Teaching, Gaslighting, and PTSD

Until a couple of years ago, I'd never heard the term "gaslighting." Once I did hear of it, I didn't really think much about it. And then one afternoon, while I was painting my garage, it suddenly struck me: I've been gaslit. By my boss. More than once. And I fell for it.

Let me back up a couple of jobs. Maybe three.

Or--on the other hand--let me tell you about a job interview I had recently.

I looked at the two other women in the room--the principal and the assistant principal--and, regarding their positions and that of their female superintendent, I remarked that it was really great to see so many women in administration for a change. Because in education--particularly secondary education--it's far more typical to see men at the helm.

And that, friends, may have been my undoing for about the last decade or so of my life.

(DISCLAIMER: Before I go on, this isn't a "man hating feminazi" post. I have worked with a great number of men who have proven to be excellent colleagues, leaders, and friends--men who are anything but misogynists--who I very much admire and appreciate. You know who you are!)

That said, one thing I've come to understand is that the more outspoken and intelligent a woman is, the less likely her male boss is going to like her. Or let me rephrase a little. If an administrator is a narcissist, or unhappy, or easily threatened by other powerful people, he is unlikely to tolerate a woman who dares show her power.

So... gaslighting. The first time it happened to me at work, we had had a major upset in the administrative order. The guy who was mostly responsible for hiring me messed up big time and got himself fired. And his educator license revoked. And some other unpleasant stuff. His assistant kind of took over, but kind of not, because he wasn't promoted but he pretty much started running things and one of the first things he did was to REdo my recent evaluation and give me a crappy one. Like, the first crappy eval of my teaching career.  For the rest of the year he made me jump through all kinds of hoops to prove that I was capable of doing my job. I even started double checking things with him, even though I truly believed that as a person he was a giant douchebag and as an educator he was mediocre at best. It was the first time that I started to lose faith in myself, even if it was only a little bit. But to an extent, I let this guy make me think that I really had to have him double check my work, even though I had more classroom experience.

The second time I let it happen to me I was at a new job, where, strangely, once again the guy who hired me moved on (only this time it was not under nefarious circumstances) and the guy who took over was a giant douchebag who had less classroom experience than me. For not just one, but TWO years, I let this person convince me that I was not doing my job as well as I should be. I jumped through hoops. I tried new things. I did what I could to please him and other administrators. I was told to do one thing, then scolded for it and told to do the opposite.  I was so worried about getting my work done--and well--that I sat attached to a breast pump every Sunday so that my husband could take care of our newborn while I worked tirelessly to prove myself to a dude who's whole goal was just to crush me in the end anyway. To tell me that in spite of all my efforts, and in spite of all my talents, I wasn't good enough. He'd have to let me go (truth be told, so he could hire a political insider instead.)

The third time--and THE LAST TIME--I let it happen to me was when I let my boss and his wife (a fellow colleague) convince me that I didn't know jack shit. That I was always doing everything wrong. That I not only couldn't meet the standards set before me, but that I didn't even have the sense to know what they were in the first place. When I left the situation, I couldn't even think about teaching anymore. Here I was, a woman with 21 years of experience in my field who was always engaging in professional development on some level, always reading up on the latest trends, always trying to create and recreate and reflect upon and hone my craft, and ALWAYS thinking of those who I serve before myself, and somehow I just didn't care anymore. I stopped engaging with other professionals on social media websites. I let books I'd bought just sit on the shelf. I deleted every e-mail from MindShift and TEDed without even opening it. I wondered what else I could do with my life, because this profession, it had bled me dry. It had left me in a sea of self doubt. It had nearly crushed me.

Well, let me tell you what. There's a new girl in town. I've been being gaslit by work supervisors since 2010. IT STOPS HERE.

I am really, really good at what I do. Sometimes, I screw up. That's what's supposed to happen because I am human and I am imperfect, just like you. I know now that I didn't do anything wrong other than be in a job that you wanted to give to one of your friends or community members. I know now that the only way for you to continue to feel superior to me was for you to make me feel small.  I know now that you, for some reason, feel the NEED to feel superior, which is stupid, because we were supposed to be colleagues working together to make the world a better place and make the school a safe and comfortable place of learning for the children and community that we served.

I'm done feeling sorry for myself. I'm back. Tomorrow I'm gonna read "Teach Like a Pirate" cover to cover and when August comes, I'm gonna go out there and give someone else the talent and dedication that you threw away. I'm going to go kick some ass and make someone else's school a badass place to learn. I'm gonna go spread my hippy love and fairy dust all over someone else's community and your kids are gonna miss out on that.  I loved your kids and I will continue to love your kids--but I am done with you, because you are small and petty and emotionally abusive. You are a bully. And there should be no place for you in education.

I still have nightmares about my most recent job. I have spent several months being in a funk, being unable to sleep though the night, drinking alcohol when, for several years, I hadn't taken a drink--hadn't even had the hankering for one. If I didn't think it would be an insult to those who have suffered trauma far worse than mine, I'd think that I have PTSD as the result of working in a toxic environment for way too long.

NO MORE.  

"I won't just survive; oh, you will see me thrive. You can't write my story."

I'm back, and I'm taking my ball and sharing it with people who will appreciate the badass motherfucker that I am. I am taking control of my narrative--no one is allowed to control my story but me.  You may be glad that I'm outta your hair, but you shouldn't be--because I fucking rock, and what I had to give, your community needed.

Peace out. 

Teacher Stress

Gaslighting in the Workplace

I am her mother, and yes, I have seen this video

My 11-year-old daughter has had an interest in creating short video movies ever since she could hold an iPad.  Last year, when she got her first iPod, I allowed her to create a YouTube account so that she could have a place to save and upload her videos.  I don't really watch them unless she asks me to look because for the most part she creates cutsey little pre-teen plots that she acts out with her Littlest Pet Shop toys, which isn't really my thing, but she's my daughter and she loves doing this and frankly, she's pretty imaginative.  So instead of monitoring everything she creates and posts to YouTube, I allow her freedom to do her thing and I subscribe to her account so that I am aware when she uploads new work.

Imagine my surprise one day when just before I went to lunch on a work day, I received an e-mail alert that one of my 5th grader's YouTube videos had 18,000 likes.

What could my daughter have uploaded that could possibly receive 18,000 likes?!

So I watched it.  And I didn't know what to say.  Or what to think.  Or if I should be alarmed.

First, I texted her stepdad and he was like, "Um, people aren't going to think that was supposed to be me, will they?"  Then I shared my story with a couple of trusted coworkers, who were taken aback as well. I wondered if I should call her father and see what he thought, but I didn't. And I thought about it for the first half of my 40 minute car ride home from work.

Half way home, noting that she would be off the bus and in the house by that time, I called her.

"I noticed that your latest LPS video has 18,000 views!" I said.  "How on earth do you think that happened?"

"I don't know!" she said, clearly excited and proud to have become so popular--perhaps even thinking that she was on her way to becoming a "Famous YouTuber" in her own right.

I continued.  "So, that subject material was pretty heavy, right?  What made you come up with the idea for that story?"

She went on to tell me that she had seen another YouTube video about a girl who was sexually abused, and how the girl became so depressed that she eventually committed suicide.  My daughter decided that she should make a public service announcement of sorts.  She said, "I just wanted to warn people, Mom.  I don't want people to think that they can't tell an adult.  I don't want people to commit suicide."

...

I told her that I thought that was a very nice thing to do, and that I was proud of her for wanting to help other people.  I also reminded her that we would want her to take her own advice and let us know if anything like that ever happened to her, no matter who was behind it, because we would never be mad at her.  She pretty much acted like I was a moron for thinking I would need to tell her such a thing - because like, duh, of course she would tell us.

Preteens.

Fast forward to now.  It's been a couple of months and I notice yesterday that her video now has over 219,000 views.  What the heck?!

Then I see the comments.  I read them and I am sad, because I hope she hasn't been reading them.  Because I want her to disable the comments altogether. Because people are judgmental and cruel, even to an 11-year-old girl who just did what she thought was her part in helping end sexual assault, sexual abuse, depression, and suicide.

But I haven't yet - because maybe she needs to know how people are. Maybe she needs to learn that when you put yourself out in the spotlight, people are going to say things.  And they are not always nice things.  I don't really know yet if she needs to learn this yet.  I just don't know.

I do, however, have this to say.

Yes, her mother has seen this video, and her mother supports her mission 100 percent.

No, she is not 5-years-old.

Yes, she *is* old enough to know about sex.  She's also old enough to wear a bra and have a period.  So it only follows that she should know why women have boobs and bleed.

Yes, she *is* old enough to know about sexual abuse.  Children younger than her - MUCH younger than her - have been sexually abused.  When I was 11-years-old, I wore a D cup bra and size 6 jeans.  If you think men aren't already ogling girls who are even less developed than I was at that age, you'd better join the rest of us in reality.

Yes, she *is* right to try to help other children become aware of this, and she *is* right to tell them that it's okay to tell a trusted adult.

Yes, the story line and dialogue are elementary.  As they should be, since they were created by an elementary school student.

Yes, she is using little plastic toys to enact her story.  If you find that weird, that's your problem.  My daughter is carrying out this message - one that is very important to her - in the only way she knows how.  You know what should bother you more than the fact that she tells her story with toys?  The fact that girls still young enough to play with toys know that sexual assault is something that they need to worry about.  And that's not on her, fellow adults.  That's on YOU.  That's on ALL of us.

And just so that I sound as motherly and cronish as humanly possible, I will end this lecture by telling you that you should be ashamed of yourself for being the kind of person who would pick on an 11-year-old for trying to make the world a better place.  Fuck you.

Anyway, her video is below.

I am very proud of you, baby girl.  You have a sensitive heart, you have a ton of empathy, and you are going to grow up strong and make this world a better place for women of all kinds and in all places.  I love you very much.

"Never stop believing that fighting for what's right is worth it...never doubt that you are valuable and powerful and deserving of every chance and opportunity to pursue and achieve your own dreams." ~HRC

On Reading, Writing, and Criminal Punishment

"'If things like this are still happening in 2016 in a very diverse county with all the resources in the world, it’s an indictment on teachers, if a 16- or 17-year-old thinks this is how you should spend a Friday night,' Dr. Sran said." from the New York Times article: Teenagers Who Vandalized Historic Black Schoolhouse Are Ordered to Read Books

It appears that some hoodlums vandalized an old schoolhouse, one that is clearly a symbol of a past where people of color were segregated, oppressed, and discriminated against even more so than they are now. Part of the judge's sentence:  Read a book from a list of texts that highlight the darkness of bigotry and discrimination, plus write an essay about the history of the swastika as a symbol of white supremacy.  Dr. Sran, "the founder of the Loudoun School for the Gifted, a private school that owns the Ashburn Colored School and is renovating it to use as an education museum," seems to think that teachers--probably public school teachers--should be blamed for the behavior of these children.  Interesting.

First of all, Dr. Sran, this is a social problem--not a teacher problem. Don't blame me for the fact that millions of people on this country turn a blind eye to bullying and racism, so much so that they allowed a racist bully to become their president and set the tone for the entire United States.  As long as we live in a country where so many of the powerful try to pretend that inequality and bigotry do not exist, we will see this kind of behavior persist.  Instead of teaching kids--implicitly or explicitly--that the poor, the weak, and "the other" are bad, lazy people who are undeserving of our assistance or compassion, perhaps we should, as a society, do something to change that.  Stop telling your kids not to give money to that homeless guy because he's just going to spend it on booze.  Stop telling your kids that people who receive SNAP benefits ("Food Stamps") are lazy addicts who should be drug tested before we allow them money to feed their families.   Stop telling your kids that undocumented immigrants are stealing their jobs.  Stop telling your kids that those women who were raped asked for it, that those black men who were unjustly killed by law enforcement "shouldn't have been breaking the law," that those Syrians who are trying to flee war and oppression are here to bomb the hell out of all of us in the name of Allah.

Furthermore, I've taught many of the books on that list. So have many of my colleagues. Many of us in the humanities are liberal snowflakes who try to teach compassion and convince kids that literature shows us what it means to be human. (By the way--not entirely sure why "The Sun Also Rises" made the list unless you want to show them the value of being a misogynist who can't get an erection, but okay.) But we can't do this alone.  We need parents, community leaders, and the media to back us up on this.  As a whole, we are not getting as much help as we need.  We're happy to educate your children and try to teach them about the importance of humility and humanity and helpfulness--but the rest of the world needs to get on board, too.  

Finally--and most importantly--a message to you, Dr. Sran, and the judge, about psychology and pedagogy. While I can appreciate that you want these children to be more educated, and I can even understand why you think this sentence could potentially change these children's attitudes--attitudes modeled for them by all kinds of people and leaders in this country--as a teacher, I have to question your decision to make reading and writing part of a criminal sentence. If the goal here is to emphasize the importance of education, why are you presenting it in a way where these children will now associate it with punishment?  Why are you saying, "You made bad choices. Now as a consequence for your deplorable actions, you have to engage in the same activities that are required of you in your Language Arts class"?  If I, as a school teacher, am part of the problem that you are trying to rectify, then why are you making my job a penalty?

I do hope that these kids read Night or I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings or--please, please--the ever so timely Tortilla Curtain.  And I do hope that the powerful writing of Elie Weisel, Maya Angelou, or T.C. Boyle will cause these children to have epiphanies, to see the world from a new perspective, and to have a deep respect for those people who have dehumanized by our society.  I hope I am wrong, and that this sentence doesn't just make these children see reading and writing as just one more thing that "the power" uses to try to "hold them down."  I hope. Because it's going to take a heck of a lot more than making some teenagers read The Color Purple to get this country back on track.

I bow to the goodness in myself and in the universe, and to that which brings light in the darkness

Since I moved to Napoleon from Cleveland, I have been trying to find the "perfect" yoga.

Here's what I have noticed about Northwest Ohio Yoga:

(1) No one OMs.  There is some kind of panic, apparently, that sets in when people around these parts are asked to OM.  I have a keen desire for a really juicy group OM.  Please, someone OM with me!

(2) Where the heck are the hands on assists?  I want someone to put their hands all over me.  Please.  I beg you. Teachers out here are apparently afraid to touch people. I miss the days when I felt that I was being left out because other people needed more adjustments than I did; now I just want someone to touch me for any reason at all.  I want to get a job teaching yoga again just so that I can touch people and show them just how glorious hands-on assists can be.

(3) The spiritual element of yoga is typically ignored by many teachers here.  Americanized yoga = "Wow I can exercise and it will help me not get fat! Check out my mad mad super bad chaturanga!" You know what? In the last couple of years I have learned to just accept my body as it is.  I don't care anymore that I am a size 12.  I'm pretty hot for an old lady.  Give me another doughnut, because I just want some OMing, some chanting, and some goddamn inner peace. Talk to me about feminine energy and my inner Shakti. Let's sing some "Om gam ganapataye nahama." Ganesha, move those obstacles!  Let's get flaky and light some candles and talk about the things that make us break into tears.  Because that's where the real yoga is.

Tonight I went to a winter solstice temple meeting.  I hung out with a super flaky lady who was all about singing and chanting and dancing and making me feel both super uncomfortable and super at home at the same time.  We welcomed the darkness of winter, and we welcomed the new light that is coming now that the days will once again grow longer.  My darkness is something I have struggled with for a long time.  My light, I think, was that I just need to forgive myself for refusing to be forgiving; because clearly, I am not yet ready. And that is just going to have to be okay for now.

Letting Go of the Life We Have Planned

"May you live in interesting times."

I don't know who said that. Someone famous and wise and all that. I could Google it and find the source, but I don't feel like it.

That said, it's been a hard year.

And I am not talking about this insane, ridiculous, farce of an election season, although one could say that plays into it.  

First, going back to work full time while caring for an infant was hard. It was hard a decade ago, too, but this time it was super duper hard. I handled the pregnancy itself with flying colors. It was the whole "I have to be up all hours breastfeeding a baby" thing that got in the way of my ability to do just about everything. I literally typed letters of recommendation while breastfeeding. I sat attached to a breast pump while grading essays. I spent all my lunch periods down in daycare feeding the baby.  I love that baby. I also realized that 41 is too old to be a full time working mother of a newborn. I started to fall into a postpartum funk. I tried hard to float on the surface of it.

Couple this with the fact that I had been telling my spouse for at least a year that I suspected my boss was looking for a reason to get rid of me.  In April, my boss proved me right. After months of making me jump through all kinds of hoops and watching me sail through every one of them, the only excuse he could come up with to can me and give my job to a Jewish teacher was this: "I think your personal life is getting in the way of your ability to do your job."  Yeah, he went there. Mind you, this was after I spent all semester doing a "Composition Bootcamp" with my AP students, where they wrote like a billion essays and I graded like 30 billion essays and all while I had a baby attached to my boob.  It wasn't that much of a shocker, given that those of us who were general education teachers always knew that if a Jewish teacher came along and could do our job, we'd be on the street. The lady who covered my maternity leave was Jewish and had a kid or two in the school.  So yeah, I pretty much saw that one coming, but it didn't make it any easier. Anyway, that boss wrote this letter that assured me that if I kept my mouth shut about the school, I would receive all of my contracted pay and benefits and I could leave right then and there. I love that letter. It makes it look like I have deep, juicy, nefarious intel on the school and that I was being paid to keep my mouth shut about it. To be fair, I loved my co-workers there and I loved my students and I certainly have nothing against Jews as a result of all of this. I do, however, have a bad taste in my mouth for schools where the parents who have the most money and donate a lot of it to the school get to call all the shots, and so do their kids.  Here's the stems word of the week, kids: Plutocracy. 

So there I was, a teacher with 19 years experience and a master's degree trying to get a job in the state of Ohio, where our governor has made it hard for anyone with my credentials to get a job. Yes, I was told by many a public school that I was "overqualified" (code word for "we need to hire someone straight out of college because you are too expensive").  By the grace of God, I found one, which I still consider a miracle given that when I had the interview, I pulled no punches and told the panel of administrators, 100%, with complete and unabated honestly, exactly what I really thought about everything.  I figured that this was either going to get me the right job or it wasn't; I was tired of working for the wrong bosses.  Ends up they liked it.

And I was excited to get the job. I am still excited to have the job. What didn't excite me was that I had to move away from Cleveland. Dave had been pretty much trying to push me back to NW Ohio for the better part of two years. Losing the private school job was just the final sign from God that I was supposed to move "home" and that I was needed somewhere else. The problem was that once I got "home," it wasn't really home, because it was Napoleon, Ohio and I am not a country girl and I am not accustomed to living in a "red county." As Dave would say, "I ain't from around here," and it is painfully obvious. I had every anxiety known to man about leaving city life. On top of the typical fears and stresses of selling a house (the beautiful house that I loved dearly) and finding a new place to live, I had to leave my flaky liberal friends and my super awesome progressive community behind. Everything was annoying to me--from having to travel over 30 minutes to the nearest Target store to seeing Donald Effing Trump signs everywhere I drove.  I couldn't find anywhere nearby to practice yoga, which didn't help my emotional stability any.  Moving was hard. It still is hard to be here. But I am getting used to it.

In July, I left my home in Lakewood and moved into a rental, and the place is cute and not too bad, but it isn't exactly my dream home or my dream neighborhood. I couldn't find joy in my work once I got back to it and even though I found a new yoga studio nearby, I couldn't get into my practice.  I found myself always unhappy and getting on the nerves of everyone in my household, mostly my husband, and I finally went to the doctor and asked for the one thing I didn't want to need, which was meds for depression, because let's face it--I was pretty much never happy, really, after the baby was born, even though I am happy the baby was born and all that jazz, but nothing was ever really JOYFUL anymore.  Because I was always stressed and I had to roll with a lot of changes that I didn't really want to roll with. But here I am.

Joseph Campbell said, and I paraphrase, that we must be willing to leave behind the life we have planned so that we can make way for the life that is waiting for us.  I feel like I can do that now.  I am once again a hot firey ball of ideas in the classroom and I roll out my yoga mat without having to be practically dragged to it.  I read for pleasure the Artemis Fowl books that my son checks out of his school library and insists that I read. I snuggle my super sweet baby and I have more patience with my beautiful, but prepubescent daughter whose own life and bodily changes are trying hard to make me lose my cool on a daily basis. And I can get through a whole day without seeing my spouse without feeling as if I am going to have a panic attack (for the first time since we moved here... I swear to God there was a long time after we moved here when I couldn't manage an entire Saturday morning alone without being a complete wreck of co-dependence issues). So anyway, universe, I let go of that life I wanted in Cleveland and now I'm here, so do what you will with me. I can take it.

As long as Donald Trump doesn't get us blown up by the Chinese, anyway. 

As a post script, I shall say, in the spirit of Christmas, that I am super thankful for the following things:

(1) I get to enjoy Christmas again because I don't have to work according to the Jewish calendar anymore.

(2) I am appreciated where I work again. And I appreciate where I work.

(3) I love being in a "real school" again where there are pep rallies and dances and football games; I love working with "real people" who have to go to work for a living.

(4) I can be a fully attentive mother again to my children.

(5) I found good yoga. I even found a couple of people who might just be "my people."

(6) I have found that being in my 40's has given me an "I don't give a shit what you think" attitude when I need it, but as also given me a "when it is and isn't appropriate to say I don't give a shit" kind of wisdom.

(7) I have the most bestest husband ever, my soul mate and my best friend, and I love him with every fiber of my being. 

Namaste, Merry Christmas, Happy Holidays, Blessed Yule, Happy Hannukah, and all that other stuff.  

The Poem You've Been Waiting For

(or: The product of those random scraps of paper)

Once, I asked you:
If you could be any of the four classical elements,
which would you be?
And you said:
Air--"because you can't see me,
but you can feel me."

Sometimes you ask me if during all of those missing years
I thought of you--
Or spoke of you--
Or thought of speaking of you--
And often I say,
"Well, no."

Then I sense your disappointment hovering thick in the air.
You don't say it--
But I can feel it.
Sweetie, it's so classic, your bad sense of timing.
You ask at all the wrong moments.

So if you wonder whether or not you still meant anything to me beyond a nearly vacant memory,
If you sense that I suffered some self-inflicted amnesia, circumventing the sting of things better forgotten,
If the question is did you ever cross my mind,
The answer is:

Every time I saw a Dodge Charger of any vintage;
Every time I heard Brooks and Dunn sing "You're Gonna Miss Me When I'm Gone";
Every time I pulled my Literature 201 textbook from the shelf;
Every time a vacuum cleaner bag needed changing;
Every time I saw you as an old man in the movie UP;
Every time I saw you in the movie American Beauty, eyes tearing up as you tried to explain the grace you found in something so mundane as a plastic bag dancing in the wind;
Every time I drove past the building where we sat on the roof and watched the sun rise;
Every time I drove past the Fremont exit on the Ohio Turnpike;
Every time I drove past the place where I first kissed you;
And every time I searched your name on the Internet, only to locate some long deceased Ohio governor instead.

So if you wonder if I forgot you--

I couldn't see you.
I couldn't hear you.
And I couldn't find you.

But I could always feel you.

Nine Months

The difference nine months can make.

September:  You've finally asked for a divorce and meant it.  You buy a dog at the local shelter to prove to your spouse that you really want a divorce.  In 12 years of marriage, it was the one thing he ever told you not to do.  You name the dog Shiva to symbolize the huge transformation that is occurring in your life--internally as well as externally.  Most people assume that since you work in a Hebrew school, you named it after the seven days of mourning that one sits after a death in the family and they tell you they are so sorry about how sad you are, and how appropriate to name the dog Shiva, but you're not sad--not really--I mean you are, but you've been sad for a long time so things can only improve from here, right?  You try to explain why the Hindu Lord of Destruction is actually a really positive thing.  About as many people "get it" as those who understand that the Death card in a tarot deck doesn't mean you're going to die.  You're okay with that.  You start yoga teacher training and you think you're going to be totally awesome.  You're a high school English teacher beginning a new school year.  You have two kids to find childcare for now because you're about to become a single mom.  You're stuck between being totally terrified and believing that you totally got this.  The dog eats one of your brand new Birkenstock sandals and tries to chew through a power cord, but you're convinced this is just a passing thing.

Shiva--Lord of Adho Mukha Svanasana stretches
and champion destroyer of shoes and Monster High dolls.

October:  Your soon-to-be-ex spouse finally moves out of the house.  You feel a huge surge of relief and liberation, but you aren't sure how to handle being alone.  You clean the house top to bottom and rearrange the bedroom furniture, throw out a lot of stuff, and make sage sticks to smudge the place.  When the kids leave for their weekends with their dad, you are desperate to fill the empty space, so you start going out on dates.  You find out rather quickly that the dating pool is, to say the least, frustrating and bleak, but sitting alone in an empty house... you can't take it.  At least when they are home, you don't have to worry about sleeping alone--because they are ALWAYS in your bed at night.  Your daughter tells you to find a rich man--someone who can take her to Kalahari.  You turn 39-years-old and celebrate over a quiet dinner with your children.  The dog starts eating the couch.  You try to fix something and realize your soon-to-be ex-spouse has pretty much taken every tool in the house.  You're listening to Counting Crows and John Mayer a lot.  Not exactly uplifting, you realize, but it is what it is.  One evening you go to bed to find two children, a dog, and a cat in it.  You decide to sleep in your daughter's bed instead.  You have no time to practice yoga and no money for a sitter.  You start to wonder how you're going to fit all of these requirements in for this whole yoga teacher training thing.

This used to be my bed.  Now it is community property.

November:  You find yourself making bad decisions because you are so completely and utterly out of your mind lonely.  You go to your monthly yoga teacher training weekend and it starts with a chakra tuning practice.  You bawl through most of it because it starts with the root chakra and in addition to struggling with your feelings about your mother's reaction to your divorce, you feel as if the ground is constantly quaking beneath your feet.  From there it's just all downhill until you're just a mass of pulp on the mat at the end.  You're supposed to be able to teach Surya Namaskar A and B by now, but you are so distracted by your personal life that you are getting nothing accomplished.  On the 19th, your final court date, you wake up, go to a yoga class, and find yourself so physically ill that you have to lay with your legs up the wall for the final 15 minutes of class.  Either you have the flu or this is the most shot your nerves have ever been.  Your head is throbbing as if Thor were smashing you in the skull with his hammer.  You don't regret it, but somehow you thought this day would be a lot happier. A few days later, while listening to John Mayer on the drive to work (because songs like Split Screen Sadness are suddenly getting constant play in your car CD player), you suddenly get this idea that you should see if your old college flame still has the same cell phone number that you got from his sister via Facebook 4 years earlier.  He does.  You tell him you're not married anymore.  He is very, very interested in this life event.  After planning a date with him, you freak out and decide that you aren't ready for the inevitable, which is that he is going to be very, very serious.  You are emotionally unstable and you know it.  You freak out and blow him off.  The dog eats more of the couch, a dozen freshly baked vegan pumpkin muffins, and your daughter's favorite stuffed animal that she's been carrying with her everywhere since she was three months old, but you love her anyway.   You have the most pathetic Thanksgiving ever, but your son brings in flowers from the garden to decorate the table because he is adorable and sweet, and after the kids go to bed you get sick again and have yourself a good cry.  You are pretty sure Christmas this year is going to totally suck.  You try not to think about it.  A secret friend leaves a gift card in your mailbox and another sends you one in the mail to help you buy Christmas gifts for the kids and you are overwhelmed by the kindness of friends.  You think maybe Christmas won't suck after all, but your parents have decided not to visit so your hope is dimly lit at best.

R.I.P. Hugs--both the old and the new, as the replacement got eaten as well.

December:  You discover that you have opened a can of worms with the old college flame, who seems to know that you are not in an emotional position to rekindle a relationship with him but isn't willing to give up so easily.  He starts sending you cryptic text messages in the form of poetry.  You show one to your friend during yoga teacher training.  She is perplexed.  She now knows him as "metaphor man."  You are not perplexed.  You know that the more serious a situation gets, the less direct he becomes.  You continue to blow him off, not because you want to, but because there is this complex and confusing history there that only you and he could possibly understand.  Your new John Mayer song is In Your Atmosphere because it explains perfectly how completely confused you are about the old college flame. You ask the friend who knows him as "metaphor man" what she thinks, but only after you give her a very abbreviated version of your history with him.  She tells you hey, why not give it a whirl?  You finally decide to try to connect with him again.  There's another snafu and you blow him off again, then you spend the entire weekend regretting your decision.    You go home with the kids for Christmas and when you get into town--where the old college flame still lives, and you don't--you call him and say hey, how about Christmas Eve lunch?  By Christmas Day he's telling you he still loves you and is spending the day with your family.  By the day after Christmas, he is proposing.  You are totally freaked out, but you're not afraid anymore.  The only thing you are afraid of is how completely freaking nuts everyone is going to think you are when they find out that you have been divorced for 2.3 minutes and you're already with this other guy.  You tell no one.  But you spend a lot of time wondering how to give people a short version of your history with the old college flame.  You realize there just isn't one.  Turns out it's the best Christmas ever.  You get your new social security card in the mail on December 30th because you had changed your married name back to your maiden surname--the only man you were willing to "belong to" was your father.  But now you realize that there is no point in changing your driver's license or anything else because you know that you're going to say "yes" to the old college flame's proposal and that he is going to want you to take his name, even though you have sworn that you will never, ever change your identity for a man ever again.  You still like John Mayer, but you decide that you need to choose a different song to remember the old college flame by because "Split Screen Sadness" no longer works.  He sends you this song and tells you it has always reminded him of you.  It makes you cry.  You decide on a new song.

Best Christmas Eve EVER!!

January:  You realize that turning away the old college flame back in 1999 was a pretty big mistake.  You shock everybody with this.  You hope that nobody thought that you were cheating on your husband or that you are crazy or that you are some kind of strumpet.  You try to hide it from the people at work, but though the wonders of Internet social networking, everyone knows in about 5.6 minutes.  You sell the old ring and buy your daughter a new My Little Pony toy, then use the rest to pay for another month of yoga teacher training.  

It's an aquamarine.  My daughter helped me pick it out.  

February:   Things are complicated because I just agreed to marry a guy who still lives 100 miles away from me.  We drive through some of the coldest, snowiest, most ridiculous weather in Ohio history in order to be with each other on weekends.  Having a weekend boyfriend is a drag and one weekend a month I can barely see him at all because of this yoga teacher training that is starting to, quite frankly, overwhelm the hell out of me, but when we are together, we look like this:

New haircut selfie!!!

March: I have no idea what the hell happened this month.  I think I was supposed to be doing a lot of yoga assisting and starting to teach classes and stuff.  I have no idea what I am doing, and I am supposed to be planning a wedding now.  There is some confusion over whether or not I am actually still sane.  I am still an English teacher somewhere in this mess and there are papers to grade and stuff like that.  March is just a blur.  A cold, snowy blur.  The dog has completely destroyed the couch and the old college flame, now fiancé, is allergic to her.  We still love her anyway.  My daughter asks my fiancé if she should call him "Dad."  He tells her to call him whatever she is comfortable calling him.  In the meantime, my son is just happy to talk about rocketry and watch Saturn V DVDs with him.  My son decides the fiancé needs to be introduced to The Lord of the Rings.  I start teaching yoga classes for my YTT requirements.  I land a gig teaching donation based yoga classes at a local studio--and the idea scares the crap out of me.  I am no longer sure that I am going to be totally awesome.  At the end of the month, I post this on Facebook:  

"My 9-year-old son (who is a 55-year-old man trapped in a 4th grader's body) told me the other day that it was a good thing that Gandalf the Grey fell into the chasm with the Balrog, for if that hadn't have happened, he'd have never become a White Wizard and had the all of the abilities needed to help the Fellowship destroy the Ring of Power. He said, 'So see, sometimes things happen and they seem bad, but really in the end they are good, because everything happens for a reason.'

I struggle a lot lately with why I made certain decisions in my life path; the struggle has led me through sadness, then anger, then regret, then indifference, then occasionally anger again...but then there are moments of clarity, moments of 'this is why I made that decision, and it gave me these amazing kids and it brought me to this point in my life, here in Lakewood, Ohio,' which in many ways was necessary for me to find our who I really am.

There is a principle in Hindu philosophy called Satsang, which, in a nutshell, can be interpreted to mean that we should associate with people who bring out the best in us--who encourage us to be our highest selves. Today I have had many reaffirmations of why I am here, now, in a Cleveland suburb, a place I never thought I would be. I am grateful today at how many friends I have accumulated here who have not only helped me when I was in a crisis--however big or small--or who have, in some way, helped to uplift me. There are so many of you. I am a very lucky woman.

It's hard to keep Shiva from destroying the couch when
my daughter keeps inviting her up there.

April:  Of course I am going to catch up on all that grading during Spring Break!  Except that my mother is in town staying with me and my cousin is getting married and  the fiancé's parents are back from Arizona for the summer it's Easter and all this other stuff.  I start to panic that I am never going to catch up on my day job.  You know, the one that pays the mortgage.  I have all of these yoga teacher training requirements to complete and I am falling behind.  On the other hand, my autistic son is on new medication and he is doing well in school for the first time in his life.  He is named student of the month.  I see the fiancés parents for the first time since, oh, I don't know, 1995??  My brother's newborn makes me decide I want to have another baby.  See why?

And I start cheating on my fiancé with old yoga men and Raymond Carver at night:

And I find this old photo of the car that I am about to, technically, become "half owner" of, which is super awesome but the truth is that 90% of the reason I love it--other than the fact that it is the Dukes of Hazzard car--is because it has been a labor of love for him since he was a teenager:

And I decide that I am going to help him restore this, even if it just means that I sit there and hand him tools....

....because I don't give a crap what we are doing as long as we are together.  

May:  This happens.  

2014 Jivasara Class--Real Yogis Huff Mint.

And when this happens, my fellow teacher trainees tell me that I am a different person.  That the person who arrived last September was broken and clearly trying to keep up the appearance of being strong.  That the person they know now is blissful, content, and confident.  I realize that somewhere in the middle of this blog, I switched from a non-personal second person point of view to a first person point of view, and although I wasn't conscious of it, I think it means something about my state of mind shift.  I am a few months away from marrying the man who I perhaps should have married in the first place, yet I am grateful that the path I took gave my my children.  I am grateful for everyone who helped me while I was on this journey.  I am grateful for the friends I didn't know I had and the ones who showed me just how much they value my friendship.  I am grateful to have a man who waited 15 years for me to come to my senses.  I am grateful for my yoga teachers and my fellow trainees, who supported me though some of the darkest times of my life.  I am just grateful in general.  Ananda--bliss.  I think I'll try to have another baby and I think that Ananda makes a good name for a girl.  The dog is no longer eating the furniture.  My kids sleep in their own beds again.  I am starting to learn to play nice with my ex-spouse, and even if I don't know how to forgive him yet, I recognize that, for my own benefit and for the benefit of our kids, I have to learn how.  I am teaching yoga.  I am smiling.  I am letting go and moving forward.  

Nine months--the gestation period of a human baby.  

Shiva has worked his magic.  

And that's the difference nine months can make.