My Rambling History Full of Holes

I don't have many memories before the fourth grade. There are a few bits and pieces in my brain, but I think a lot of it comes from the pictures I've looked through or the stories I have heard. When I turned 30, I created a scrapbook of my first 30 years. I went through old pictures and papers and found out some interesting information. I was born in Houston, Texas, but my parents were currently living in California. Only my grandmother from California was mentioned in the birth announcement from he newspaper. My parents went back to California after I was born. In fact, I have a California social security number. I learned shortly after becoming a teacher and someone saw my social on a sign-in sheet. She asked if I was born in CA. I told her no and asked why. She said it starts like hers, 546. I thought that was odd since I was born in Texas. That was before I knew my parents were living in CA.

So, my parents went back to CA. My parents stayed married for about a year after I was born. There a lot of happy photos of my first year. My dad, who I did not know growing up, was always smiling at me and looking so proud to have me as a daughter. My parents split when I was about a year old. Now, I always believed that we were in Texas and moved right in with my Nana, but it turned out we spent a mysterious year in Las Vegas. My mom was with a man. We lived there for a whole year. We didn't move to Texas until I was three. WOW!

When I found this out, I had a ton of questions! I never had any idea that we lived in Vegas. I don't know who this man was. I found out I was hospitalized for pneumonia for my second birthday. There weren't pictures of this birthday in any of my photo albums and I saw my medical records that showed I was in the hospital. I asked my mom about this time. This whole part of my life I didn't know existed. She was quiet. She said she didn't want to talk about it. She wouldn't say anything. I asked my grandma (her step-mother). She said she doesn't know much. She said she and my grandpa didn't meet me until I was three and we were back in Texas. All she knew is that the guy my mom was with wasn't very nice.

So I've pieced together that we came back to Texas when I was three and we lived with my Nana. From then until she passed away when I was twelve, my Nana was my caretaker. My mom was very self-involved. She was getting high, and partying, and doing who knows what part of the time. Nana made sure my needs were met. She cooked for me. She washed my clothes. She look care of my long, curly hair.

Nana died when I was twelve. I told her goodbye when I left for school. She wasn't feeling well. I gave her a kiss and told her I'd see her after school. I came home to a note that Nana was sick. I can't remember much. My sister had been home with her when she had her heart attack. My Nana went by ambulance. My mom wouldn't let me go to the hospital to see Nana (now that I'm a parent, I understand that). I wrote her a letter. My dad was home with us. I remember my mom coming home from the hospital after being with Nana. My dad met her at the door and hugged her. I drifted off to sleep shortly after. The next day, my parents told us Nana had died. I remember my dad crying. I was so sad. My Nana was my everything. She took care of me. My mom was sober by this time and around more, but what would I do without my Nana?

One of the first things that happened is my mom cut my hair off. It was down to my waist. I'm ashamed to admit it, but my Nana still washed my hair for me. My mom said she wasn't going to take care of it, so it got cut off. It wasn't super short, but it was no longer down to my waist. My sister and I started staying alone after school and on the long summer days. I was old enough to take care of us, but I missed having Nana there. Both our parents worked.

I still miss Nana today. I still imagine her as she was in 1988. She'd be in her late 90s by now if she was even still alive. When I got married, I wanted her there. When I had Alex, I wanted her there more than anything. My mom seems to have no maternal instinct, and I attribute all my maternal instinct to my Nana. She was always there especially when things were bad. I remember having a dream when I was in high school where I was riding in a car with someone. I heard a voice from the backseat, turned, and saw my Nana. I asked her, "What are you doing here?" In the dream, I had the knowledge that she was dead. She replied, "I would never leave you." This has stayed with me all my life. I feel like she is with me, but I wish I could hug her. I wish she could still hold me when things were tough.

I started writing this about my memories and how I feel like there are so many holes. I wonder if my brain has blocked these things out and if I should leave them there. I wonder if it is information I should know. I guess it's buried for a reason. My mom and step-dad married when I was five. My sister was born right before I turned six. I called him Bob for the longest time. I'm not sure when I decided to start calling him dad, but he is the only dad I have ever known.

There was a point when they split. My sister was young. My mom dated some asshole whose name I think was Frank. Nana was absent was a part. My mom hired babysitters. I don't know where my sister was. I can't picture her with us.  We lived in a house that always had ants in it. My step-dad would come pick up my sister and me and take us to K-Mart and for lunch. He would buy me a Strawberry Shortcake doll each time. I don't remember what my sister would pick out. She may have been too young.I treasured these moments. At some point they got back together.  We lived in this house when Hurricane Alicia hit. All I remember is trying to make canned ravioli and was mad that the microwave didn't work.

We lived in a great house on Huntington Field. I loved that house. It's not the one I always dream about, but it was a great house. I have a lot of great memories playing in the yard and having adventures all over the house. This is the house we lived in when my mom went into rehab. My Nana was still alive. This is where my memories begin. When my mom was in rehab, my dad rented the movie, Stand by Me. My mom was so mad. I remember this. I guess because of the bad language (R rating). Maybe it was because the kids were looking for a dead body in the movie. In this house we had our own rooms (my sister and me), a playroom upstairs that housed our Barbie town, a huge backyard we hunted frogs in, and rooms that were warm with family time.

Then we moved to Plum Point into a house that was full of fleas. My dog, Baby, had never been covered in so many fleas. This is where we lived when Nana died. This is the house where we lived when I had the large chalkboard I played school with. The Barbies were housed in the formal dining room we didn't use, but it was a huge downgrade for them. From here we moved to Spring Grove, which is the house I always dream about. Then an old man was out for a walk one night on our street and was shot in a drive by. My parents promptly decided to move to Sugar Land. I had to start at a new high school my junior year.

All these things have shaped me into who I am today. I wonder how much those things I don't remember have shaped me. This goes back to me wondering if knowing what happened would matter. If those things are important. Is what happened in Vegas important? Do those holes need to be filled in?

How I Became the Christmas Grinch

We celebrated a secular Christmas in our house until I was in high school. It was suddenly taken away without explanation. This moment ripped the "Christmas Spirit" from my heart and left a deep, dark hole. It left a bitterness toward the happiness of the holiday time. It wasn't the symbols of Christmas I missed, but the family traditions that went with decorating the tree and opening gifts on Christmas morning. Taking Christmas out of our home took away a reason for the family to do something together.

I looked forward to getting the tree and ornaments from the attic. It was fun to unwrap each delicate ornament and relive the important memory behind each one. We had a Miss Piggy angel whose wing would fall off every year. We super glued it back on so she could hang on our tree another year. We had a Garfield ornament where the front showed him looking out the window at the snow, but when you turned it around, you saw his back and the Christmas tree. There were mine and my sister's first Christmas ornaments, mine obviously from 1976 and hers more updated from 1982. Each year we went to select a special ornament from the Hallmark store with the year on it. I looked forward to going to the store and looking at all the new ornaments for the year. We'd select one to add to our tree.  This created a new memory to unwrap for the next Christmas.

We had stockings and special stocking holders. I would hang these with care by the fire place with anticipation of candy and other things that could possibly fit inside.

I would love when the sun went down and darkness would blanket the house, so we could turn on the twinkling lights and (if cool enough) have a fire in the fireplace. It was a warm, happy feeling. Something that brought my dysfunctional family together. It brought warmth and peace to the house. I wanted it to always last.

Then the brightly colored, carefully wrapped presents would appear under the tree. I do not believe Christmas is about presents and hate how commercialized the holiday becomes each year. But, the presents under the tree were so pretty and filled with wonder. My sister and I would find the presents labeled with our name and shake them trying to guess.

We'd leave a note for Santa with his milk and cookies. We also always left a carrot for Rudolph so he could lead the sleigh. When we were young and still believed in the magic of Santa, falling asleep was so hard. I couldn't wait to wake up and see what Santa brought. I also couldn't wait to see what had been under the tree. It was an exciting time.   We had really elaborate Christmases for people who didn't have a lot of money. We pretty much received all the hottest new toys and everything on our lists. Now that I am grown up, I see that my parents were probably trying to make up for all the crappy stuff by buying us a lot for Christmas and Hanukkah.

When my dad decided to convert to Judaism, my parents no longer saw the need to celebrate Christmas in our house. I guess we did it for him all those years. Since we only celebrated the secular Christmas, I didn't understand why it had to stop. We didn't do the religious parts. They weren't removing a holiday "our people" didn't celebrate, they were removing years of family bonding and traditions.

I've been pretty grumpy about the holiday since then. Like I hold something against it. I don't embrace it. I don't want much to do with it. I'm bitter. I should direct that at my mom, but instead, I direct it at the holiday. I feel bad about this.

Teaching: Not What I'd Thought it Would Be

I had a large chalk board to teach lessons to my sister and the neighborhood children. I had nonfiction books for them to read as textbooks. I passed out report cards. I was only in sixth grade, but I already knew I wanted to be a teacher. I loved "playing school."

When I got into high school, I baby sat my younger children and other children in the neighborhood. I worked with kindergarten children at Sunday School. I applied to a university known for it's education program and set out to be a kindergarten teacher. I wanted to shape young minds. To teach. To make a difference.

I entered the classroom as a pre-kindergarten teacher in 1999. I was so excited to have my first classroom. I carefully decorated it. I labeled everything with my students' name. I soaked in as much as I could during the staff development week so I could be the best teacher I could be. I was ready for my four year old students on the first day.

We were doing an activity in my morning class. One boy wanted his crayons out of his read cubby. I explained we were not using our crayons right now and attempted to redirect him to the activity the rest of the class was doing. He put up his middle finger and said, "Fuck you!" This is how I started my career as a teacher in public education.

I spent ten years in the classroom before I got burned out and took a hiatus. Kids got harder and harder to manage. Parents got less supportive of teachers and constantly insisted that their child WOULD NOT do anything wrong. Administration grew fearful of unhappy parents and backed them instead of their testing. State testing demands grew unreasonable for teachers and students. I was not the teacher I always dreamed of being. I was not even the teacher I went to college to be.

Over my ten years in the classroom, I tried out different grade levels. I even went up to middle school, which were the worst three years of my career. I still had some great students and some great moments, but the bad moments and experiences, outweighed the good ones. It was not the grade level. It was not the school. My passion was gone because teaching was not what it was supposed to be.

I returned to the public school classroom in August 2015 because I could not find a job that paid me enough to support me and my son. It took everything I could muster to return to the classroom. I tried to be positive. I was told to "fuck off" by a high school junior on the second day of school.  I pushed through that first year in the back in the classroom and survived to tell about it, but not without being reminded every day why I left. The students are more difficult to manage. They do not care. They have no accountability at home or school. Everything is the teacher's fault. The parents are still on their child's side when it comes to behavior and academic issues in the classroom ("My child would not do that." "You must have not explained the assignment correctly.")

I find it sad that public education is so broken. I think that should be priority number one for everyone. The students I have in high school right now are the future of our country. They will be making the decisions when my generation is too old to make the decisions. Good teachers leave every year to go to jobs outside the classroom that will be less stressful.

Drug Rehab

My mom got high in her closet every night. My sister and I would be sitting on her bedroom floor because back then we watched TV as a family, and she'd go into her closet and snort cocaine. I knew she was doing something bad in there, but when I was young, I was not sure what it was. I never went in her closet. I knew it was off limits, and I am a rule follower.

She went into rehab when I was in sixth grade. We lived in Alief, still on Huntington Field. I was ashamed to have a mom in drug rehab. I told one friend about it at school. We were changing in the girl's locker room and she kept asking about my mom. Another time, I was next door on my friend's swing set. I remember the warm sun in my face as my her mom asked a lot of questions about where my mom was. I did not lie back then either. I tried to answer her without lying or mentioning drug rehab. I do not remember how I satisfied her curiosity, but I remember the relief of her being satisfied with my answer and going back inside her house and me getting to swing with my friend and be a kid.

My dad was good to us while my mom was getting help. Monday nights we went to Pistol Pete's Pizza which was kind of like Chuck E Cheese. We'd eat dinner and get to play games. It was during this time that I perfected my skeeball game. My dad taught me to aim for the forty instead of the fifty. It was easier to sink the ball in the forty over and over and still get a high score. A high score equaled lots of tickets which meant lots of prizes.  Monday nights at Pistol Pete's continued ever after my mom came home because AA meetings were on Monday nights.

Rehab and AA for my mom meant therapy for us. We would go to therapy at the hospital. The kids, my sister and me along with the other children who had parents battling addictions, would meet in the small room with a male counselor. He wore glasses, had brown hair, and asked a lot of silly questions. I learned early on not to give silly answers because he would probe deeper trying to find the dark reason for my response when all it really was a silly answer from an eleven yer old girl who wanted to be home playing Barbie instead of in this room with him and these other kids.

West Oaks Hospital would have "family days" which were supposed to resemble BBQs and carefree times. I guess these days were created for patients to feel like they were having normal family time. To keep them connected to the family they left at home so they could get clean.  These never felt real to me in the sterile beige rooms with plastic blue furniture. It wasn't comfortable. It wasn't home.

After rehab, my mom was more physically present. Less nights were spent in the closet. She watched full tv shows and movies with us. We could depend on her to pick us up after school if we needed her to. Drugs still took my mom from me. She was not part of the early years like she should have been.

Where is my Flux Capacitor?

After Alex saw Back to the Future, he told me he wanted to be a scientist so he could invent the Flux Capacitor and make time travel possible. I laughed at his innocence and belief in the magical, but I quickly explained that I've seen The Butterfly Effect (a movie he can watch when he is older), and I do not wan too travel back in time because changing just one thing in the past can be disastrous to the future. He kind of laughed at me and told me he won't change anything. I told him I wasn't going to take any chances.

Last year, I told Alex that I changed my mind. I said that we needed a Flux Capacitor right away. He asked why. I told him I needed to go back to 1776 and talk to the Founding Fathers about the Bill of Rights, specifically the second amendment. I explained that I'm tired of every interpreting it in crazy ways. I don't think the Founding Fathers meant what most defenders of it say they meant. Alex laughed at me and went back to his Pokemon cards.

I shared wanting to go back to speak to the Founding Fathers with a few friends.  People found a lot wrong with this. I would have to explain the 21st century to the Founding Fathers which could change a lot of things. Of course they didn't have the same interpretation, weapons/guns were different then. The Founding Fathers wouldn't have an understanding of what we have now. So, my need to discuss the second amendment with the Founding Fathers was met with a lot of opposition. Did these people not want to know they were wrong? Did they not want to me to share too much information with the drafters of the Constitution because it could have disastrous ramifications to the future?

On November 9, 2016, I wanted a time machine. I wanted to go talk to the Founding Fathers about democracy. I wanted to find out their thoughts on elections, presidential candidates, and the electoral college.  I do not think this election exemplified democracy as envisioned in 1776. I do not think it showed any form of democracy ever seen by our country.  It was fueled by hate.

Republicans hated Hillary from day one.
Democrats hated the dozen people running for the top spot in the Republican party.
Trump hated everyone who wasn't a straight, white, rich, old man.

There were wrong-doings on both sides.  I wasn't 100% behind Hillary because of some things she had done in the past. I do feel she was more qualified next to Trump because he has done nothing political. I almost voted third party, but decided to put my vote toward someone who had a chance of winning.  I bought into the hype that a third party candidate couldn't win. I know I voted for Hillary out of fear of a Trump presidency. As a woman, I couldn't vote for a man who clearly has very little respect for women. As a survivor of sexual assault, I couldn't vote for someone who encouraged rape culture. As a Jewish American who lost family in the Holocaust, I couldn't vote for a person who wants all Muslims to register and wear a symbol to identify them as Muslims.

But, how did our country get to a place where we voted out of fear (for Hillary) and out of Hate (against Hillary for Trump)? Where did democracy fall apart? How did we as a country get so wrapped up in fear and hate, put these two as our front-runner for president? That's what we should be asking. Notice, I didn't want the Flux Capacitor to go back and change the election results (tempting, yes), but I wanted to get an understanding of our Founding Father's principles and find out where they got lost.

Belonging

We all want to belong. For some, it's easy to find the group/groups they mesh with. They fit in with ease; without effort they make friends and get involved.

This was not me.
I did not belong.
I did not have a group to be part of.
I was a square peg among the round ones. It was difficult to grow up this way especially since I wanted nothing more than to fit in.

At school, I managed to make a friend so I was not totally alone, but I never belonged to a group. Since my mother was so unreliable when I was younger, I was not able to join after school activities or have friends that lived far away. I mostly hung out the the young kids in the neighborhood and had one good friend at school.

As I got into high school, I had a few friends, but still never fit into a group. I was on the outside, getting a peek into what it was like to belong. I was never a legit member. I had friends in band, theater, sports, etc. I just never fit int he group. I envied their groups and bonds. I still had just one or two people I was really close to; people that I did everything with, but I didn't really belong.

When I went to college in the fall of 1994, I signed up to rush a sorority. My mom was really pushing me to do this; I think it was because she was never in one. I went to the first meeting with Panhellenic and felt like I did not belong. Plus, I did not like all the rules they were imposing on rushees. For some reason, rush was being held once classes had started instead of in the summer, so the rules of silence were so crazy to me. So, I dropped out. My mother was pissed, but I didn't feel I was going to belong with these sororities and their rules. At the same time, I wanted to belong to something so bad!

In the spring of 1995, I returned to college after a rough break at home. I needed to make friends and find a way to belong. I walked through the mall area of our campus on a cool spring morning and found my group. There was a table for a local sorority (only at my college--not nationally on other campuses). They said they were different. They were diverse. I signed up for more information, got invited to my first rush party, and the rest is history. Among these girls I found my group. We were all so different and brought different things to the group, but I fit with them. We were all square pegs, but fit together in the same sisterhood. I have watched these women grow up, become mothers, strong leaders in their professions, and still my best friends.

As I've grown and changed, I'm belonged to other groups. I've worked at schools where my coworkers felt like family. I've had other jobs where we were a small, family. Jobs where we were all diverse and each brought something different to the table, but meshed well together. I've been part of groups and classes where I have made friends and we continued to hang out. I feel like when all my friends come together from the many different groups I've been a part of, there is a phenomenal mix of people.  I like to look at my friends and not see sameness. I like that we are different. I like how we challenge each other, but still belong together.

Over the last few years, I feel like I belong less with people I've known a long time. Is it because I have changed? Have they changed?  I have had some lonely times and wish for the days when it was easy to get everyone together. To belong again. I feel part of nothing sometimes.  I want to belong. I want to be part of what is happening.

Asthma

The pictures in the albums don't match the memories. The pictures show two smiling parents who look at each other adoringly. They show two sisters who are spread out in age, but enjoy doing everything together. They show holiday and vacation pictures where everyone is smiling and happy to be together.

The memories, not as bright and put together as the pictures, tell a different story. The parents are loud and use a lot of profanity to communicate their dislike for each other. The abundance of holiday gifts were an offering to make up for missing school events, spending evenings getting high in the closet, and always being mad.

There are no pictures from all my hospital stays. I was diagnosed with asthma in 1983. I had long stays that winter where they ran a lot of tests. I remember getting breathing treatments. I remember nurses clapping on my back with cupped hands to loosen up the crud in my chest to make breathing easier. My mom would sleep at the hospital with me. I remember her getting tired of sleeping on the uncomfortable cot and making me switch places with her. She slept in the comfy hospital bed, and I slept on the cot, but the window on a cold winter's night. I remember being so uncomfortable and cold. This is how she took care of me. At least she was there, right?

Asthma inhalers are expensive. My parents talked about this a lot. Money was always a problem in our house. Except at the holidays and birthdays. The pictures show that we were always spoiled with all the toys we wanted. But, my parents always complained about the cost of my medicine. I didn't like to add to their money problems, so I wouldn't mention needing a refill. I would put it off as long as I could. "As long as I could" usually meant until had been empty for a few days and I couldn't breathe. We would end up at the emergency room at 3 Am so I could get a shot to open my airways, and they'd tell me not to let that happen again. I would be told not to worry about how much the inhaler cost. But, their talks about the expense of my medication would continue where I could hear them, and the cycle of me not wanting to be a burden continued, always ending in a trip to the ER in the middle of the night.

A Valid Excuse: Parenting is Hard

Parenting is hard!  When you are the sole decision maker for your child, it's scary. If things go great, you are allowed to pat yourself on the back. On the other hand, if things go wrong, you're the one to blame.

I'm a single mom. I have pretty much been parenting alone since Alex was in the second grade. This is when my ex-husband remarried and stopped taking interest in what was going on with Alex. I've had to make many decisions all by myself and they haven't been easy. I don't want to screw up his life. I want to get it right for him.

So, with all this said, I didn't focus on writing today. There was an issue with his teacher and I was livid. I've got to make a decision about his school placement sooner than I planned. I want to do the right thing. I don't want to do it out of anger. I want it to be what is best for him.

I'll get back to focus tomorrow. Two days in a row I have posted an excuse. Tomorrow is a new day. Tomorrow I will succeed.

The. Struggle. Is. Real.

Today writing was a struggle. I tried to work on something I started the other day about belonging. Then I tried to start something new about my mission in life.

There were so many crazy, real-life things happening. My computer freaked out. We got home late from Sunday School. I hate making excuses for not writing, but it is what it is.

Tomorrow is a new day. Tomorrow I will write something wonderful!

Navigate

Today's word on my list of journal prompts is "navigate". I decided to go with it because it made me think of myself and what I'm trying to do in this world.

There are thirteen definitions for the word navigate. It's a verb that can be used with or without an object. Some definitions mention specific modes of transportation: cars, boats, planes. Two have something to do with a computer.

Two definitions stood out to me:
1. to walk or find one's way
2. to move or progress through in a logical sequence

I started to navigate my adult life at age eighteen with definition number two. I graduated from high school and went to college to get a degree in education. I had always wanted to be a teacher and was doing everything required to reach that goal. I met a man, feel in love, and got engaged all before I finished college. I graduated in May 1999 and was married a month later. By August, I had my first teaching job with PK students which was exactly what I wanted.  Within the first three years of our marriage, we bought a house and became pregnant with our first child.

This was the logical sequence of things. In hindsight, the easy way to navigate through life. More children could have followed. Maybe a dog. We'd be at a point where we would be planning how we would grow old together.

Instead, at the age of twenty-eight, I said, "screw logic" and asked for a divorce. Several factors led to this decision. Mostly I wasn't happy with where I was. I thought there was more out there for me. Something else I should be doing with someone else. I believe it was the right decision, but I stopped moving through life in a logical sequence and have been trying to find my way since. My new way of navigating is messy and clumsy. My definition says, "To stumble through life to find one's way."

I've stumbled, called, been bruised and broken trying to fine my way. I'm now forty years old, and I am not where I'd thought I would be in life. I'm still trying to find my way. Most times without a compass or a map. I don't seem to have a plan; I just know I need to move forward.

I often feel abnormal for someone my age. My concept of a forty-year-old grown up is someone who is established and knows what they want to do. In fact, they do not only know what they want to do, they are doing it. They are settled. They are happy. They are stable. They can answer the question, "Where do you see yourself in five years?"  I am none of these things, and I have no clue how to answer that question. Don't even ask me. Just don't.

I think my navigation skills have improved over the past twelve years. I make less errors. I still stumble, fall, and have to dust myself off, but my choices have improved. At least I'm learning from history.

I felt unhappy in my marriage. It's one of the reasons I wanted out. Since my separation, I have been looking for happiness. Just when I think I've got it, it slips from my grasp. Actually, it evaporates into thin air like it was never there. I wonder what happiness is and how you attain it. I've read that you need to make your own happiness. That it is inside you. I wonder if, when I was formed, the happiness forgot to form, because I have been able to pull it from within.

I've tried to find happiness in relationships. I thought Chuck was the one because we first met in fourth grade and there just had to be a reason he came back into my life when he did. I thought Michael was the one, but only if I could change him first. I thought Brett was the one. THREE times. After three devastating break-ups and an abortion, I felt totally broken. I finally took a break from dating because there was no happiness in relationships.

I tried to find happiness in a bottle. A bottle of wine. A bottle of Rum. Pretty much any bottle would do. I was happy when I was out partying. My hangovers were well worth it because the night before was full of laughs and good times. But, eventually the bottles were empty. The fun ran out and the headaches were too powerful. I remember a span of several months in 2011 where I spent so much time either drunk or hungover that I barely remember what was happening around me at that time. It was a dark time. It definitely wasn't happy.

When I gave up on love and romance, I tried to find happiness with random hook-ups with strangers. Who needs love when I could have a fun night of sex and just move on?  This was an empty time. I was definitely not happy when I looked in the mirror.

I tried less self-destructive ways to find happiness. I tried new things and went outside my comfort zone. I went to scrapbook classes and interacted with people I didn't know. I dedicated and rededicated myself to my writing over and over again. In 2004, I started writing the story that would later give birth to my collection. I joined writing groups and traveled to different writing classes/workshops.  In 2007, I attended "A Week at Sarah Lawrence" where I got to work with a published author and workshop my story with nine of my peers. I felt at home with these other writers and fell in love with the creative process.

I was happy when I was doing these things that I liked to do.  Scrapbooking helped me relax. I had fun with the creative outlet. Writing was good for me too, but I had trouble finishing stories. I would only write when I felt the muse instead of doing it regularly. It would be (and sometimes still is today) a place of frustration for me. The problem with hobbies is that they don't take priority in life. Work, bills, groceries, taking care of a small child all have to come first. So, I was happy when I did these things, but extremely unhappy when I couldn't.

As I continued to clumsily navigate through life and try to figure things out, I became really unhappy with my job. I lost confidence in my ability to teach. I was frustrated with lack of student responsibility for behaviors and academics. I was tried of parents, who didn't have a degree in education, telling me what was best to do in the classroom. I was frustrated with administration and their unrealistic expectations. So, at the end of the school year in 2010, I left. I thought it would be easier to find a job doing something outside the classroom because I'm smart and have many skills. I was wrong.

For five years, I dragged myself from low-paying job to low-paying job trying to find where I belonged. I worked a part-time retail job for four years. I sold bras and panties. I was good at it. I had never worked retail before, but I was good at this. I formed relationships with customers, I believed in the product, and I had a strong work ethic that was admired by my supervisors.

I worked at a start-up company. It was an online market place for parents to book summer camps. My job was to call camp directors and build relationships with them. I wanted them to join the marketplace. We made money from the camps that joined. I was good at this. I felt successful. I decided to leave to go back to teaching (one year at a small, International private school) because it was close to what I thought I was going to go to school to do (more on that in a moment).

I worked at a nonprofit where I provided social services to residents at a low-income housing community. I LOVED this job. I was actually happy with what I was doing. I loved going to work. I felt like i was making a difference. I was still navigating (in full stumbling manner) through my personal life, but I felt like I had found my calling. The bad part was it was a small non-profit with no money. So, I barely made enough for us to live. I couldn't take care of us. I was happy with my job, but at an all time low in my self-esteem. I couldn't provide for my family.   So, I dragged myself back to teaching (for more money--irony there). I'm unhappy when I go to work, but at least we can eat.

I mentioned going back to school. As I was trying a career change and find my place in life, I tried to go back to school several times. I thought I wanted an MFA. This is how I would focus on my writing. Also, a MFA is a terminal degree and I could teach college English. I struggled in online college programs. I lacked motivation, time, and confidence. Some would say I must not have wanted it enough, but I think that on my road to happiness, I tried so many wrong things, that I destroyed my spirit. I don't believe in myself the way I used to. So, there was no happiness in getting another degree because I wasn't able to complete one.

So, now I'm meandering through life. I like that word because it implies a slowness. I'm still navigating (finding my way), but it's less messy.  I have heart disease (diagnosed at age thirty-five). Maybe that is what slowed me down.  I still don't know what I want to do with my life, as far as a career. I'm dating someone, but scared about where it will go and where I want it to go. What I wonder most at this moment is there a way to figure things out and progress on a logical path again? Or am I stuck trying to navigate (stumbling or meandering) to find my way the rest of my life?

Took a Night Off

Ok, so it's day four and I didn't write today. I started something yesterday that I'm going to finish tomorrow. I think my word count will be great. I feel guilty about taking a day off, especially this early in the challenge, but I was SO tired.  Tomorrow is a new day.

:)

dreaming

I struggled with today's writing. I was trying to write something more upbeat, but it's not what I have inside me right now. I started a piece on belonging, but I couldn't quite get the words right. Here's a peek into my dreamland.  

Last night I dreamed I was hanging out with some girlfriends. These girls have been my friends for around twenty years. We met in college. Over the past couple of years I have felt a strain between us. There were three girls in my dream. One I'm very close with, but in the dream she kept making excuses to do something else. One of the other girls was pointing out everything wrong with my apartment. She didn't like the food I was serving or the dishes I was using. She wasn't happy with the options I had for seating. She was being very difficult. The third girl was an ex-friend. She stopped being friends with me over a year ago. She has been acting like a middle school girl and trying to turn other friends against me. In the dream, she was using my favorite pink cup that says, "Princess" on it. I was so angry that she was using that cup.  It was like she was replacing me among our friends.

Dreams have always fascinated me. I remember doing a research paper over dreams my senior year of high school. I am always trying to figure out why I have the dreams I do. What do they mean? What is my subconscious trying to tell me?

My biggest fear in the whole world is alligators. I'm terrified of them. I can't even stand to see them on TV. I know in my mind this fear is totally illogical.  I can even pinpoint when it started. I was watching an episode of "When Animals Attack" on Fox. There was a lady in Florida who was talking about walking to her car with her groceries. She heard a hissing noise and thought it was a tire.She looked under her car and there was a large alligator. It wasn't just hearing this terrifying story on TV. I felt the fear once a week when I attended classes at University of Houston, Clear Lake.  When you enter the campus, there are signs that state "Beware of Alligator". After seeing these, I kept imagining leaving class at 9 PM and there be an alligator hissing under my car. The fear grew from here.

When I'm highly stressed, I'll dream about alligators. I'll be in situations where they are near me. I'll be in situations where I am running from them.  I'll be in situations where I'm scared to death. I know when I start dreaming of alligators that I'm stressed or worried about something. I wish I would dream of something else because I'm so scared when I wake up.

When I feel out of control in my life I have a reoccurring dream about driving a car from a backseat. This car is always traveling down a freeway with lots of curves and overpasses. It's ridiculous how scary these rides are. I didn't even know it was possible to drive a car from the backseat.

I recently had a reoccurring dream about having a baby. In the dream, I always had a little girl. I would exclaim, "I finally have my Miriam." These dreams would make me sad and confuse me. When I didn't have another baby by thirty-five I was so sad. I always wanted to be pregnant again and have another baby. I definitely wanted a little girl so I could have my Miriam Elizabeth.  It took a little while, but I finally came to terms with not having anymore babies. Then I got heart disease and found out how high risk it would be for me to be pregnant again. So, when the baby dreams started, I was confused. If I had made up my mind that I was over having babies, why was I having these dreams. I even had one dream where I found an abandoned baby girl and was still ecstatic to have my Miriam. I felt like I had to mourn the decision not to have a baby all over again.

One final dream that I encounter all the time is a house we used to live in shows up all the time. It was our house on Spring Grove. Some of the dreams that I have here take place in the past and some the present. We moved out of this house when I was sixteen. We only lived there a short time. So, why does this house always show up in my dreams?

The other night I dreamed that my family was moving back there without me. They said I could come, but I couldn't bring my stuff. Then when I said I would leave stuff behind, I was told I could have my big room back to myself. My mom said I would have to share it with my dad. I couldn't understand why my family was treating me so poorly in this house that means so much to me. In real life, I'm having some struggles with them. My mom upset me Sunday night, so it probably triggered this dream. But, why this house? Why?

They say dreams are a window to the soul. I'm not sure what my soul is based on these dreams I have shared. There is so much I am still trying to understand about my dreams and who I am when I am awake.

Fighting Rape Culture with Hashtags

This is a piece I started in 2015. When I started it, I wasn't quite sure what direction it was going. Today I pulled it out and put down my current thoughts on the subject.

Over Memorial Weekend 2014, we were introduced to Elliot Rodger. He made headlines when he opened fire in a small college town near Santa Barbara, CA. We seem to be bombarded with news of school shootings, but Rodger was different. When the smoke cleared, we were not left with questions. He made his motive known through YouTube videos and a 140+ page manifesto he emailed out before he began his "Day of Retribution".

As the media shared the story throughout the weekend, a poor, little rich boy who just wanted to get laid was revealed. His targets were girls who he felt deserved to die for rejecting him and choosing other guys to go out with. He drove by a sorority house and opened fire. He wanted to "slaughter every single spoiled, stuck-up, blond slut".

More appealing then his belief that women owed him sex were his supporters.  People, mostly men, were commenting on articles agreeing that the girls got what they deserved. Got what they deserved? Young girls with their whole futures ahead of them deserved to die because this guy was still a virgin?

That weekend two women conceived a hashtag which would trend for several days; #YesAllWomen was tweeted beside stories of rape, harassment, and examples of the double standard between men and women. I grabbed my pitchfork and joined the angry mob.  I tweeted and retweeted #YesAllWomen stories. I posted on Facebook and blogged asking for change.  I was convinced if we (society) did not do something right then, things would never change.

October 2015 marked the anniversary of my sexual assault on a collage campus. Twenty years ago I went out for a fun night and returned to my dorm room a statistic. What happened to me back then is a story which echoes in so many news stories about college rapes today. The guy felt me being drunk was consent. His fraternity bothers cheered him on. I know this because one of them made a video tape which I viewed a few days later at the police station. When I think back to the images on the video, I am thankful that YouTube and social media didn't exist in 1995.

From where I am perched, not much has changed in regards to college sexual assault. Sure, campuses are being investigated for not being compliment with Title IX (1972 act to prevent discrimination in education--sexual assault falls under here), and many colleges are reporting lower numbers of sexual assaults, but we are still seeing too many stories of sexual violence.  I believe that colleges are under reporting to avoid being investigated and to not hurt their enrollment. I also know that sexual assaults are under reported.

According to RAINN, one in four women will be raped in college.  In fact, in 2015, I read somewhere that young women in college believe that sexual assault is just "part of the college experience". So we now live in a world where rape is so common place that girls are just accepting it as a rite of passage like drinking too many shots on their twenty-first birthday or the exit meeting they have with their financial aide counselor before graduation?

Why is sexual assault so rampant on college campuses? I believe college guys rape for the same reason Rodger killed those sorority girls in Santa Barbara. It goes back to power and entitlement. He felt girls should have wanted to sleep with him because he was a rich kid with a BMW and a director for a father. He felt he was the "manliest" man. Instead of using RU486 or waiting until a girl passed out from too much alcohol, he tried to come by it honest. He was rejected and didn't get the sex he felt he deserved. He killed girls who were like those who rejected him. As I wrote this I wondered which fate is better: to be raped and die on the inside from being violated or to be killed and have no life left on Earth. That's a tough one...

It continued into the summer of 2016 with the Stanford Rape Case and the hashtag #EveryWoman. I first learned about this case on a Friday night when I was scrolling through Facebook and happened upon the BuzzFeed article with the survivor's statement. She read this statement at the sentencing where her rapist would be handed down a six month sentence in county jail because the judge thought the maximum fourteen years in prison would have a severe impact on his life.

We live in a society where we worry about how boys will be impacted by the consequences of their actions. The survivor of the Stanford case (I refuse to call her a victim because I want to empower her), was raped when she was passed out drunk behind a dumpster. She woke up three hours later in a hospital with pine needles in her hair and no underwear. But, the judge in the case was worried about Turner's future?

The media wasn't any help. Much like the football players in Steubenville (2012), the media painted Turner as an all American swimmer who was about to have his life ruined by a girl who drank too much at a frat party. His mugshot wasn't used for the longest time; we kept seeing his yearbook photo.  It's wasn't "Convicted Rapist Brock Turner, but "Swimmer Brock Turner." He had sex with a women who was unable to give consent. He violated her. I had no sympathy when the Olympic Committee said he could no longer try out. I didn't want a rapist to represent my country. Poor Brock Turner's life was ruined because of "twenty minutes of action". Yes. That's a real quote. A real quote from his father.

Outrage came from the sentencing. The angry mob returned to Facebook and Twitter to share their stories of sexual assault and injustices with the hashtag #EveryWoman. We condemned the media for the coverage of the case. We raged over the existence of rape culture. We stood in solidarity with the survivor. If the justice system was going to fail her, we were going to lift her up and help her move forward.

As I type this, Turner has already been released from county jail after serving only three months. We (society) learned this summer that it's okay for boys to have sex with women who are passed out behind dumpsters from too much alcohol. "Twenty minutes of (non-consensual) action will only cost you three months in jail.

I wish this story of sexual assault ended with privileged college boys. This fall, Donald Trump, the Republican Candidate for the highest office in America (POTUS) had a skeleton released from his closet. A few years ago, he bragged to a TV talk show host that a man in his position (money, fame, power) can just "Grab a woman by the pussy"; "They just let you do it." He dismissed his remarks as "locker room talk". Although this is disgusting, that's not the worse part. All his supporters, male and female, said that's just how men talk to each other. The  whole, "boys will be boys" mentality.  I'm not raising that kind of boy. I know lots of men who don't advocate for sexual assault because they feel entitled and owed something by females. Enough.

So, another hashtag was born on October 7th. Kelly Oxford, author, shared a tweet of her first sexual assault when she was a young girl. She was groped on a bus. Her hashtag, #notokay, has been tweeted millions of times. She received so many responses to her initial tweet and has said that we (society) can no longer deny that this is a problem in our country.  I'm with her. How can we deny this problem? How can we say that "boys will be boys"? How can we say he got "twenty minutes of action" and the survivor he raped should not drink so much or go to fraternity parties? How can we let young men get to the point that they will kill women because they can't find a women who will agree to have sex with them?

It's time for things to change. We need to change the conversations we have with our sons. We need to teach consent. We need to let our daughter's know it's not okay for a guy to use his power, money, or fame to grab them inappropriately. We need to stop sexual assaults on college campuses. We need to force colleges to report accurate data and not hide how many sexual assaults are being committed each year. We need to force the media to stop worrying so much about the future of the guys who rape and put an end to rape culture and victim blaming. We need to elect judges who won't worry about the impact a prison sentence will have on a rapist, but on the impact that the assault had on the victim/survivor. We. It's on us.

Storm

I saw a one word prompt: Storm. This is what I wrote. It's pieces of a childhood memory.

Urine ran down my legs like the rain that came down around us. No one noticed. I didn't tell anyone. I shamefully stood there covered in pee.

The rain was really coming down. My mom was driving down Highway 59 toward home. We lived in Alief, so it was the early 80s. I'm not sure if my sister was born yet, but I'm pretty sure my mom and step-dad were separated at the time (They have been married twice. That's another story for another time).

Things are so jumbled in my mind. I don't have clear memories before fourth grade. I question the images I see in my brain. Are they real memories? Maybe I'm just recalling stories I've heard or pictures I've seen. Maybe it's all been made up by my brain.

I do remember the rain from that day though. The wipers moved rapidly over the windshield trying to keep up with the water being dumped on the car from the clouds above.

At some point, our car spun around three times. I'm not sure if my mom lost control and hit someone or if we were hit. I know it didn't take a full minute for our car to spin three times, but once we were in motion, it seemed like a while before we stopped. The storm raged on around us.

We spent time in the rain waiting on the police and tow truck drivers. I was soaked from the rain. My clothes stuck to me, and I shivered from the cold. I wanted to be safe at home with my Nana watching TV. I wanted the rain to stop and the sun to shine to bring me warmth.

I felt alone among the adults while they took care of business. We found cover in a parking garage, but no warmth. It continued to pour. I remember male voices. I can't picture my mom. I see me, small and skinny, standing in the parking garage watching the rain. I was scared. I was cold. I had to use the restroom. It didn't seem like the right time to tell anyone. They had grown-up problems to deal with.

At that moment, I decided to just pee. How would anyone know? I was already so wet from the rain. I don't know what I was wearing. I'm not sure how I got home that day. I do remember the feeling of release and warmth when I urinated. I felt relief and shame all at the same time.  It was embarrassing to stand there like that, but I was without a voice.

I am often taken back to this moment when I feel stress.  I get afraid when I'm driving in the rain because I can feel my car spinning around three times and being left out to shiver in the rain invisible to those around me. I don't like to have on wet clothes.

This was not the first storm I weathered in my childhood or the last.