Why I Post

I have received a few mean-spirited messages recently about my Facebook activity.  Now understand, I work with teenagers and I hear about these silly things all the time, but when people have attacked my character and my core because of my Facebook account, it kind of irritated me.  It irritated me because of who sent me these messages; it irritated me because these people are allowed to say and do whatever they want (in whatever capacity they want, on and off screen); and it irritated me because while there are a lot of things I don't agree with the choices of these people, I still love and care about them and don't send them messages about what they're doing.

And these mean-spirited messages made me think about why I "post."

I understand that Facebook has changed a lot since I created my account almost 10 years ago (seriously, it's been around that long!) but, I still think the main reason it exists is to stay connected with people.  I have friends who I personally like to keep tabs on and see all the cool things they're doing.  I also have people in New Zealand who I befriended and without Facebook, would not know what is happening in their lives.

Why I post is really nobodies business and if they don't like it, then maybe we shouldn't be "friends" (how childish does that sound!?) (and to add, because of the nature of my work, no one can see anything I do on my social media accounts except those I allow in, so if you are my "friend" it's because I want you in my life and want you to know what's going on in our lives.)

I post, because as many of you know, Chris and I live no closer than 3 hours to our closest relative.  Three hour drive to my Brother and his family.  We also live a little isolated from other people in our area, so there are times where I don't talk to any body but Chris for a week or more. I post because I want people to see where we live and how we live.  I post because we rarely have visitors and most people will never know what transformation our house has gone through.

Social media is a breeding ground for hatred and contempt and lies, and it can be extremely destructive.  But it can also be a place to inspire, to share and to love.  It can be a place where you can share your beliefs and your likes and your life.  It is sometimes difficult to weed out the evil that is strewn across our screens every day, but I post because of the same reasons I joined Facebook to begin with, to connect with other people.

I post because I'm happy.  I post because I'm sad.  I post to know I'm not alone.

Rusty

Rusty: having lost agility or alertness; out of practice.

I am rusty.  Somewhere in the midst of crazy life happenings, I let myself go.

I remember when I was in college and I was writing on a consistent basis; I had dreams of becoming an author and teaching on the side. I loved creating a masterpiece of words splattered onto my paper in perfect combination and form.

I remember when I could run a 5 mile race without difficulty.

I remember going to friend’s houses and bringing them cookie dough because they had a rough day, or bringing them ice cream, just because. I remember making plans and keeping them.

Now, I’m rusty.  I miss writing, but it doesn’t come easily any more. I’m afraid I have nothing to say, and I have everything to say.

I’m rusty.  Running a mile is difficult. My body jiggles and wiggles and can’t carry me as far as it once did.

I’m rusty. Reading became so laborious and taxing in college and in my “career” that reading for “fun” became a thing of the past.  I rarely read for pleasure anymore, though, in the last few months I have tried to make myself read at least one (1) non-work-related literature source a month, and I have, and I’ve enjoyed it; I’ve missed it; but it’s not as easy as it once was.

I’m rusty. My relationships and friendships I’ve created and made over the years have fizzled out.  I mean I follow you on Facebook and Instagram and check to see what you’re up to, but if you really think about it, we’re not really friends.  I don’t make an effort to call or to email or to really check up on you and see how you’re doing.

I’m rusty. I used to have clear cut goals for my life.  I knew what I wanted out of life; I knew where I was going and what I was doing.  Now, every morning I look in the mirror, give myself a pep-talk and walk race out the door. I don’t know what I want out of life anymore.  Ever since I was a little girl, literally 6 years old, I can remember telling everyone I was going to be a teacher. I have always wanted to be a teacher, and I worked hard at achieving that goal, and I am. I am a teacher, and I hate it. Don’t get me wrong, I love literature and I love my students and I love the relationships and bonds I make with students, but the profession of teaching? Hate it, and I hate that I hate it. There are so many things outside of the classroom that make it very difficult to enjoy.  Don’t get me wrong, I love Fort Morgan High School; I have the best administration and some really great kids; the support system is wonderful; and there is some really good teaching happening in the classrooms. But I guess it’s more of a… I don’t know… disappointment?  I worked towards my goal of going to college and getting my teaching degree for so long that it was the only thing I focused on, that I lost sight of who I am and what I need. So I’ve become rusty.

How to clean rust?

When I typed in the above question, how fitting that one of the answers was time to get tough. It is time to get tough. 

I’m starting to write again.  Yes, it’s on here, this poor neglected blog of mine, that’s lucky to reach 30 people, but I’m writing.

I’m starting to run again. Yes, it’s a struggle to even go a mile. Yes, I’m huffing and puffing and jiggly-wiggly, but I’m going out and trying. I’m sore as can be the next day, but the next day I do it again. Soon my rusty body will not feel the pain it currently feels from so many years of neglect.

I’m exploring my options. It’s a tough decision, but after many conversations with Christopher and my hour and a half a day in the car alone to think, I am 90% sure that this year will be my last year teaching.  It’s bittersweet.  I have a lot of emotions about it.  I’m not entirely sure what will become of me or what I will do, but I can’t keep doing what I’m doing.  It’s not fair to me, to my students or to my family (aka Chris).

I’m getting tough.  I know it’s not going to be perfect overnight, but I’m getting tough.

Happy Go Lucky

Happy.  This has never been a word that I would choose to describe me, my personality or anything to do with who I am.  I know that sounds bad, but you know when you are in a new group setting and having to introduce yourself and choose just three words to describe yourself, happy has never been anywhere near to a word I would choose.  I can think of people in my life that I would label as happy and I can remember thinking how strange it must be to be happy all the time. 

Cynical and creative are always words that would be used to describe the person who Tiffany is.  She has always been and always will be.  In the last four or five years, cranky might actually be added to that description list, and I’m okay with that.  I’m okay with who I am and I’ve come to terms with who and what I am and what I’m not.

Until…

About a month ago (after my miscarriage/d&c if you recall) I was sitting in Exam Room 2, waiting for Dr. A to come back from a surgery for my post op appointment.  They weren’t sure how much longer he was going to be, so I was fully dressed and texting Chris when I heard his voice outside the room and him barge into the room.  He began making small talk about what I don’t recall the details at this point, but something he said that day has stuck in my brain ever since: Tiffany, you’re always so happy!  Me: is that a bad thing? Dr. A: no, it’s a great trait to have.  You have such a positive outlook on life and are always cheery and happy. 

When I got home, I told Chris what Dr. A said, he laughed and said he must not know you very well. This upset me, but was true.

This happened almost a month ago, but it was such a profound moment for me.  Like I said, and like anyone who has ever known me will probably say, happy and cheery are not words that describe who I am.  But why can’t they?  This is the big eye opener for me: Why can’t these words describe me? 

I am not a happy person, but I can be.  I look at my life and I have a pretty wonderful life.  I think of my marriage and I almost always tear up because it is beyond any relationship family I ever could have dreamed up for myself and it makes me happy.

So I resolved, and I have to resolve every day that I get out of bed and deal with other people, to be happy.  I want to be known for being that person who always had a smile, who always was genuinely happy. There are days where I am not happy and days where I am cranky and snap at Chris or my students, but I’m getting so much better at being happy and I can feel it.  And those days where I am cranky or snappy or just downright unhappy I just have to try better the next day and the day after that.

I think about my life, which is a pretty great life, might I add, and I have no reason to be unhappy.  I have trials just like everyone else, and there have been some really crummy things that have happened to me and Chris in the last year, but I have to remember what I want to be and accomplish in life.  Yes, it would be very easy to be angry and upset especially considering our circumstances of what happened, but then I remember what I want more.  I want to be happy, and being upset/cynical/angry doesn’t hurt anyone but me and my relationships with my husband, my family and my Heavenly Father.

So this is my resolve: To be happy; To smile through the tears; To be that person that is cheery and happy and makes you want to be too (you know those people who are like this, and this isn't going to happen overnight for dear ol' Tiffany though, so be patient.) To remember that my trials aren't the end of the world, and I always, always, always have something to be grateful for and happy about.

 

Third Time's NOT a charm...

I feel like I’ve let my poor little neglected blog die, it’s been so long since I’ve written anything for myself, and I have a million reasons why I haven’t, but the truth is it doesn’t matter, because I haven’t, and nothing I do today is going to change that.

I feel like I have so many thoughts in my mind that I am trying to sort out, which I am not good at doing in my head, so I need to write.  I need to bleed out my heart and soul so maybe; just maybe, I can have some peace again.

In late October, Chris and I experienced our second miscarriage.  I knew it wasn’t going to be a successful pregnancy, because I just had a feeling.  We didn’t go to the doctor, and we had a miscarriage at home, dealing with all that comes with that.

After this miscarriage, I knew I couldn’t keep teaching in Brush.  I am not going to go into detail about Brush here on my adventure blog, but there was so much happening in our school and district that were against my moral compass, and I really struggled with how much stress I was under, so having that second miscarriage I realized I couldn’t do it anymore.  I resigned. I didn’t know what I was going to do, but it wasn’t going to be working there.  Leaving Brush was not pretty.  Administration retaliated and made life pretty miserable for me and Chris and I have never felt so betrayed in my life.

But as awful as administration was to me in Brush, I had never felt better.  I was relieved to be done with that school and district.  I wasn’t sure what was going to happen in our lives, but I hadn’t felt surer of a decision in my life.  In fact, a week after I was no longer working in Brush, I was offered another job, and I got pregnant again.  We were so excited when we found out in December that I was pregnant, and I was feeling “normal” pregnancy symptoms which was such a relief after everything we have been through in the last year or so with my first miscarriage.  What an exciting time for us and what an amazing year 2015 was going to be. 

Because I started a new job, I didn’t have insurance for the month of January, so while I should have had my first prenatal exam in mid-January, we had to postpone it until February when I would have insurance again.  I tell you what; February 2^nd could not come soon enough!  Chris even had a countdown going… “only ___ more days until baby day!”  

We had an ultrasound appointment first, and I knew as she kept trying to find an ovary that I was having a dejavu of last year.  I could see that there was nothing on the screen, and when she went to go get the doctor I looked at Chris and we both knew: a third miscarriage.  The doctor came in, and made her look at the uterus and sac, looking for signs of a molar pregnancy using simple enough words for me to understand, but now cannot remember what was said (I only remember that Dr. A grabbed/held my foot and I thought it extremely strange and slightly awkward, but how do you say hey dude, I know you’ve been up my junk, but could you please not touch me? That’d be great, thanks. Yea, you just can’t say it.)

After getting into an exam room, Dr. A said it didn’t look like another molar pregnancy and everything looked to be pointing to a “normal” miscarriage and that our best option (after reviewing all the options) would be for “nature to take its course.”  I was surprised at myself when I was able to speak with such conviction, “that’s what we did last time, and I’m not willing to do that again, so I want to schedule a D&C.”  I think I took Dr. A by surprise too, because it took him a minute to respond.  He agreed to schedule the D&C the following Friday but we were going to do a 48 hour blood test and have an appointment the following Monday to go over everything, have another ultra sound to make sure nothing had changed, blah, blah, blah, do you want us to call you with the blood results? {No.} We’ll call you once we schedule the surgery blah, blah, blah, hang on a second and…. I was so excited when I saw you were coming in, this is just so sad, blah, blah, blah.

I looked at Chris, stoic as ever, and grabbed his hand as tears stung the corners of my eyes.  Why are they not letting us leave? I just want to get out of here.  He squeezed my hand and smiled; everything is going to be alright.

We finally got out of the office and got blood drawn.  Two days later, another draw. Thursday, I got a call from a number I didn’t recognize, and I was compelled to answer.  “Hi Tiffany, this is Kathleen, Dr. A would like to speak with you, do you have a minute?” “uh, yeah.” “okay, here he is… Hi Tiffany, it’s Dr. A, so we have a problem with your blood results… blah blah blah,  I don’t feel comfortable waiting to do your d&c, we need to do it now…” My head started spinning. This was not the same Dr. A from Monday who thought everything was fine.  This was the urgent Dr. A from last year when we found out about the molar pregnancy. Tears started streaming down my face and I grabbed my stuff and ran, locking myself in my classroom.  I can’t do this again. I called Chris, unable to get out very many intelligible words.  

Friday was a blur of more appointments and more blood draws and more questions to answer. The only thing I remember was in my appointment with Dr. A on Friday, he looked at me and said “You are such a remarkable woman; I feel privileged to be your doctor.”  I think I remember it, because it is the first time someone has ever called me a woman without young in front of it, and I was slightly offended and felt kind of old. 

I am so overwhelmed.  For some reason this time has been harder than before.  I have spent my entire commute some mornings bawling because of how unfair I feel this situation is.  Why did Heavenly Father let the girl who was visibly about 7-8 months pregnant I saw smoking a joint outside of Taco Johns get to have a baby and I can’t? Why do people who can’t even take care of themselves let alone a baby get to have one?  Why… Why… why!!??!!??  I have so many questions and no answers.  Why were my numbers so high? Why was there such urgency in Dr. A’s voice on that phone call? Emotionally I have been a wreck, and last time, I remember feeling so much better and clearer and happy in every way, but this time I still do not feel like myself. I feel… heavy, I guess is the best way to describe it.