Highway Queen

When I talk about my students, I talk about starting each day fresh. I preach about a student who struggled and was labeled as a bad kid, I (humbly?) tell about how we changed his course together. "There were still bad days - we all have them," I say. "But the next day I always made sure to tell him that he's not a bad person, we just needed to figure out better strategies and practice them. Everyone needs chances." In this story, I'm wise and compassionate. "We need more people like you," they say.

In another story, I come home and I'm still mad at you. I've been mad at you for days. For weeks. For years. I like the other story better.

When I explain why I'm frustrated (/upset/sad/hurt/scared/sad/annoyed/hurt/hurt...never "mad") I tell you that what you did plays into my fears. I can explain it so clearly. If I wasn't healed, how could I communicate so well? I told you from day one what I was afraid of, and shed responsibility then. We sat on your bed and I told you what I needed, and there in that humid dorm room I decided without deciding that I didn't need to work on it anymore. He's here now, he'll listen, he'll fix me.

I know. I know, I knew, and I will always know. Why do we do things when we know better? Why does it take 6 years to realize that we knew better? Why do I have to break open to go back and start again when I knew? We played it out so many times - I came home, I sat in my anger, you came home and pretended you didn't notice. I lash out. You know. you knew! You KNEW and you still did it. Proof that everything I felt and thought and conjured and projected was true, because you knew better, and you didn't break open and you didn't go back and you didn't start again.

You had so many chances. You didn't get any chances. Your bad days made you a bad person and I believed to my core that I should be scared of you. I waited for you to prove me wrong, but I was the only one who could change my own mind.

Gaze

"I don't regret things." And then I look back, and I re-read my writing, and I realize that years ago I told myself what I was doing. And promptly buried that concern in doing all those things. I feel shame, but not regret. Because I don't regret things.

I excel at the 5 paragraph essay. Tell what you are going to say, say it, tell what you said. It's so clean. I created a version of myself that is so clean. I created a version of myself that gets up at 4am to work, that reads non-fiction, that arrives to things on time...that breaks down and falls apart because it's not me, and I feel "lost" "lonely" "confused" "_______". I CAN do it all, I tell myself. I can. "I need to be right and I will make it that way," I tell myself, my soft heart hidden below all my walls and to do lists.

"Write for yourself." Me writing for myself is self-flagellation. The voice in my head tears apart each thing I write until there is nothing there. It's a strength and a weakness, I tell myself...the stories I tell myself. I am critical and thoughtful and reflective.

You overthink, he told me. You're too deep.

How long did it take to build this wall? How long does it take to break it down?