Tag: new beginning

Don’t chase rabbits.

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When I officially resigned from my last job, I had a big plan to write a long entry about why I would do such a thing.  That was weeks ago, and I did start writing.  That entry is currently 4 pages long, single spaced.  It’s emotional – not just sadness; there is a respectable amount of anger and frustration – and possibly not appropriate for public sharing.  It’s not finished cooking.  It’s still too raw for human consumption.  If it is ever actually finished, it probably won’t be shared.  I didn’t write it to be ugly.  I wrote it to process my feelings and to try to make sense of what happened.  I’m not certain that it is ugly, but that is something I consider about anything I write to share.

I’ve been trying to write this story for weeks.  When I’m not staring at the Word document, I’m thinking about it.  What should I write?  Can I even share this?  What is even worth sharing?  Did I really quit my job?  

I still feel like I had to quit the job.  Nobody asked me to, but I was having a difficult time.  I was burned out and out-of-touch.  I could not get the work completed.  Even knowing I was burned out, I was still trying to give.  I had progressed past “give until it hurts,” into “give until numbness sets in,” territory and beyond.  [. . . . ]   The week that I learned I needed to quit the job, I had two court hearings.  A co-worker was sent to the first one (Monday) to observe me, because that co-worker needed some extra education regarding testifying.  He was sent to court to observe me testifying that day.  That indicates that, at some point, I was doing okay (at the very least).  Two days later, I was trash.

I have told a condensed version of “what happened at work” to various people and nobody – not one person – has said, “You really fucked up and should not have done that.”

Recently, I had a “lightbulb moment” while obsessing about what to write.

I can tell you that someone questioned my concern for the safety of my community and that hurt me.  That was a good reminder of why we, as human beings, should not kick other human beings when they are down.  If I did not care about the safety of my community, I would never have taken that job seriously.  I would never have burned out.  Another term for “burn out” is “compassion fatigue.”  I’ll repeat that for the people in the back: compassion fatigue.  That someone would question my concern for the safety of the community was deeply insulting.  I have worked not to ruminate on that question.  I haven’t forgotten that it happened, and I doubt that I will.  It helped me remember some important experiences:

During the past 3.5 years, I’ve had had three different people identify, to me, as survivors of childhood sexual abuse and thank me for the work I did.

After a particularly difficult hearing, during which I cried (sitting in the back row of the gallery after I had testified), a victim shook my hand and thanked me for being there.  Her dad thanked me for the work I did that led to the hearing and said he appreciated it (even though we did not get the result they wanted).

After a hearing in October, a victim’s mother mouthed the words, “Thank you,” to me as we were all leaving the courtroom.

In 2017, a CSO from a different county ended up mixed up in some stuff with a person on my case load at that time.  The mother of his granddaughter was also involved – the granddaughter was in an unsafe situation.  That officer thanked me for the work I did with that case.  That was especially meaningful because he is an officer who supervises sex offenders.  He knows.

I’m no stranger to the phrase, “I don’t know how you do that, but I’m glad you do.”

****

Recently, during a yoga class, I was most dissatisfied to find that inside my head, I was inside the district courthouse, just about to relive the chastising that changed my life.  I pulled my mind away from that, but I felt angry about it.  So much of the self-care I’m doing now, including yoga class, is meant to put distance between myself and that day, if not that entire week.  As a society, we often joke about Wednesday being “hump day,” and the rest of the week is downhill from that day.  If that was not 100% accurate for me in that week, then it never is.

The good life.

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We’re coming up on my 8-year anniversary of being a resident of Texas.  Every year that passes, I feel surprised that I’m still here.  After making the choice to move, I created some vague back-up plans: I could move back to Ohio, I could move in with family in the San Antonio area if San Angelo didn’t work out.  I didn’t have a timeline or a solid plan beyond: move to San Angelo, start job, see how it goes.  So, I moved to San Angelo, TX, by myself.   

In early August 2010, I started my job at the San Angelo State Supported Living Center.  This feels like a good time for a flashback:

 I finished my MSCJ in 2009.  As soon as I had my diploma, I started looking for jobs outside of Ohio.  I focused on Virginia/DC area and had some thoughts about Texas.  But Virginia – that was IT.  I wanted desperately to work for the National Center for Missing and Exploited Children.  I still do.  They have a branch in Austin.  I wasn’t good enough for NCMEC in 2009 and have never felt like I am.  I check their available positions every once in a while.  That’s right, NCMEC!  I’m still coming for you!

 I hope you enjoyed that nostalgic tangent….

 I eventually gave up on Virginia/DC.  I went out there one time for a pre-screening exam related to a position for which I applied.  They called me to return to interview.  I cancelled that.  I started looking for work in Texas.  I visited family in San Antonio and looked around for places that seemed to fit me, job-wise.  It was a wash.  Nothing came from that.  Back in Ohio, I expanded my search somehow.  I have no idea how.  I applied for a position for the SSLC in San Angelo.  Why not?  I have no memory of applying, why it was enticing – nothing.  I got a call from a man who worked there.  He told me some of the basics about the facility, asked about my interest in working there (they had a sex offender population!) and arranged a telephone interview with the person in charge of hiring staff for a certain department. 

 I participated in that interview while sitting in my little red Dodge Neon in the Holzer Medical Center parking lot in the dead, humid heat of July in Ohio.  I tried to hide the fact that I was sitting in my car.  I remember not being able to answer some questions.  I remember referring to Tristi and Kristi because I didn’t realize Dr. Dunham had introduced her as Tristi.  I remember trying to be casual and joke around a little bit.  Worst case scenario: I wouldn’t get hired, but I would still have my job in Ohio.  I knew nothing about San Angelo and had zero attachment to the idea of working here.  I knew it was Texas, and I wanted to find work in Texas because of the weather (no joke).  It was an opportunity to work with sex offenders which, at that time, was just a hope.  I hadn’t already worked with that population and didn’t know what I would be getting myself into.  I just wanted to try it.  I was sure I blew that interview.  The heat in my car was sweltering.  I couldn’t answer some of their questions.  I was nobody. 

 I have no idea how many days passed before I heard from Dr. Dunham to offer me the job.  I don’t remember that conversation, but I think I probably said, “Really?”  because that’s who I am, even now. 

 I called my dad and asked him to stop by my apartment on his way home.  He did.  We sat on a bench on the sidewalk and I told him I was offered the job in Texas, and I was pretty sure I was going to take it.  He was 100% supportive.  I think I had decided, before he left, that I would take the job.  In a seemingly brief period of time, I decided to move, alone, from my all-too-familiar homeland to an unknown city full of strangers in Texas, about 1,500 miles away.  I decided it was time for an adventure.  I mean, I wanted to find a job in Texas, right? 

 Not too long after that, I made a trip to San Angelo to see the new workplace, meet my future co-workers and search for an apartment. 

 So, I moved to San Angelo.  I think we started driving from Ohio on 07/23/10.  We spent one night somewhere in Arkansas where there was a shit ton of enormous mosquitos and a restaurant that had killer onion rings.  The town name was two words and the second word was “Forest.”  That’s all I got.

 The next day, we made it to San Angelo, to my first apartment in Texas, located on Sunset Dr.  Dad and Charlene helped me unpack, spent one night and drove back to Ohio.  Then it was just me with very little furniture in an unfamiliar city.  I didn’t have any living room furniture other than a side table and the television on top of it.  That apartment was great.  There were two big windows in the living room, a pantry, 2 bedrooms, a walk-in closet in the master bedroom.  I loved it.  After work, almost every day, I would get something to eat, go jog at Kirby Park, go home and watch Jon Stewart and Stephen Colbert.  I lived there for about 3 months while I waited for something to open at Wellington.  

 Wellington seemed great.  The complex looked nicer and I could have laundry machines inside the apartment.  Things went okay there, but the rent went up every year and it was ridiculous.  I got engaged while living in that apartment.  I got married while I lived in that apartment, and I also separated from that partner while living in that apartment.  After close to 4 years of me living there, it was time for a change.  Over the next few months I made some serious changes.  I moved, and I got divorced.  I had that 3rd apartment to myself. 

 I really enjoyed my time at the 3rd apartment.  I was there for 2-3 years.  I even had some friends over.  Once.  I grew a lot while I lived there.  I started taking better care of myself.  I started to really be myself while I lived there.  I even had some adventures, outside of the divorce, although that one was a highlight.  I took a selfie the day I went to the hearing with Judge Gossett to get everything finalized.  He said, “You’re ready to be done with this, aren’t you?”  YES, SIR.  Fun fact:  I started my job with probation while still living in the 3rd apartment.  Judge Gossett swore me in.  That’s some full circle business, folks.  As a side note, while I grew to loathe the first job I had in San Angelo, it was an excellent stepping stone and if I had not had that job, I would not have my current job.  

 After that, I had a very brief stint in a charming, one-bedroom apartment behind an office on Concho Ave.  I loved it.  I could get on the roof and though it wasn’t high, it was a great view.  Since it wasn’t an apartment complex, it was always so quiet and relaxing.  That apartment was a sweet blessing.  Also, built-in book shelves.  That apartment was a blessing at the best time.  I miss it sometimes. 

 If you’re playing along at home, you may already know I live in Todd’s house.  I have been here over 2 years…. I think?  My math skills aren’t great (if you’re checking my math in this, please stop.  You’re missing the point of this entry).  I like to tease Todd about my lack of my own space here (I do have space, but I also lack space).  This is Todd’s house.  He lived here for years before we ever met.  It’s a truly great house.  For a while, we talked about moving and even looked at a few houses with the intention of moving.  However, at the end of the day, this is a great house.  If we moved, I’d be pissed off about someone else living here.  We’re going to add on a little bit.  It’s going to work great.  I want to hire someone to paint a portrait of a serial killer for my room, because that’s much kinder than posting a GTFO sign.  An added bonus about Todd’s house:  I’m not sure if there’s a library inside this house or if we live inside a library. 

 I have been in Texas for 8 years.  I’ve gotten engaged, married, divorced and engaged again.  I’ve had 2 jobs.  I’ve started working on another master’s degree.  I’ve made friends, lost friends.  I’ve run 2 half-marathons and one 5k.  I did Crossfit for a couple years and quit doing it.  For the past 2 years, I’ve been a member of a gym that is an absolute fucking dream – enough of a dream that I willingly go to class at 5:30am.  That gym is working for me in so many ways.  I’ve seen all kinds of different places.  I went to SXSW.  I’ve been to Marfa Myths twice.  I’ve gotten two new piercings.  I hiked at Big Bend State Park and Big Bend National Park.  I’ve visited Galveston.  I’ve seen scorpions, armadillos, tarantulas and Javelina, and I never get tired of chasing lizards I will never catch (I just want to be friends!). 

 Regardless of how cheesy this sounds, it is absolutely true:  I found my voice in Texas.  I don’t think I can articulate just how much I’ve grown since moving here.  I have no problem telling anyone that when I was still living in Ohio, I felt terrified that someday I would commit suicide.  My family is there, and I have friends there, but in some way there was nothing there for me.  I don’t believe I would have ever flourished there the way I have here.  Could I have found my voice just anywhere?  Possibly.  I can tell you that it happened here, but maybe it would have happened in Virginia or Pennsylvania or Indiana or even Columbus, Ohio.  Maybe.  But none of that matters now. 

 I understand that San Angelo is not a huge, glamorous city.  I understand I do not live in Austin or Dallas.  I know there are other places that are, in some ways, better.  When anyone talks about how terrible San Angelo is, how small it is, how there’s nothing here, I think about my homeland: an entire county with a population of 23,257 in 2015.  While San Angelo isn’t San Antonio, it is something to someone like me. 

 Before anyone thinks I’m getting too down on my homeland where I still have family and friends, people can flourish there.  The people I know there have flourished and continue to do so.  My point is, that I wasn’t flourishing there and don’t believe I ever would have.  I never regret moving.  I do feel homesick sometimes, especially when I know I’m missing something important like my nieces going to prom and my nephew playing little league baseball.  I am missing all of it.  That’s the price I pay for not being able to make it work in my homeland.  I experience an element of envy for people who could make it work, because they get to keep their front row seat with their families.  I get pictures on my phone, text messages, pictures and messages via social media.  I’m not complaining.  Imagine how disconnected I’d feel without all this technology.  But it’s not the same as being in the front row.  My Cool Aunt status has suffered.    

The temperature reached 111* in San Angelo today.  Getting into my car around 1pm felt awful.  This heat happens every summer, and every summer I wonder, “Was it this bad last summer?”  We’re always in danger of running out of water.  We have an atrocious meth problem (I think the heroin is coming slowly but surely) and nearly 400 registered sex offenders in this county alone.  The traffic is ridiculous around 8am, 12pm, 1pm and 5pm, M-F, but nothing like Austin – just ridiculous for a city this size.  When it rains, the water just stands in the road creating hazards because this city on the fringe of the desert just cannot deal.  I have lost my skills for driving in rain.  The people who have grown up here never had those skills.  San Angelo has it downsides, just like anywhere, but looking at the past 8 years of my life, being able to live here has done so much more for me than I ever hoped or imagined. 

 Life is good.

2018

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Hopeful Highlights for 2018

I’m starting school (again) in mid-January. I’m starting a Master’s program at ASU. I’m currently registered for 2 classes – one is online and the other is an evening class. I feel anxious. When I was last in school, the kids were still taking notes with pen and paper. Do they still do it this way? I don’t think I want to type my notes. I used to handwrite during lecture and type later. It helped me study. As it is, I’m planning to take my laptop with me and decide when I get there – when I get to the class. I have not attended an academic class in quite a while, folks. I got past my concern about my age before I applied. That was a significant hurdle for me. It’s going to be an adventure, folks.

I desperately want to write more this year. I hope the blog will be updated more regularly, and I hope I can provide more thoughtful, meaningful content. I am always hopeful for a larger audience and more feedback, both positive and constructive criticism. I have considered limiting my writing to certain topics. I have considered not writing as much personal content. However, at this time, that is what I know best. I feel that personal content is what I am most able to make creative and meaningful and maybe even entertaining. Considering I am going back to school, I may provide content about the adventure of returning to school as a 30-something who has been working FT for several years; the adventure of creating a home office; content about what I’m studying/researching. I just hope to write more and share more.

I hope to read more. I kept a list of all the books I finished during 2017, and while I do not know how many are on the list because I am currently in North Carolina and the list is in Texas (and it’s not complete because I finished a book after arriving in NC), I know I did not read enough. I keep telling Todd and whoever is within earshot that I did read It (Stephen King) this year and clocking in at 1,200 (approximate) pages, it should count as more than one book. In the end, I will only count it as one book – one huge accomplishment of a book. I will keep my list honest. In 2018, it will be a longer list.

I’m holding out for international travel in 2018. We have some plans made. Todd has made plans. I have just consistently reminded him that I will go almost anywhere, which has been not at all helpful to the planning. We have reservations for lodging, tickets to a symphony concert and tickets for a Lars von Trier play that will likely not be performed in English. The current plan is to visit Sweden and Denmark in the same trip.
I got a passport in 2015 with the possibility of visiting Canada during our PNW trip that December. We didn’t visit Canada. My passport is coming up on 3 years of age without having been used. I hope 2018 is the year I leave the country.

Todd and I are engaged. I don’t know who of the readership knows and who doesn’t. We’re not ones to make a big scene. This is something that occurred in 2017, but we’ll likely get married during 2018. Again, we’re not ones to make a big scene.

I would like to get to Ohio during 2018. I have not been there since Oct. 2016. There is a lot going on up there, and I avoided it during 2017. A lot of that avoidance was about self-care, and it still is. Additionally, with everything else I have going on that generally equates to building a life, a trip to Ohio isn’t affordable or even realistic. I feel a little guilty about admitting that, but it’s true. I live in Texas. It’s not cheap or easy to get to Ohio. Similarly, it’s not cheap or easy for my loved ones to travel to Texas from Ohio. Life is hard. It’s good (like, so good), but it’s not easy. Today, it’s my understanding that my loved ones are well and in good places (both figuratively and literally). This knowledge goes a long way.

I am planning to buy a planner for 2018. Last night, while waiting for midnight, I browsed online and wrote a brief blog entry about my experience with planners (an entry not likely to be shared). You can imagine that this experience has not been good because I am not an organized person. I don’t recall keeping a planner since I was in college – not my last stint at grad. school, but college. After writing this entry to this point, I feel more interested in having and keeping a planner. It seems like 2018 is going to be a busy year. I’m not making a resolution to get more organized because resolutions are too much pressure for me. I think I will try the planner route again. I will be open-minded and realistic. I will use the experience to exercise kindness toward myself, if nothing else.

So, at the end of this entry I am sitting in a ridiculously beautiful 3-story house in the Beech Mountain region of North Carolina with my partner and many members of his family, which will soon be my family as well. There is snow on the ground and the trees; snow like I have not seen in years. Picture perfect snow. Ever since we arrived here on 12.27.17, I have been overwhelmed by questioning, “How did I get here?” To be fair, I asked myself this exact same question throughout 2017 – in good times and in not-so-good times.

Everyday.

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Written April 2017

I love to write.  I don’t know when it started, but I remember why.  I know that I once wrote some horrid “poetry” on the family computer in my home – a desktop Gateway that arrived in a cow print box – and I remember my dad encouraging my writing.  When I say the “poetry” was “horrid,” what I really mean is that it was something beyond “horrid.” Something worse.  But I was a child.  I remember writing about “rage.”  I don’t remember why.  Even years later when I wrote angry adolescent “poetry,” I still didn’t really understand rage. 

So, I remember my dad encouraging my writing.  While in high school, I had a teacher who encouraged my writing.  Back then, he was Mr. Dudding.  Today, he is Dr. Dudding.  I wrote stories for his freshman English class.  I wrote poetry and stories for his Advanced Reading/Creative Writing class during my junior year.  I think it was during my sophomore year that I won a creative writing contest in The Athens Messenger.  Well, I didn’t win, but I placed.  My award was $20 – the only time I’ve received money for my writing.  It was a scary story Halloween contest.  I remember Mrs. Beegle helping me reduce my word count so I could enter the story in the contest.  One of the few times (or maybe the only time?) I worked to remove words and length from an assignment.  That was an encouragement.  Mrs. Beegle didn’t have to give my story a second thought.  She didn’t have to go out of her way to help me get the piece into the contest. 

Junior year: Advanced Reading / Creative Writing.  We had to do a “semester project.”  For my project, I turned in a stack of poems I had written.  I probably still have them hidden away somewhere.  I am sure they are bad-bad-bad news.  When Mr. Dudding returned my work to me, he made eye contact with me and said, “Thank you.”  It was very convincing.  Convincing enough to make me feel uncomfortable – being noticed makes me feel that way.  This was especially true when I was a teenager.  In the folder of poems I had handed in, Mr. Dudding put a typed letter to me.  I KNOW I still have that.  It’s on yellow paper.  I have memorized parts of it.  I vividly remember reading that letter and making the conscious choice to be open minded about the things he wrote to me.  I consciously chose to believe that he may be right.  He was right.  That letter changed my life and encouraged me to be more open minded, across the board. 

During my freshman year of college, I took Algebra and Composition I the same semester.  I got an A in Algebra and a B in Comp. I.  Even now, I have no idea how this happened.  I love words; I love writing.  I hate numbers.  I hate math.  I am proud to state that I can’t math.  Even when I can, I just don’t want to math.  I took Comp. 2 and a Creative Writing class during college.  Neither is particularly memorable.  While in Comp. 2, I had the “pleasure” of reading an essay written by a male classmate about how women like to be treated badly. 

I credit college with ruining my writing-for-leisure drive.  I was a Psychology major, Anthropology minor.  The bulk of what I wrote during college was academic out the ass with citations, references, APA formatting…. It wasn’t fun, although I tried to pick up interesting topics for my work (pre-natal learning, y’all).  They got boring after all the research and pressure.  While I believe my Honors Thesis was boring as shit, I find myself thinking about it every once in a while because I work with people who are engaged in a therapeutic relationship and I see and understand how their withholding damages that relationship.  They withhold from me, as well.  It doesn’t serve anyone. 

I also went to grad. school.  I think of it as “diet grad. school” or “grad. school lite.”  Maybe sometimes “watered down grad. school.”  It was not as challenging as it should’ve been, but that’s the nature of the program, I think.  Grad. school was zero creative writing. 

Journals.  Oh, yes.  I have journals for days, people.  I think they are worthless and stupid, but when it comes time to dispose of them, my brain tells me not to do that.  My brain says I might someday want to relive the depression of adolescence.  I might someday want to revisit that abusive relationship that, essentially, went on for 6 years.  I might someday want to reminisce about the guy on whom I had a crush who now has an extensive criminal record, multiple children with multiple partners and no steady job.  My brain is ridiculous.  

However, in those journals there are good memories; happy memories.  I know they are there because I had good times as an adolescent and as an emerging adult.  There are also poems in those journals.  The majority are likely crap, that’s true.  But if there’s even one poem worth saving in all of those journals, I have to keep all those journals so I don’t lose that one page. 

I have kept a journal for years, but not always steadily.  There is much less poetry in the more recent journals.  More recent journals are fitness goals achieved, frustrations at work, relationship complications that I have to write out to resolve, travels, quotes, music shows…. Life.  It’s possible my more recent journals are more rambling because, instead of just whining and crying about an issue, I use journals to write out my feelings, write out the problem and brainstorm possible solutions.  I also use journals to hold small photographs, movie tickets, music show tickets, paper bracelets from music shows, stickers that won’t ever be stuck, small notes, etc. 

During our 2016 Marfa Adventure, Mr. Arber mentioned that Rainer Judd, Donald Judd’s daughter, carries a journal with her at all times.  Not long after that trip, I bought a Kelly green Moleskine that fits inside even my smallest purse.  In this journal, I am doing more jotting than I have done in the past – gift ideas for others, gift ideas for me, story ideas, lists of places visited during an adventure, etc.  It’s easy to get to, and I can expand on a topic later, if needed. 

I once kept an “online diary” at DiaryLand, which I don’t think exists anymore.  I know that was stupid.  That was during high school and college.  I don’t know who I thought I was.  I also previously kept a blog, around 2010 when I first moved to Texas.  I had high hopes for that.  I think a few entries were respectable.  It’s hard to say, because that was the end of my “conservative Republican hey day.” I can’t find that blog now, and I didn’t keep it up because I got wrapped up in building life in Texas. 

I have a few story ideas.  I have a project I plan to begin tackling before the end of 2017, which will involve A LOT of writing.  I would like to keep a blog – I mean really keep a blog – to document my project.  I expect the project to take no less than forever to complete and involve more travelling than I can actually afford.  Regardless of the documentation of the Project Adventure, I would just like to write sometimes.