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.
