The week before last, I sat in Blue State Coffee, in
Providence, RI (on of my favorite venues) before my feature and did the online
orientation for my student teaching this semester. It scared me to death. Don’t
plan on doing anything at all else, it said. I have to be ready to assume full responsibility
for the class by the end of October.
Well, assuming responsibility for a class was the general
idea, wasn’t it? But I am still not feeling up to the task. Ever since I had to
face the reality of what’s coming, I’ve felt lost, like I don’t have access to
my inner resources. I still can’t seem to find them. I’m settling for trying to
LOOK like I have inner resources—that always works on those makeover shows Amy
hates, right?
For most of the past ten years, I’ve been a full time
writer, and it’s brought me so much—including my big dream of having a
full-length collection published. I had day jobs and part-time jobs, I got
myself through my teacher certification courses, but I am so, so lucky and
grateful to have had writing as the central focus of my life. I feel real grief
for that part of my life being over, even sad for my classes to be coming to a
close, even as I am very glad that I won’t be spending my days alone with a
computer anymore.
I love my life as it has been for the past ten years, and I
am very sorry to see it go. Right now, it feels like the end of my writing
self, even though I know lots of people who successfully teach and write, they
teach and write and do a million other things. I know that when I get there,
I’ll be there, I’ll still find ways. I’m in the middle of a year-long writing
project that may have enough of its own momentum to carry me through.
The rest of my life seems too transitiony and off-kilter as
well. I feel like I’m not growing into things fast enough. We haven’t quite
settled into the new apartment, and we aren’t feeling very settled into each
other, either. I’m angry at the new apartment sometimes for not being the old
apartment, and I really do miss our couch that we couldn’t get up the stairs.
The project of accepting my polyamorous self has come so
far, but it feels like it’s hitting a wall as well. I had some good momentum
going but then I fell for another monogamous guy who has since disappeared—so
yep, I get it, poly guys only, but still, I liked him. I felt a deep guilt that
I couldn’t give him what he wanted, that I’m someone who comes with an
(adorable gingham) suitcase of (really fun sometimes) complications. Though I
can try not to get close to anyone else who makes me feel that way, I still
make myself feel that way. I hope it’s something I can grow beyond.
So it’s a tentative, unsettled birthday eve. I am proud of
my book release this year and praying to the next book to keep me a writer. I’m
proud of how much I’ve learned and experienced as a dater of men, but I’m
mournful for the ones who aren’t around anymore. I love Amy, but our home
doesn’t feel like a home right now. I am excited and curious about teaching, but
I’m nervous about the possibility of wrecking little fourth-grade lives.
Student teaching doesn’t start until next week, but I’ve
decided to start going in as of tomorrow. I’ll spend my birthday day in
professional development with the other teachers and my birthday night doing a
Skype feature with another favorite venue: the Ugly Mug in Orange, CA. It’ll be
a good way to celebrate both the new and old lives, with my oldest, dearest
friends and poems.
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