Anybody got an extra 24 hours for their day they've got laying around? I sure could use them.
This point in the semester is always rough, because there's SO MUCH TO DO, and everyone starts getting SO TIRED, so it's really hard to keep everyone motivated in class when I don't even want to be working anymore.
Add to that my part-time foster coordinator gig and my planning & hiring meetings for my summer camp director gig, and I literally haven't had time to do *anything.*
But priorities are important. And so, even in the busiest season of the year, here are my small victories:
1. I've painted my new bulletin board. (Yes, even finding an hour to paint is a victory.)
2. I'm sticking to my half-marathon AND 10k training schedules. More or less. But even "less" counts!
3. I've been strength training three days a week. I only get about 20 minutes of training, and I only get to do one round of workouts, BUT. I'm getting it done, which is the important part.
4. I haven't gained any weight this last month, and I've actually been able to lose about a pound. Even with stress eating! Even with sleep deprivation! Even with meetings!
5. Other than being horrifically behind on grading, I've been staying on top of work, and I'm getting more and more efficient at my FOTA fostering gig (I think, anyway).
6. I'm able to pay my credit card down now.
7. I've been sticking to my "No booze" practice for the last three weeks, and I feel so much better.
8. I'm still making time to take care of myself, like going to church and taking a few minutes in the morning to stretch. And praying! And stretching! Again, taking little cuts of time is better than taking no time at all.
So yeah, that's about it--small victories, for sure, but victories none-the-less. I can't wait for Spring Break next week.
Happy running.
Thursday, April 6, 2017
Saturday, March 11, 2017
Bad Dreams, Sad Dreams
Hi there, old friend. It's been awhile. How quickly a year passes. How much changes.
I'm not sure what's compelling me to write after all this time; perhaps it's just that writing makes my old wrist and finger injuries hurt, so typing is just easier. Perhaps I've just missed this space. Perhaps.
To summarize the last 362 days: Life is good--better now, in fact, than it ever has been before. Case and I moved into a lovely, charming old house. We have TWENTY-FIVE windows!! Work is amazing and challenging, and I'm teaching a YA lit class right now that's hands-down the best, most entertaining, most enriching class I've ever taught. I've also got a dog-sitting side business, and I'm the new Friends of the Animals Foster & Volunteer Coordinator. On top of all that, the summer camp I worked for last summer offered me a site director position for this coming summer, which is a huge promotion and amazing opportunity. Since we last met, I've ran two half-marathons, three (four?) 5ks, one 15k, and the Louisiana Marathon. I also joined an *incredible* running group filled with wonderful people. With them, I've pushed boundaries I didn't know I even had with my running. And, through it all, Case and I are worlds better than we were this time last year, and Stormy--bless her--is still Stormy.
In short: I'm good. REALLY good.
And yet. I've been having these dreams.
The other night, I dreamt that Stormy died. Not just dream-died, but really, physically, viscerally died. She took her last breaths in my arms, and the dream continued into the after-death period, where I had to prepare her body for cremation and begin the mourning process. A night later, I dreamt that I took a new job offer in Virginia, despite not wanting to actually leave here. And "here" wasn't just Baton Rouge; it was a hybrid of Baton Rouge and Flagstaff, but a Flagstaff where many friends who have since moved away were all back. In other words, I was moving away from everyone I've learned to care about in the last seven years. A dear friend who now lives in Washington state was there, and we got to sit and talk like we used to. I got to give her an in-person hug. There were the mountains, but also the delicious Louisiana humidity. Accents abounded. Flagstaff Thai food was consumed. And, because there was Flagstaff, the same shit that's *always* wrapped up with Flagstaff--the ex-boyfriend and ex-friends and friends who I should've made exes but loved too much--was there. That dream hurt so, so bad. And THEN, just recently I dreamt I got to see all my old NYC friends, but we were frozen in time in our early- and mid-20s. Kids, really. Back when we were all really close. Back before I left them in real life and never quite retained the level of closeness. And it was a beautiful dream, it really was, but it was so desperately bittersweet because I can't get that back. We all grew up and out of our youth, and anymore, I feel like I'm watching old friendships through Instagram filters and Facebook statuses rather than actual, quality communication. And I know I'm largely to blame because I'm the one who left. I'm always the one to leave.
Take our old apartment: We moved from there after 15 months because I was losing my damn mind living in that space. And, because of a technicality and a misogynistic prick of a landlord, we lost our security deposit in the process. We did *everything* we were told to do. We did everything asked of us. And still, we were screwed in the end. And still, I'm so. boiling. mad. over it. What makes my anger worse is that, because of said misogynistic prick of a landlord, it has nowhere to go. The man literally won't answer my calls. He could never make eye contact with me or shake my hand, either. The warning signs were there; I saw them. I just hoped against hope that my gut was wrong.
Spoilers: My gut has never been wrong. So in that process of necessary leaving, we lost a lot of money.
This is not to say I regret moving out of that apartment when we did. I love my house. I love everything about this house. I love it so much that I spent hours doing yard work and mopping today, to take care of it. To nurture it as a thanks for its nurturing.
I loved another house once, in a former life. That house was about a third the size of my current home, and it had a garden and clothesline in the backyard. The kitchen featured dwarf versions of a stove and fridge. The only interior door separated the tiny bathroom from the only bedroom. And yet, for as small as it was, that little stone house could wrap a dozen friends and family with its walls and music. I had to say goodbye to it a week after my ex split my lip, bruised my face, and sprained my left wrist and two fingers. I couldn't eat solid food for that week. In the end though, I cleaned that house from top to bottom, and on the last night it was still mine, I stayed up until the pre-dawn, drinking beer, listening to music, and whispering my goodbyes into its walls and hardwood floor.
I didn't think I'd ever love another person or another house after that goodbye.
And yet.
Here I am, nearly four years later, in a better, brighter house with a better, brighter love, and sad, sad, such sad dreams.
A friend suggested the dreams could be me moving to a new phase of my life and struggling to let go of the past; another friend agreed. And I can see that. Spring so often signifies struggle for me--struggle to end that bad relationship, struggle to find work after grad school, struggle to find work after Case's grad school and my first contract, struggle to adapt to this strange new place they call Louisiana...
For the first time in a long time, this spring is good. And not just good--REALLY good.
I'm not quite sure what I have to let go of. The deep, bitter anger I have about that security deposit, for sure. The deeper, bitterer anger I will always have about that night and that old house and who I shared it with, absolutely. But perhaps there's something even deeper, and maybe not bitter at all. Maybe something a little sweet and a little sad. Something about who I used to know. Something about who I think I still know, but don't, really. Something about the necessity of growing apart in order to really grow up. Something about who I once was, who helped me become the current version of myself, who I can't--and shouldn't ever--get back.
Maybe it's just that I'm older than I've ever been and younger than I'll ever be, and sometimes that just sits a little heavier on the shoulders.
No, I'm not quite sure what I need to let go of. And I'm not quite sure how to let go of the stuff I've got.
But do I know that I have twenty-five windows I get to clean; and active, thriving friendships scattered across the country; so many memories--how do you handle all the memories?--and even if it means I will have sad, sad dreams sometimes, that's okay.
Because I'm good.
REALLY good.
I'm not sure what's compelling me to write after all this time; perhaps it's just that writing makes my old wrist and finger injuries hurt, so typing is just easier. Perhaps I've just missed this space. Perhaps.
To summarize the last 362 days: Life is good--better now, in fact, than it ever has been before. Case and I moved into a lovely, charming old house. We have TWENTY-FIVE windows!! Work is amazing and challenging, and I'm teaching a YA lit class right now that's hands-down the best, most entertaining, most enriching class I've ever taught. I've also got a dog-sitting side business, and I'm the new Friends of the Animals Foster & Volunteer Coordinator. On top of all that, the summer camp I worked for last summer offered me a site director position for this coming summer, which is a huge promotion and amazing opportunity. Since we last met, I've ran two half-marathons, three (four?) 5ks, one 15k, and the Louisiana Marathon. I also joined an *incredible* running group filled with wonderful people. With them, I've pushed boundaries I didn't know I even had with my running. And, through it all, Case and I are worlds better than we were this time last year, and Stormy--bless her--is still Stormy.
In short: I'm good. REALLY good.
And yet. I've been having these dreams.
The other night, I dreamt that Stormy died. Not just dream-died, but really, physically, viscerally died. She took her last breaths in my arms, and the dream continued into the after-death period, where I had to prepare her body for cremation and begin the mourning process. A night later, I dreamt that I took a new job offer in Virginia, despite not wanting to actually leave here. And "here" wasn't just Baton Rouge; it was a hybrid of Baton Rouge and Flagstaff, but a Flagstaff where many friends who have since moved away were all back. In other words, I was moving away from everyone I've learned to care about in the last seven years. A dear friend who now lives in Washington state was there, and we got to sit and talk like we used to. I got to give her an in-person hug. There were the mountains, but also the delicious Louisiana humidity. Accents abounded. Flagstaff Thai food was consumed. And, because there was Flagstaff, the same shit that's *always* wrapped up with Flagstaff--the ex-boyfriend and ex-friends and friends who I should've made exes but loved too much--was there. That dream hurt so, so bad. And THEN, just recently I dreamt I got to see all my old NYC friends, but we were frozen in time in our early- and mid-20s. Kids, really. Back when we were all really close. Back before I left them in real life and never quite retained the level of closeness. And it was a beautiful dream, it really was, but it was so desperately bittersweet because I can't get that back. We all grew up and out of our youth, and anymore, I feel like I'm watching old friendships through Instagram filters and Facebook statuses rather than actual, quality communication. And I know I'm largely to blame because I'm the one who left. I'm always the one to leave.
Take our old apartment: We moved from there after 15 months because I was losing my damn mind living in that space. And, because of a technicality and a misogynistic prick of a landlord, we lost our security deposit in the process. We did *everything* we were told to do. We did everything asked of us. And still, we were screwed in the end. And still, I'm so. boiling. mad. over it. What makes my anger worse is that, because of said misogynistic prick of a landlord, it has nowhere to go. The man literally won't answer my calls. He could never make eye contact with me or shake my hand, either. The warning signs were there; I saw them. I just hoped against hope that my gut was wrong.
Spoilers: My gut has never been wrong. So in that process of necessary leaving, we lost a lot of money.
This is not to say I regret moving out of that apartment when we did. I love my house. I love everything about this house. I love it so much that I spent hours doing yard work and mopping today, to take care of it. To nurture it as a thanks for its nurturing.
I loved another house once, in a former life. That house was about a third the size of my current home, and it had a garden and clothesline in the backyard. The kitchen featured dwarf versions of a stove and fridge. The only interior door separated the tiny bathroom from the only bedroom. And yet, for as small as it was, that little stone house could wrap a dozen friends and family with its walls and music. I had to say goodbye to it a week after my ex split my lip, bruised my face, and sprained my left wrist and two fingers. I couldn't eat solid food for that week. In the end though, I cleaned that house from top to bottom, and on the last night it was still mine, I stayed up until the pre-dawn, drinking beer, listening to music, and whispering my goodbyes into its walls and hardwood floor.
I didn't think I'd ever love another person or another house after that goodbye.
And yet.
Here I am, nearly four years later, in a better, brighter house with a better, brighter love, and sad, sad, such sad dreams.
A friend suggested the dreams could be me moving to a new phase of my life and struggling to let go of the past; another friend agreed. And I can see that. Spring so often signifies struggle for me--struggle to end that bad relationship, struggle to find work after grad school, struggle to find work after Case's grad school and my first contract, struggle to adapt to this strange new place they call Louisiana...
For the first time in a long time, this spring is good. And not just good--REALLY good.
I'm not quite sure what I have to let go of. The deep, bitter anger I have about that security deposit, for sure. The deeper, bitterer anger I will always have about that night and that old house and who I shared it with, absolutely. But perhaps there's something even deeper, and maybe not bitter at all. Maybe something a little sweet and a little sad. Something about who I used to know. Something about who I think I still know, but don't, really. Something about the necessity of growing apart in order to really grow up. Something about who I once was, who helped me become the current version of myself, who I can't--and shouldn't ever--get back.
Maybe it's just that I'm older than I've ever been and younger than I'll ever be, and sometimes that just sits a little heavier on the shoulders.
No, I'm not quite sure what I need to let go of. And I'm not quite sure how to let go of the stuff I've got.
But do I know that I have twenty-five windows I get to clean; and active, thriving friendships scattered across the country; so many memories--how do you handle all the memories?--and even if it means I will have sad, sad dreams sometimes, that's okay.
Because I'm good.
REALLY good.
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