a half-day off, Internet, and it feels fabulous. I've met with almost all of my kids' parents, and they are fabulous. Fabulous kids = fabulous parents and vice versa. You do know the saying "apples don't fall far from trees" is true, yes? It is. I don't know who put this class together or why I was given them, but I would like to find that person and hug them. Maybe buy them dinner. Something. They are going to carry me through the rest of this year. 

So I was thinking about what I wrote about last time. Apparently, it worried some people? I mean, my mom texted and emailed me to let me know she was thinking about me and loved me. And I got sent a ton of messages about how loved and awesome I am. So I feel like I need to clarify what I wrote:

1. I am not depressed. Have I been depressed recently? Yes. Because of burn out. There have been some really dark, bad days. But when I wrote THAT blog, I was actually pretty fine. 

2. What I feel is detached. I don't think this is a bad thing. I mean, Buddha said it's the goal to Enlightenment - don't cling to anyone or anything, that's the key to a perfect state of being. None of this is permanent; none of this is real. People aren't possessions; love is fluid. Let go. Detach.

I guess some people hear that word and go: oh, Amy doesn't want to participate in life anymore. No, no. I'm pretty cool participating in life and socializing and all that. When I say "detached," what I mean is: you do you, I'll do me. I don't have the energy right now to worry about why someone said this or didn't say that, or why someone did this or didn't do that. I don't care WHAT you do, quite frankly. You want to read this blog and blow me kisses? Have at it. You want me to clean your kitchen and take your trash out and operate on your time schedule and blow you kisses and follow your rules? Hell freaking NO. 

As long as you aren't hurting me or my kid, as long as you aren't being a complete and total douchebag, as long as you aren't trying to load me down with expectations and demands that meet YOUR needs, do it. Rock on, motherrocker. Meanwhile, I'll be over here wallowing or dancing or reading or writing or whatever...don't worry about me. I'm doing exactly the things I need to do to meet MY needs; I don't need or want anything from anybody else. I've learned if I can't get it or find it or give it to myself, then it's probably not something I really need to be pursuing in the first place. 

So I'll be just fine. You do you, I'll do me. That's what "detached" means. To me, at least.

3. That's it. That's all I was saying in that last post.

In THIS post, what I want to say is:

I got to hang out in a real haunted house the other night. I tweeted about it, and meant to include Jason Hawes in the tweet so he could come find me and keep me safe but I totally forgot about Jason in all my excitement. My friend R - she lives in a house with haints, you guys! The house is beautiful. (R, your gigantic house is gorgeous and also I'm so glad I don't have to clean it!) But it's also right next to Dawson Forest, which is well-known for being a dark and creepy woods. Several years ago, a serial killer (or at the very least a terrifying psycho drifter who went off the deep end) named Gary Michael Hilton bludgeoned a hiker named Meredith Emerson to death and then decapitated her, dumping her body in Dawson Forest. Three other murdered people have been dumped there over the last 12 or so years. People regularly commit suicides in Dawson Forest. Also in the vicinity of R and family lives a family of crazy people who keep fake heads on spikes in their yard and shoot at them. This is totally like Deliverance meets The Exorcist meets The Blair Witch Project. It's the BESTEST.

Years ago, I had a friend who lived in some apartments near a graveyard. The apartment complex was fairly new, but sometimes she'd wake up to see shadow figures standing in her bathroom. Finally, a boyfriend let her know: those are the people from the graveyard. They're passing through, and your bathroom is a portal. 

Holy crap, Internet! I hope none of you live in a portal! I can't imagine anything more freaky and terrifying than constantly waking up to dead strangers standing around, looking very confused in your bathroom. At 3 AM. Watching you pee.

So I think R's house is a portal of some sort. A creepy Dawson Forest portal. It has a little girl in it; she's often seen standing outside the laundry room. R's son's bedroom door opens and closes all by itself, sometimes right in front of you. R was asleep one night with one of her feet hanging off the side of the bed and something tugged on her big toe three times. Once, she heard a southern woman say to her very loud and clear: "Hello!" And their basement just has a general, overall creep factor to it that made it absolutely impossible for me to be there alone on my visit. R says she's perfectly fine being down there by herself, but I sense she's a ghost whisperer of some sort. 

The children played down there the other night just fine because there's a movie theater with a stage and a karaoke machine that they didn't use to sing into but to make very loud sounds and tell Yo Mama jokes. I, however, had to use the bathroom upstairs at one point and to get to THAT, I was forced to walk down a hallway and go by a pitch black bedroom with door wide open. Any thing could have leapt out of the black maw and chewed my face off! I almost screamed my head off, running to make it to the bathroom to turn the light on as fast as I could. I don't want any creepy, cold, bony fingers of death touching me and stuff. 

When I was growing up in Kentucky, I think our house was haunted. The first house we lived in was. That was the Streamland Drive house, and I swear the downstairs basement had SOMEthing in it. There was a laundry room down there, an office/den, and a big, finished multi-use room we used as a TV and playroom. I was fine in the TV/playroom, fine in the laundry room...never ever wanted to go into the office/den. It just felt creepy.

Once, when I was asleep, I remember waking up because I felt like I was levitating above my bed. When I opened my eyes, I could see two ladies dressed in early 1900s garb standing at the foot of it, just watching me, one dressed in purple. To this day, I don't know if they were ghosts or angels because when I was in college I visited a psychic who told me I have two guardian angels, and one is an older lady who always dresses in purple. (The other is young man who wears yellow, and he's ridiculously protective of me; he's not going to let anything really bad happen to me...and so far he's done a fairly decent job, I must commend him.)

So. Still want to go on a ghost hunt. But now it's been confirmed for me: I CANNOT EVER BE ALONE. Seriously. I'd totally be the one the poltergeist would eat first.

protective nfg bubble.

I didn't come up with this idea. A brilliant girl named Sarah did.

I had a fairly decent day, World Wide Web. I'm hitting most of my teaching targets now, starting to pull it together in terms of focus and organization. I mean, we're doing small groups/Math and Reading centers so I can teach small groups of children for 15-20 minutes every day and that's HUGE. I'm actually not convinced that children learn much of anything in 15 minute increments; god knows I don't feel like I teach them much of anything. But it's what Modern Day Education Administrators like to see because some researchers and/or some teachers who did it got famous for writing some books about it and they all swore it works. And it looks like everybody's doing something. And now they can check it off on their clipboards and feel like they're finally hitting their stride and so I am doing it. We are all hitting our strides, checking stuff off our clipboards, and children are in contained areas of safety all day so their parents can...do whatever their parents do from 8 am to 4 pm Monday through Friday. All is right with the world.

I've started parent-teacher conferences, and so far so good. Because of this, I'm not even going to bitch about parents who insist on having THEIR time needs met, because they are obviously oblivious to the fact there are children besides their own in the class and I'm a degreed and trained professional just like a doctor or a lawyer and I bet none of these people would ever, ever demand an exact appointment time and day from a doctor or a lawyer. Or maybe they would, because some of them actually do come across as the kind of people who'd do that. But it doesn't work with the other degreed professions like doctors and lawyers, because doctors and lawyers (a) have secretaries who make their appointments who will laugh in a really bitchy way over the phone if they try to do that and (b) doctors and lawyers make 100,000 dollars more a year than me and so clients don't set the days and times, THEY get to because that's how money and perceived power happen to work. (In other words: hey parents, have a time FRAME, not DEMAND. And I'll bend over backwards for you if you're sweet about it; but when you take a bitchy tone with me? Guess what? Suddenly my appointments are all full up. You catch more flies with honey than vinegar.) 

And yet. And yet. I'm still such a mess. I can't go into all the details, but it's been a combination of the high expectations of others, a general bizarre and unusual insecurity/neediness/double guessing on my own part, topped off by too many fucking hypercritical people coming at me all at once. And money. I find I'm always worried about money now. I pay down my credit card...and then have to use it...so I can have money left over at the end of the month and fool my brain into thinking we've done fantastic at saving money. (Christmas is looming, is what I'm saying.) (And some girlfriends and I are planning a November trip to Charleston.) (Which may end up being my Christmas present to myself.)

Sunday was bad. So, so bad. I wish I could describe for you the depths to which Sunday was bad. Sunday was one of those days that I really considered getting in my car and driving to the Gulf of Mexico and swimming around in it at dusk, daring all the sharks. That kind of bad. A couple of things happened, and normally when crazy things happen I just roll my eyes and quietly whisper Fuck you to whoever it is, and then go on with my life. Sunday I just had a meltdown of a day about pretty much anything. I mean I lost my collective shit with Miss M over how long it was taking her to put on a pair of goddamn shoes. (I mean, for real: TEN MINUTES. In my defense, that would give the Dalai Lama high blood pressure.) Maybe it's hormones. Maybe the stars were misaligned. I don't know. I don't know.

Sunday night I literally cried myself to sleep. The last time I literally cried myself to sleep like that, two angels of God paid me a visit and told me to seriously stop worrying so much. (True story, for another time.) 

This time, my dad came to visit me. I dreamt I was living in my mom's house but now it was my house, and it was a MESS. (Coincidence? I think not.) Drawers were open, clothes spilling out everywhere, in every room. And all the rooms were decorated in gaudy gild and glitter, like the zombie of Liberace threw up everywhere. And she had dolls. Oh my god, you guys! The DOLLS. They covered every available tabletop and shelf and WTF dream version mom, with the dolls? 

But more than that, 3 people followed me home in the dream. Two men and a woman. I don't remember what they looked like now, but I remember I didn't really want them in my messy house and basically said that to them, but they ignored me and came home with me anyway. And I didn't really stop them. When we got to the house, the front door was unlocked and slightly ajar. I kind of freaked out, sure that someone had robbed me. But then when we went inside everything was a mess, but nothing was missing. Yet it was still so overwhelming - who were those 3 people? Why was everything such a mess? What the hell was my mom doing with all these freaking dolls?? 

I just sat down on the floor, the one spot in the house that a doll hoarder hadn't gotten to, and started sobbing. Completely overwhelmed.

And then my dad showed up. He came up behind me, wearing a white shirt, and wrapped both arms around me. He didn't speak to me, but he had a huge smile on his face. I don't remember feeling really relieved or much of anything at all to realize he was there, hugging me. Just sort of gently surprised that he was there, wondering where he'd come from, and happy he was hugging me but also surprised by that too, because hugging wasn't really something he ever did when he was alive. And so I just sat and let him sit with his arms around me...and then I woke up.

I realized, as soon as I woke up, that my dad had come to visit me. And so I sobbed some more. I told him thank you for coming to check on me. But it just made me sadder. You guys, I really, really miss my dad. My dad would've taken me out for a margarita and listened to me. And then lectured me and gone off on ten side tangents. And paid my electric bill.

Next time I come here to write/spew/whine/mourn, maybe I'll share some man experiences that I connect with my dad, who was the sun, the moon, and the stars for me; who never really understood how important it was that he was those things for me. And I want to tell you, Internet, about Steven B. who broke my heart in a million pieces and it took me a long time to glue them back together. And about Steve J. who broke my heart in a billion little pieces some of which I still can't find. And maybe a little about C, though I try to be careful about writing about him because he's going to be in my life for....forever...because of Miss M, and he didn't break my heart. He tried to fix it for a long while, but it was too hard for him. And maybe that happened because I never really wanted it fixed and so I never really let him. (And there were personality traits he has that may have kept me from wanting him to.)

At any rate. I had a dream about my dad, and now he's been on my mind since then. And at first, I was just all kinds of undone by the dream. Because I think that's when they come visit us, in our dreams, when our paranormal defenses are down. And so I've been aware, since late Sunday night, that my dad is...hovering? Or near me, somehow. And this is both comforting and melancholy. 

And yet. And yet. I'm back to being rational again. Strangely detached from things; feeling slightly impervious to the needs and expectations of others. Don't really care if someone doesn't like me or want me or think I'm awesome. It's not that I don't care about other people; it's that I don't care about other people's opinions, I don't care what anybody else thinks or does (for now, because I know me and the me I know only goes through these strange no-fucks-given phases in slow spurts). 

Remember how Glinda the Good Witch gives Dorothy a protective kiss on the forehead in The Wizard of Oz? Maybe that's what my dad did for me Sunday night. Waited for his in, and then wrapped me in white protective light. I'm in a bubble. A protective, no-fucks-given kind of bubble for now. I'm a nice person; I genuinely care about other people, sometimes more than is good for me. But ultimately, at the end of the day, I really need to go to sleep without sobbing. And so this actually feels kind of cocoon-y. Calm. And I like it. So I'm going to stay here for awhile.

I'd really like to title this blog entry No Fucks Given. But I'm worried about search engines picking it up and sending weird people to me. And so I'm going to call it my Protective NFG Bubble entry. And NO, you can't use that! I might trademark it.

storytelling vs data: ultimate showdown.

Hi, Internet. How was your week? Mine was crap. (But you're getting used to hearing this, yes?) 

We had some depressing meetings this week. Okay, just one. One really depressing meeting. Can I be very honest with you? If I tell you what's going on, will you promise not to send this blog to anyone who can fire me for writing this out loud? Or maybe stick me with the scary-as-shit 5th graders next year? 

What we're doing in public education is very, very misguided. Well-intentioned. But misguided.

Listen: I want everybody to read. I want a society that's 100% literate, so we can all have safe drivers and not unknowingly sign things that say we robbed a bank or whatever. I mean, I LOVE to read. Reading, for me as a child, was a means of escape. Reading is AWESOME.

And I get it: we all want to cream the shit out of China, show the world who's REALLY top dog. In case our nuclear arsenal isn't enough. 

But listen: reading should be FUN. Learning to read is a process, and you learn to do it by DOING it. The more you do it, the better you get at it. But it should not be for instructional purposes only. Books should be MAGIC. Stories are what makes us understand the world and each other. Stories stretch us, open us up. I read an article the other night about how children who don't read enough fiction become adults who aren't able to empathize with other humans very well. Which is why I am so very alarmed right now as a teacher, a writer, a reader, and a mother about what's going on in public schools right now (thanks, Common Core). This obsession with non-fiction, practical text is going to be the undoing of Humanity, mark my words. Right after Social Media disables us, Non-Fiction text will come in and finish the job.

I'm not saying NO SCIENCE. Science matters; I LOVE Science. I really believe Science is going to help save human beings from ourselves, or at the very least from cancer or heart disease. But magic and mystery matter, too. Data does not a life make. When you die, I assure you: you will not care what you scored on a test in 10th grade, or what reading level you were at in 2nd grade. When you die, you will think of your stories, of who you loved most, of who you fought with, of times you were awed by the world's beauty, of times you were horrified by its terror. When my dad died, I didn't give a flying rat's ass about what his manufacturing plant's production numbers were, and neither did he. I sat next to his still body, thinking about the last time I'd hugged him and all the circumstances surrounding that, and why there hadn't been more hugs, and how there never would be forever after. 

And we're losing sight of that, in our race to show China whose dick, I mean brain, is biggest.

So really, when I write these angst-y about work blogs, what I'm actually worried about is where we're going as human beings. I'm depressed over what's happening in my school. But I'm also very very concerned, Reader(s). Human beings are not just data; we are complex organisms of intricately intertwined experiences. All human beings, no matter how young or old, have strengths. We all have weaknesses. Some people are very Math-y. Some people are more Word-y. Some people are Art-y. Some people are more wrestle-y. Some are good at driving trucks. Or at being silent ninjas. Or assembling furniture from boxes. Everybody (EVERYBODY) has a talent. And sometimes talents aren't discovered until later on in life. And sometimes you have talent in 2-3 areas.

What I'm also saying is: not every talent requires college. And not everybody is a scholar. Not everybody's going to college, or is even meant to. I think everyone should have the OPPORTUNITY to go to college...if they want to. But I'm also saying it's wrong of us to lay the blame at the feet of teachers if a person and/or their family doesn't value education enough to want to go higher; that's a societal ill, not an educational one. And there should be absolutely no shame in deciding it's not for you; that cleaning out gunk in sewers is more your thing. We've got sewers; we all use them. None of us want to wade through layers of steaming feces in the streets; somebody's got to clean up the shit.

I disagree with people who tell me I'm being arrogant and elitist when I say that. And I disagree because, theoretically, I too want EVERYBODY to be a nuclear physicist and solve global warming and fix the Middle East and discover the cure for cancer. I want that. Don't you? But I also like to stay grounded in reality, and I like to recognize the quiet strengths that come out of people. I have a little boy this year who likes to make sounds. He's driving me nuts. Oh my god, Internet, absolutely effing nuts. But he also cracks me up. Because I see the future comedian that is blooming in him, if public education doesn't test and squish it out of him. I see his Happy, and how good he's going to be. If data divers don't make him feel like just another number. If test obsessives don't destroy his love for storytelling.

This is what I do every day - I go into my classroom and I read and I laugh and I tell stories and I sing and I talk with children. I let them know they aren't just another number. Today we had a soft lockdown...and that made some of the children think a bad man was in our building. And some of the children remembered their parents talking about Sandy Hook, what happened there. And so we had to stop a Language Arts lesson and sit and talk: first, soft lockdowns are no big deal; we just stay inside until they say we can go outside again...and second, what would happen if it was a hard lockdown, meaning a bad person came into OUR school? And I let them know: I love you SO much, I would do every single thing I could think of to keep you safe. The bad person would have to come through ME to get to you. You are THAT important to me. I've only known you for four weeks, and I already love you THAT much. 

And my little comedian man? You know what he thought about? My daughter, Miss M. He asked, "But wouldn't your daughter be sad if you got dead?" And then we had to have a talk about THAT. About how, yes, she would be and it would be very very hard for her, just like it would be for me, if something terrible happened to her. And then we talked about how sometimes terrible things do happen, and nobody really understands why, but we can still be okay because we all have invisible strength inside of us that helps us keep going. We just have to know it's there, even if we can't see it.

So. One more day of not teaching Complete Sentences really well so they can pass that part of the tests. Will that matter to them? I don't know. It's more important to me that they don't just know they're loved, they FEEL it. And sometimes, knowing and feeling you're loved is so much more important than increasing your data and passing some tests. And telling our stories, which is really just sharing our fears and our loves. That's so so SO much more important than data and tests. And knowing we're all in this together. So much more important. 

There are people out there, I want you to know, who will read that last paragraph and say something very cerebral like: "But that's not going to get them a well-paying job in the private sector or increase our chances of staying a world superpower." And I hope those people all choke on a piece of overpriced filet mignon and go to hell. And I hope, when they're in hell, they have to take test after test after test and no matter how hard they try, no matter how hard they work, no matter how much their fingers bleed and their brains burst open over and over and over again, they never ever pass them. And nobody cares. Because their pain doesn't matter; just their data.

Which is why the meeting I was at earlier this week really upset me so much. Because I was told if I don't move every child in my class an entire year's level in Reading (and then some), based on some arbitrary chart I don't even know where they got it from, it won't be because they're living in a hotel and there's no organization at home; it won't be because they're not getting adequate nutrition; it won't be because they're watching their mom get hit every night or coming home to an empty house and taking care of themselves and their younger siblings or that mommy just doesn't care about school and so neither do they. It won't be because of any of that. It'll be because they had the misfortune of getting a teacher who had instructional issues and didn't work hard enough to fix those. In 180 days (which is really more like 150 days, due to testing). It'll be my fault. I'm magic. I'm supposed to be magic. 

This is the source of my distress and angst (when not being distressed and agonized over my personal life of course...wait for it! Wait for it. That portion's on its way in few more paragraphs). I'm working harder than I ever have. I don't know that there are words in any human language to describe the tired I am. I'm tired down to the inner depths of my soul. I am desperate for someone to come massage these tired knots out of my soul. 

Earlier this week, I feel like I was kind of told: that's not hard enough. That's not tired enough. But then I'm also told: No, we're trying to help you work smarter, not harder. Then I'm told: you're not working hard enough. Then I'm told: you're not working smart enough. Then I'm told: not hard enough. 

Which one do you want, Public Education? I'm flatlining over here, make a decision. 

Anyway. Today was bad. Yesterday was bad too. I had to take M to softball practice. 7:00-8:30, on a school night, twice a week. Exhausted. Defeated. Annoyed. I was in a dark, foul mood. So when one girl on M's team started tossing her face mask in my general direction and it almost hit me while I was grading papers, I was barely civil. Sorry to that girl and her mom. And when the coach called M "Michelle" again for the upteenth time, I was barely civil when I corrected him - learn their names, goddamn it. They matter. And if I interacted with you yesterday or earlier today, I'm really sorry. When I get into one of these moods, I'm rather...black. Ish. Funky. No fun to hang out with.

Maybe this is why, last night, I stopped by my old house and let myself in with the key. C was out of town on a business trip. I just wanted to be somewhere familiar, where I had some happier memories. Where nobody was stomping around above me, no yippy dog was barking down the hall, and nobody was having sex next to me and concluding it all with some type of bad late 80s pop hit (I have next door neighbors who get amorous late at night, and the man - a deep baritone, who actually has a keen sense for musical tone - likes to finish up with ditties like Ice Ice Baby. Fortunately, Miss M has either been at her dad's or blissfully asleep; at some point, I suppose we'll end up having THAT talk...5 years early, thanks so much kinky next door neighbors). Basically, I just wanted to be surrounded by familiar sounds and smells and...familiar stuff. Without late night Cinemax softcore film noir in the background. 

C is painting the downstairs. A hideous (sorry if you read this, C, but it is true) a hideous white-ish grey. All of our beautiful, spicy colors of earthy green, cinnamon, harvest yellow...going white-ish grey. I just sat on my old red sofa and sobbed at what he's about to do, for a very long time. And I sobbed because that was the sofa I used to take naps with M on, laying on my chest. And because my old cat Tasha died in that chair there. And I am homesick. 

Not for C, who I love a lot, but do not want to be married to anymore. I am not homesick for our relationship; we simply don't work in that capacity. I'm homesick for peace and safety, I think. Just peace and safety. And the Known. And warm colors and quiet. I feel like I'm constantly surrounded, at work, by clinical colors and loudness. Do this! Yesterday! We're pretty sure you potentially suck and are hurting children! Get the data up! Increase their growth! Now! Now! Now! 

I am not just stressed and exhausted at this point. I am actually going slightly numb, at work. I feel trapped and helpless and powerless. And I don't like this. I love the children they gave me this year, and if you walked into my classroom on any given day, you would see us reading and talking and laughing and enjoying each other. It would LOOK fabulous. But if you walked in my classroom at the end of the day, on any given day, you would see me sad and quiet, hurriedly prepping for tomorrow, stressed out about something I haven't done or something that's due or paperwork...or I'd be vegging out and checking my phone, simply unable to cope with the stress anymore...or I'd be in tears. Just sitting. In tears. Powerless.

Tomorrow I'm going to a sweet friend's house for burgers, beer, and swimming. We've been talking a long time about writing a TV show based on what teaching in an elementary-level, poor, urban school is like. I'm not good at writing scripts, but she has family members who work in the TV/Film industry who are going to help us. Because we've got STORIES, seasons of stories. Stories you just can't make up, but are really real. Most are ridiculously funny. Some are sad. Some are infuriating. Some are heartbreaking. Just like Life. But mostly, we just want people to know how hard it is. I talk to people all the time who voice this. They say, "You have the hardest job!" or "I couldn't do what you do!" But do they really, really KNOW? We want them to feel it. Because we want to stop what's happening to our children, to our schools. This is very, very wrong. 

.........or you know. On the other hand, I could just be a drama queen. Totally addicted to attention. I'll let you decide.

Tonight, after dinner, Miss M and I were driving home and she was so so MAD at me for not buying dessert. She sat in the back crying, saying mournfully morose things like, "Nobody wants me as a child. Nobody will ever ever love me. I guess I'll just be by myself forever and EVER. Because that's my FATE." (Sound familiar? Go back through this blog...apples do not fall far from trees.) 

And so I kept saying, "That's not true. You're my favorite child in the whole world. I will ALWAYS want you." (I would protect you with my life, my darling. I would take a bullet for you, my little wannabe-mermaid.) 

To which she screeched, "THAT'S NOT TRUE!!! What?! You think just telling me you LOVE me makes no dessert BETTER?!?! Well, YOU'RE WRONG!!! YOU HATE ME!!! You OBVIOUSLY hate me!!! What?! You think telling me I'm your favorite child makes what you did OKAY?!!? What?!?! You think you're the SMARTEST??!! What?! Do they give out DEGREES in PARENTING now?!?! What?! You think you have a PhD in MOM?!?!"

And that made me laugh my ridiculous shitty mom ass off. Which made her even angrier. And so she sobbed in the back while I literally peed my pants with laughter. Seriously. I had to change when we got home. But not before I got her a McDonald's ice cream cone, as a consolation prize and a thank you.

Because when I was finally able to collect myself, I realized: I haven't laughed, really laughed, in about 48 hours. And maybe THAT has really been my problem; I am so much more pleasant to hang out with when something makes me laugh so hard I pee my pants and my ridiculous mom ass comes off. (I wonder if there's some data to back me up on that?)