It's a weird dynamic being both a student AND a teacher. There are those that look to you as an instructor, a supervisor, a leader, and, in some circumstances, a life coach. To those people you are a teacher, an adult, a grown up who knows things and has power, and they are your students, your pupils, those who expect and deserve GOOD teaching.
Then the coin flips and you are a student, inexperienced, still learning. You are not yet the grown-up adult, YOU are the one who needs instruction and life coaching. Maybe its not really an oxymoron. Maybe we are all both teachers and students at the same time.
Don't get me wrong, I've been a bossy pants for most of my life and thought that I should be teaching those around me in my classes. But my role has always been clear at a given time. While teaching private students, I was a teacher. While in class, I was a student. While being bossy, I was still a peer, just being bossy. Now I inhabit both spheres at once. I'm the center section of the Venn diagram.
At any given point in the day, I am teaching, and demanding respect from my students (though they ARE high-schoolers so the level of success with that varies a bit) while simultaneously being observed as a student.
Maybe it will be easier at the Elementary School. Perhaps these students are too close to the college kids I've spent the last 4 years with as a mother hen/big sister position. The young'uns will be easier to distinguish as students and I will feel more "teacher-ish"....maybe.
There's not real point to this post....its just a weird moment. It's messing with my brain.
That being said, I adore the students at the High School. They are great kids with lots of passion and tons of talent. I'm happy to have had the time to spend with them in what ever capacity I may be.
Wednesday, October 8, 2014
Saturday, September 13, 2014
I mean, it's not like he HIT me!
There are many of you who know my story, there are others still, who do not. It's not something I talk about constantly, and its something I ALWAYS qualify with the statement in this post's title. But if we're being brutally honest, (and why not? This is the internet afterall! ) I was an abused spouse. Its something I used to hate talking about because I felt ashamed to have been in that kind of relationship, I felt ashamed for staying as long as I did after the physical abuse began, and I absolutely did not want people to feel like they needed to pity me or offer me some form of condolences, or HEAVEN FORBID want to discuss it with me. But it has been suggested to me that these are the sort of things that NEED to be discussed so that it doesn't take a video like the one that has been circulating this week to open a discussion about a very real and all too common issue in our society. So here are my thoughts on the matter. This is not so that others will feel sorry for me, this is not to try and validate myself or incriminate my ex husband. This is just an open discussion to show that spousal abuse is NOT a race issue, a class issue, or something that happens obviously or in predictable situations or to predictable people. I NEVER imagined it was something I would deal with, or that I would be one of "those" women who didn't have the sense to leave. I've been told many times since my divorce, "I would be afraid to mess with you" or "I can't imagine you putting up with that kind of thing." If they only knew that I was exactly that girl, the one that made excuses, or accepted blame in the situation, qualified each instance, and stayed far too long in the abuse cycle. So here's my story, do with it what you will, or ignore it, your choice.
Two days ago marked the 5th anniversary of the time my husband told me he'd run me over with his car and that he wouldn't care. It is the night I consider the beginning of the end of my marriage, a week before he told me we were finished, maybe 2 weeks before the first time he got physically abusive, nearly three months before I moved out, and almost exactly 2 years before my divorce would be final. It is not, however, the beginning of the abuse. In retrospect, I was in an abusive marriage from day one, not physically abusive until the end, but verbally and emotionally abusive. I was not allowed to cry when I was upset, I was not allowed to be depressed, I was not allowed to treat my depression, I was never in control of any facet of our relationship. I walked on eggshells, deathly afraid that something innocent would set him off, like the night I accidently left the kitchen cabinet door open and we went from laughing and snuggling to him slamming doors and yelling and refusing to let me touch him for the rest of the night. Or the night he left me at a restaurant because I left my maiden name as my middle name on my driver's license. And he always fought dirty, he knew entirely too well how to cut to the very core of my being. Like the night he told me he was glad we hadn't been able to have children because he would have hated them if they were anything like me. Ladies and gentlemen, this.is.abuse. I knew it wasn't right, and I knew its not what I thought marriage should be, but I thought that maybe it was an adjustment period or that I was too difficult to live with, or that it was just too much stress, or...on and on. I'd never been in a serious relationship before, maybe this was just what everyone had to go through. I've been in a healthier relationship since then, I've been loved and supported and held while I cried, and I've learned that minor disagreements or, yes even full-blown arguments, can happen in a way where both parties present their side and, in the end, everyone is still happy and loved and holding hands. This was quite the revelation, but what a blessing!
The first night John got violent with me, he told me he was going to be too late and tired to go to a dinner event with me, so he would just go to the bar with friends instead. He'd been struggling with alcohol issues for several months, something very few people knew about, the extent of which I didn't even understand at the time, so I tried to convince him not to go, to stay home with me. That night he "swore to God" as he held his fist in my face before punching a hole in the door next to my head, before shoving me onto the bed, onto the floor, before, as I grabbed his waist to keep him from walking out the door, he backed me into the wall hard enough to dent the metal cover of our water heater in on itself, and before he cut my lip with his keys as he grabbed them out of my hand and, again, shoved me to the floor. I wanted no one to know. I recognize that I should have let him go, I should not have tried to keep him in the house with someone he loathed so cruelly. He called my father, my mother called my Bishop, and shortly I had two members of the Bishopric, as well as my former visiting teacher, and current best friend, in my living room. There to keep me safe so that John could come back and get a change of clothes and leave for the night. In a later night, he held this over me, telling me that I was so cuckoo (his favorite description of me at the end) that I needed three people to come keep me from going crazy or to protect him in case they needed to essentially exorcise me. There were more such nights, but without backup. I refused to admit it was getting worse, I kept hoping and praying that he would realize what he was doing and snap out of it. He began using sex as a weapon, he would toy with me, giving me glimpses of caring and sweet, but immediately followed by name calling and hate and openly dating other women. He couldn't realize it was getting worse because he blamed me for everything, even accused me of giving myself the bruises he had left when he stood on my foot or pinched my chest almost to the point of making me bleed. BUT HE NEVER HIT ME. For some reason I thought this mattered. I thought, at least he isn't giving me black eyes or bruises that can't easily be hidden underneath sweaters. Sure he called me a slut, but he never hit me. I kept hoping it would get better but it only got worse. To those in abusive situations: IT DOESN'T GET BETTER.
I don't remember what finally made me move out and get my own apartment, but it happened the weekend before thanksgiving. Most of the stuff I got out while he was at work, but there were a few straggling items that had to be exchanged. During those meetings, he yelled, he threw things, and then as I stood crying at my car, my box of memories tipped over in the parking lot, he told me "I never wanted to fight with you...but you just make me so mad" I thought that by moving out the abuse would stop, and I was certain he'd realize what he had done and he'd take me back. I still wanted him to take me back. He continued to control me, yo-yo'ing me back and forth, saying he'd considered taking me back but that I "pulled shit like this" ie: asking when my insurance would lapse, proving he was right to leave. All the while, he was living with another woman. But he never hit me.
Five years have passed since our separation, three since our divorce. Despite the fact that he had moved to another state, was living with another woman, and had little to no contact with me, he refused to grant me a divorce. He continued to control me. He has tried as recently as May to control me, to use me and my caring heart against myself. But he never hit me.
As I said at the beginning, this is not to incriminate John. I have forgiven him, long long ago. I have healed. I have grown. I have learned so much from my relationship with him and with my relationship following my divorce. I've learned about love, I've learned about myself, I've learned that "why don't you just leave?" is not as simply answered as I once thought. And I've learned that he doesn't have to hit to be abusive. If you know someone in an abusive relationship, the best thing you can do is to love them and be there as much as they need you. Do not judge them for not getting out as soon as you think they ought. Continue to be their friend, and try your best to undertsand that it isn't as black and white as we all wish it was.
Two days ago marked the 5th anniversary of the time my husband told me he'd run me over with his car and that he wouldn't care. It is the night I consider the beginning of the end of my marriage, a week before he told me we were finished, maybe 2 weeks before the first time he got physically abusive, nearly three months before I moved out, and almost exactly 2 years before my divorce would be final. It is not, however, the beginning of the abuse. In retrospect, I was in an abusive marriage from day one, not physically abusive until the end, but verbally and emotionally abusive. I was not allowed to cry when I was upset, I was not allowed to be depressed, I was not allowed to treat my depression, I was never in control of any facet of our relationship. I walked on eggshells, deathly afraid that something innocent would set him off, like the night I accidently left the kitchen cabinet door open and we went from laughing and snuggling to him slamming doors and yelling and refusing to let me touch him for the rest of the night. Or the night he left me at a restaurant because I left my maiden name as my middle name on my driver's license. And he always fought dirty, he knew entirely too well how to cut to the very core of my being. Like the night he told me he was glad we hadn't been able to have children because he would have hated them if they were anything like me. Ladies and gentlemen, this.is.abuse. I knew it wasn't right, and I knew its not what I thought marriage should be, but I thought that maybe it was an adjustment period or that I was too difficult to live with, or that it was just too much stress, or...on and on. I'd never been in a serious relationship before, maybe this was just what everyone had to go through. I've been in a healthier relationship since then, I've been loved and supported and held while I cried, and I've learned that minor disagreements or, yes even full-blown arguments, can happen in a way where both parties present their side and, in the end, everyone is still happy and loved and holding hands. This was quite the revelation, but what a blessing!
The first night John got violent with me, he told me he was going to be too late and tired to go to a dinner event with me, so he would just go to the bar with friends instead. He'd been struggling with alcohol issues for several months, something very few people knew about, the extent of which I didn't even understand at the time, so I tried to convince him not to go, to stay home with me. That night he "swore to God" as he held his fist in my face before punching a hole in the door next to my head, before shoving me onto the bed, onto the floor, before, as I grabbed his waist to keep him from walking out the door, he backed me into the wall hard enough to dent the metal cover of our water heater in on itself, and before he cut my lip with his keys as he grabbed them out of my hand and, again, shoved me to the floor. I wanted no one to know. I recognize that I should have let him go, I should not have tried to keep him in the house with someone he loathed so cruelly. He called my father, my mother called my Bishop, and shortly I had two members of the Bishopric, as well as my former visiting teacher, and current best friend, in my living room. There to keep me safe so that John could come back and get a change of clothes and leave for the night. In a later night, he held this over me, telling me that I was so cuckoo (his favorite description of me at the end) that I needed three people to come keep me from going crazy or to protect him in case they needed to essentially exorcise me. There were more such nights, but without backup. I refused to admit it was getting worse, I kept hoping and praying that he would realize what he was doing and snap out of it. He began using sex as a weapon, he would toy with me, giving me glimpses of caring and sweet, but immediately followed by name calling and hate and openly dating other women. He couldn't realize it was getting worse because he blamed me for everything, even accused me of giving myself the bruises he had left when he stood on my foot or pinched my chest almost to the point of making me bleed. BUT HE NEVER HIT ME. For some reason I thought this mattered. I thought, at least he isn't giving me black eyes or bruises that can't easily be hidden underneath sweaters. Sure he called me a slut, but he never hit me. I kept hoping it would get better but it only got worse. To those in abusive situations: IT DOESN'T GET BETTER.
I don't remember what finally made me move out and get my own apartment, but it happened the weekend before thanksgiving. Most of the stuff I got out while he was at work, but there were a few straggling items that had to be exchanged. During those meetings, he yelled, he threw things, and then as I stood crying at my car, my box of memories tipped over in the parking lot, he told me "I never wanted to fight with you...but you just make me so mad" I thought that by moving out the abuse would stop, and I was certain he'd realize what he had done and he'd take me back. I still wanted him to take me back. He continued to control me, yo-yo'ing me back and forth, saying he'd considered taking me back but that I "pulled shit like this" ie: asking when my insurance would lapse, proving he was right to leave. All the while, he was living with another woman. But he never hit me.
Five years have passed since our separation, three since our divorce. Despite the fact that he had moved to another state, was living with another woman, and had little to no contact with me, he refused to grant me a divorce. He continued to control me. He has tried as recently as May to control me, to use me and my caring heart against myself. But he never hit me.
As I said at the beginning, this is not to incriminate John. I have forgiven him, long long ago. I have healed. I have grown. I have learned so much from my relationship with him and with my relationship following my divorce. I've learned about love, I've learned about myself, I've learned that "why don't you just leave?" is not as simply answered as I once thought. And I've learned that he doesn't have to hit to be abusive. If you know someone in an abusive relationship, the best thing you can do is to love them and be there as much as they need you. Do not judge them for not getting out as soon as you think they ought. Continue to be their friend, and try your best to undertsand that it isn't as black and white as we all wish it was.
Sunday, July 27, 2014
Screw You, I'm Awesome!
first of all, 10 points if you can name the source of this post title (ya know, other than the fact that it is my life motto)!
Ok so recently I have kind of been dating. It's weird. I don't date. I've never been the girl that dates. It's not that I have anything against dating, I've just never been that girl. Until a couple weeks ago I had never really had a true first date. All of my "first dates" up to that point had occurred with people I was already in some sort of relationship with. John and I were friends that hung out all the time until one night he kissed me...and then we were together. Damon and I were denying the fact that we were actually dating for about 2 months before our first date. And...nope that's about it. So to say my dating experience is limited is, well, spot on. Dating in the MoMo world is, like a thing. Especially in the YSA sector of that world. So, as a card carrying member of that world, I thought I was qualified for my foray into this new experience. But what I have learned as I have dipped my toe in the dating pool is that I understand why people give up on dating. It almost boggles the brain to think that people actually fall in love and get married and are happy and stuff. But they do, I know lots of 'em!
Examples you request? Examples I give:
Example A) After talking with a gentleman for several months (online, don't judge) we decided to meet up and go for a date. The date went well enough, and then, complete radio silence...for a week. This may not seem like a lot, but understand that up to this point, we talked EVERYDAY, multiple times a day. I spent the week searching the innermost workings of my being in order to discern just what the eff happened. Blurring over some details I learned that he had been panicked about the fact that I had told him that my girls (4-7yr olds btw) were pretty sure I should tell him to be my boyfriend and had prayed that we would fall in love and get married. At first I beat myself up about not thinking to process that stuff out, but then I realized, screw you! I'm awesome! Not only that, I'm 28, and am ready to be getting married and having babies. I am no longer at the point in my life where empty relationships without direction are worth the time and effort I would put into them. (I'm an awesome girlfriend, as should be obvious). So I've learned that I might come on a little strong but this was CLEARLY not the boy for me. NEXT!
Example B) A Blind date. Awkwardness is inherent when the first time you meet someone is on a date. So I kept my mind open. We had a good time, talked for several hours, so I agreed to a second date. This date was EPICLY awful. Seriously, it is the stuff that dating horror stories are made up of. Lemme explain...no there is too much, lemme sum up: I planned everything (not a problem, because I am an awesome date) but he was rude, and arrogant, and ignorant...and his dentures and closemindedness prevented him from trying any of the delicious picnic I prepared. It was clear to both of us, that this was not going to lead to a meaningful relationship. NEXT!
I have no more examples.
This is NOT a woe is me post! I am a strong and independent and happy person. I'm starting my student teaching in 2 weeks and could not be more excited for the final semester of my degree! I love life! Life is crazy, and mine is like a television show - (but for real don't these scenarios sound like subplot material?) I am continuing to learn about myself and becoming a better person. It's safe to say that I had no idea what I was getting into...and I'm just gonna hang out for a bit. I know that there is a plan for my life that will lead to the best happy ending for me, so I'm not going to fret. Perhaps this is just a reminder to my married peeps, and the future married me, that you're not missing much in the dating world.
Also, I'm awesome.
That is all.
Ok so recently I have kind of been dating. It's weird. I don't date. I've never been the girl that dates. It's not that I have anything against dating, I've just never been that girl. Until a couple weeks ago I had never really had a true first date. All of my "first dates" up to that point had occurred with people I was already in some sort of relationship with. John and I were friends that hung out all the time until one night he kissed me...and then we were together. Damon and I were denying the fact that we were actually dating for about 2 months before our first date. And...nope that's about it. So to say my dating experience is limited is, well, spot on. Dating in the MoMo world is, like a thing. Especially in the YSA sector of that world. So, as a card carrying member of that world, I thought I was qualified for my foray into this new experience. But what I have learned as I have dipped my toe in the dating pool is that I understand why people give up on dating. It almost boggles the brain to think that people actually fall in love and get married and are happy and stuff. But they do, I know lots of 'em!
Examples you request? Examples I give:
Example A) After talking with a gentleman for several months (online, don't judge) we decided to meet up and go for a date. The date went well enough, and then, complete radio silence...for a week. This may not seem like a lot, but understand that up to this point, we talked EVERYDAY, multiple times a day. I spent the week searching the innermost workings of my being in order to discern just what the eff happened. Blurring over some details I learned that he had been panicked about the fact that I had told him that my girls (4-7yr olds btw) were pretty sure I should tell him to be my boyfriend and had prayed that we would fall in love and get married. At first I beat myself up about not thinking to process that stuff out, but then I realized, screw you! I'm awesome! Not only that, I'm 28, and am ready to be getting married and having babies. I am no longer at the point in my life where empty relationships without direction are worth the time and effort I would put into them. (I'm an awesome girlfriend, as should be obvious). So I've learned that I might come on a little strong but this was CLEARLY not the boy for me. NEXT!
Example B) A Blind date. Awkwardness is inherent when the first time you meet someone is on a date. So I kept my mind open. We had a good time, talked for several hours, so I agreed to a second date. This date was EPICLY awful. Seriously, it is the stuff that dating horror stories are made up of. Lemme explain...no there is too much, lemme sum up: I planned everything (not a problem, because I am an awesome date) but he was rude, and arrogant, and ignorant...and his dentures and closemindedness prevented him from trying any of the delicious picnic I prepared. It was clear to both of us, that this was not going to lead to a meaningful relationship. NEXT!
I have no more examples.
This is NOT a woe is me post! I am a strong and independent and happy person. I'm starting my student teaching in 2 weeks and could not be more excited for the final semester of my degree! I love life! Life is crazy, and mine is like a television show - (but for real don't these scenarios sound like subplot material?) I am continuing to learn about myself and becoming a better person. It's safe to say that I had no idea what I was getting into...and I'm just gonna hang out for a bit. I know that there is a plan for my life that will lead to the best happy ending for me, so I'm not going to fret. Perhaps this is just a reminder to my married peeps, and the future married me, that you're not missing much in the dating world.
Also, I'm awesome.
That is all.
Sunday, June 15, 2014
"Something Like That"
Everyone is posting on facebook their wishes of happy father's day to their dads and expressing thanks or examples of awesomeness to their fathers. My Dad is not on facebook, he'd never see it, he may never see this, But I've wanted to start back on my blog lately and have so many things I wish to express about my father, it seemed like the perfect idea.
 |
| My Daddy and I sporting the same smirk at a Daddy Daughter Dance |
First, a few things I've learned from my Daddy:
Life is uncertain, eat dessert first.
Sometimes chocolate chip cookies are the best present.
Projects don't have to be perfect, they just have to work. (The title of this post comes from this idea. anytime Dad is finishing a project he will look at whomever he is with and say "something like that." As if it doesn't matter if that is not exactly how it was planned but it will work and get the job done. No need to worry about the unimportant details)
Sundays are best when you follow this schedule: Church, sunday comics, nap, food, nap. There is a lot of wisdom in this schedule!
Its okay to be a bit nerdy and a lot dorky if you laugh your way through it. Laugh...a lot. But not in a way to draw attention, when you are in the spotlight its best to smirk, stay quiet and let others take the stage. (He and I differ in our approaches here)
Its okay to feel the Spirit and get a bit choked up. Heavenly Father loves us and shows us that love through the spirit and it is wonderful!
I could go on about his silly songs and long drawn out punny jokes and his Scandiwhovian accent...but I think it would be better to talk about our relationship. I have not always been a Daddy's girl. Not by a long stretch. In fact, there were a few years I didn't KNOW my daddy loved me. That sounds harsh, and I always knew he loved me in that "I am his daughter and you have to love your daughter" kind of way, but I didn't feel like he really loved me, or liked me. I used to sit in heartbreaking silence when my father would drive me somewhere and have nothing to say to me. I thought it was because he didn't like me, he didn't share my interests, he'd rather have been with one of my siblings, etc. But I have realized since then that I simply didn't understand my father's love for me. I remember when I first realized that he loved me. I was in college, and getting ready to go back to school or on a trip or some such thing. (I'm vague on the minutiae) But he was working on something on my car, changing a lightbulb or checking a problem (more minutiae), and then he took the car and got the oil changed, and the tires rotated, and washed the vehicle. And I remember saying, out loud to my voice teacher "My Daddy loves me!" I had finally figured out HOW he showed his love for me. My daddy is not a talker. Never has been. Never will be. The car rides of silence
were silent not because he disliked me, but because he was a quiet guy and didn't feel, like his overly verbose daughter, that every second needed to be filled with conversation. He didn't know how to reach out to a crazy, overly dramatic, loud, energetic, teenage girl. But he knew I needed to be safe, and that he could make sure that the car he had given me, (yes yes, I know) was in its best working order to keep me as safe as possible. Since figuring out the different manner in which we manifest our love for one another, I have become a Daddy's girl. Do we have long intense conversations? no. But we can carry on full conversations by making faces at each other across the room while my crazy mom is going on about something. Does he always ask about every little detail of everything going on in my life? no. But he is always there for me when I need my Father's love. He will drive hours out of his way to give me a blessing of comfort before the piano proficiency exam, or to change the flat on my car while I am in class, or to come listen to me sing or perform in a play. And he will listen quietly as I go on and on about the new boy I have a crush on, or my frustrations and fears surrounding new developments with my ex husband. He's quiet, but he's listening. As long as I don't mention bras or sex or any of those uncomfortable situations, he'll put up with it. And we've figured out how to laugh with each other. He's a nerd, and a huge dork, and I love that I finally see that side of him instead of being blinded by my own expectations of what he should be doing. My dad is an amazing man who will do everything in his power, and beyond, to help others. He doesn't verbally express his love often, but he shows it in his constant service and sacrifice. I love my daddy more than words can express. I often blame him for my inability to find a husband, he simply set the bar so high that no one has been able to reach it...yet. Thank you, Daddy for showing me how precious I am to you, and being an amazing example.
Happy Father's Day!
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