Life change-up? Done.

I am so blessed to have changed my life when I did.

I was in Seattle living in a little apartment isolated next to a busy street. I was unemployed, basically friendless, and about to run out of money.

So I drank. I woke up in the morning and had a mug of white wine with my cereal. Actually, sometimes I went on a run first. I showered — maybe went out to drop off one resume or run an errand (buying more alcohol and food) and then came home to start in on the drinking.

After an extremely serious night of drinking and desperately confessing my inability to stop to my cousin, I was rescued.

My cousin told my mom — she knew I was out of control — and she took me out of Seattle and eventually my mom came and took me home.

I let them — I was on auto-pilot. My feelings were dead. It was like I knew I had no choice but to put one foot in front of the other and follow the direction of my loved ones. I was powerless. It was like I knew that following my mother to sobriety was the only choice — the alternative would be… drinking until I was taken to a hospital and then taken home by my mother. WIth a lot more shame and damage done.

So.

Here I am two and a half years later and each day is a gift.

I have had the last week off from work and it has been a mental health holiday. Today was no exception. I was laughing within ten minutes of leaving my house to go to the gym. This sounds completely corny but it’s true! I saw a dog peeking out of a truck window and almost jumping out to chase a squirrel in a tree. It was funny. Little ears perking every which way at the sunlight on lawns, boys skateboarding by, other dogs being walked on the roadside. What a great start to my day.

Of course, it went south as I dealt with student loans and feeling that I don’t have enough money to pay them off.

But, at least I went to school sober! And got a job sober! and I’m still sober and making an income!

I don’t think I felt the urge to drink at all today.

This entry feels too corny. That is my “alcoholic” weary skeptical side coming out, “Any spiritually enthusiastic comments are probably coming from a kooky hippie or a born-again Christian type.”  I guess I still have a little bit of that girl hiding inside blowing on the embers of my alcoholism — keeping that fire alive. I have to watch out for her….

 

 

“I wanted to sound cool.”

   One huge relief I have about the changes that have occurred in the past two years is the choice I made about my “career.” Shortly after getting sober, I decided to just be a teacher. For years, I had been pushing against the niggling suspicion that I would like teaching.

I am a stubborn mule.

Both my parents were teachers and I had always turned my nose up at following in their footsteps. Where did I get the pretentious idea that choosing the same career as one’s parents is disappointing or something to mock? That may be a question I need to ponder more… maybe it has something to do with my drinking days… that inadequacy that shows itself in defensive disapproval of others…

Anyways, I decided to apply for a Masters in Teaching program shortly after I got sober. The largest fear of my life that had driven me to drink to such an abusive point was my fear of insecurity jobwise/careerwise/purposewise. I had constantly been searching for *the right career/passion* and I hadn’t found it but had instead wasted seven years working in restaurants and behind desks answering phones and taking out others’ trash.

In sobriety, I had a moment of clarity and thought pragmatically for a sec. Teaching would have good benefits, differentiated daytime activities, opportunities to read, and I could do it anywhere. Oh, and I liked kids alright…. (Seriously, that was my first order of priorities and justifications for my choice — of course I would never say that in public — if asked, the list is read in order the other way ’round!).

So entered the teaching program and in my first days – hours of “teaching” —  observing and trying to help in classrooms — I started getting jolts of pleasure. That’s the best way I can describe it at this moment… the rhetorical muse in me might try to use some other esoteric description, but for now I will use “jolt.” These jolts would occur when I had a sweet / enlightening / connecting / humorous interaction with a student. Reading a profound metaphor they created, hearing about their weekend, sharing an observation, jumping up and down out in the cold during a fire drill and talking about puppies (happened in my first week of student teaching).

These jolts became champagne bubbles of hope in my heart. Was I really cut out to be a teacher? Could these jolts of contentment and joy and satisfaction sustain me? Did students like me? Could I help them academically? Could this be a purpose for my life?

The jolts have continued to happen and I often drive home with a full heart of them. Yesterday I taught 12o students how to write thesis statements and as I walked through the desk aisles and read over their shoulders, the students’ freshly scrawled thesis statements were right! Not perfect, but simple and to the point. My soul hummed with happiness! Today I shared a poem with them and when they pointed out lively verbs and adjectives without my lead, I gasped in approval and excitement that “they were getting it!”

This brings me to another aspect of my profession (I like that word too) that I value and realize is a rare gift I get to participate in; the observation of young human-beings finding their places in the world and learning to operate / survive / become comfortable surrounded by others. It’s extremely difficult – the judgment, the self-doubt, cruelty.

Today I was starting a class and the students were all reading silently. I had soft music playing, the powerpoint was up and humming, and the students were settling into their books. I stood behind my computer screen surveying the scene and taking attendance. A quick flutter of paper and hands caught my eye. A was passing a piece of paper to K. A, a “cool boy” in a beanie with puffed up sneakers and a weakness for procrastination, locked his eyes on the front of the room; “if I can’t see her, she can’t see me, right?”

K looked at me with deer-in-headlights eyes. This girl was a soft, sweet one who worked hard and had a dad in prison.

“Please bring that paper to my desk, K” I kept a steady voice and kept taking attendance as she slowly rose from her desk and plodded over to mine. She folded the paper over twice with her thin fingers and dropped it softly on my desk.

“Thank you,” I said and kept clicking on the computer – I would check the note later. She walked back to her desk and the two of them pushed their noses back in their books, sheepish.

I sat down at my desk and debated whether to just throw the note away or read it. I hardly ever took notes — and I didn’t want to abuse their privacy — but to be honest, the temptation took over and I quickly glanced at it as I placed it in my trash but had to withdraw it again as I read the words

Where you crying earlier – what’s wrong?

Nothing. I was high. 

“Fuck,” I thought. Now I have to do something about it.

This is one thing that annoys me — the Justice System. Even in a school, I have to “make a point” with rules and regulations even when I know that sometimes the grey area is larger and has more currants and waves and depths and shades than the black and white of rules.

So I called A out into the hall and put on my best “teacher face.”

“Are you high?” I asked him pointe-blank, trying not to waver my voice.

“No!” He looked at me in honesty, his sweet and clear little eyes wide-open and his  mouth a moment away from a worried tremble.

“Then why did you write this?” I asked, honestly a bit surprised. He wasn’t high — I could see it in his face, and this stumped me — now my order of action had a roadblock.

He paused… searching for the answer and later I realized, searching for the courage to tell me the truth.

“I wanted to sound cool” It came out in a rush, a release of truth. He swayed to the side and slid his eyes to the ground, waiting for my reaction.

My heart went out to him — The irony struck me — I would have done the same thing. Perhaps not write in a note that I was high, but haven’t we all scrambled for the right thing to say to another human? A boy – for me… a cute boy in middle school who chose me, me, to pass a note to, a cute boy who cared about me, who might have noticed me crying earlier, who was sitting behind me in English and looked at the back of my head and wanted to make that human connection with a paper note whispered into my hand during silent reading time.

This boy had told me the truth, the real nitty-gritty of our human desire to be loved, to be accepted, to dance the soft-shoe with a sweet girl.

My compassion arose and I smiled sadly and told him the lame truth.

“Well, since you wrote down that you were, I have to send you to the dean — but tell her what you told me — and just don’t do that again, ok?”

“Ok, yah, I know…. ” He said wryly and met my eyes with the relief of my reprimand.

He walked down the hall and I returned to the class.

These moments / interactions also sustain me in this teacher life. I see through the academia and the currents of school life and hopefully my heart can help the other little hearts trying to grow and learn to beat with strength.