Back

My brain is so exhausted. In the past week I've gone from substitute teaching to going back to school to seriously looking at going back to school in the spring to sitting on the back of my truck talking to a very wise man about how my whole life has been a lie. But I've finally put into words what I'm going to do.

When I graduate I won't be going back to school. I thought about maybe going back and finishing my English degree - I would only need to take twelve credits and could knock it out in a semester. But when I emailed one of my profs about a class question and explained my game plan, he asked if we could talk it through a little bit. He explained that it would mean more money spent on getting a degree that, in the eyes of potential employers, I already have. He said it would be a better use of my time and money to go ahead and work - pick up another job, work my ass off (let it be known that I am not afraid of hard work and lots of it), live at home, and start to make myself more financially stable while figuring out what I really want to do.

The more I thought about it, the more I realized that going back to school was a safe option. I've been a student for a long time. I'm used to it. But it's not moving me forward at all. In fact it would be putting me into even more debt for something that I basically already have. And in my panic over the impending end of the semester, I was desperate for some option. In the week since it was presented to me, I hadn't had a chance to sit in silence and think it through. I was flying around, frazzled and exhausted and panicked and scared, and I wasn't seeing clearly, let alone thinking clearly.

Which is never a good way to make decisions.

About an hour into our conversation, he said I need to figure that out first, because he hadn't heard it up to that point. I said, "I want to find a Muggle job (something that brings in cash even though it might have nothing to do with my actual degree) that I can leave at work so I can write on the side."

And he said, "That's it. That's what I should do."

And so that's what I'll do.

I have twenty-five days left of student teaching, and after that I'll certainly have my Kroger job to look forward to. I'm going to focus on looking at library jobs - I don't need my masters to just have a staff job, only if I were planning on being a full-out librarian. I picked up an application today and hopefully should know something in the next few weeks. I figured out that I really don't want to be a substitute teacher: I've been told that it's boring and not that great of pay, and it just really isn't something that I want to do.

So now we have a game plan. A real game plan. A more sure game plan. And, this time, the game plan that I want.

I'm scared. I'm unsure of what job I'll do or where I'll eventually go. But for right now, this is OK. My prof said that this point in my life - my early twenties - is not only allowed to be an experimental one, but it's expected. And the only thing I'll be held accountable on at this point is my effort in finding another job. And that is so much more comforting.

And it's OK to be scared. Because this time is very scary. And there's no need to minimize that.

For the first time in months, I feel like I'll be OK. And that is such an amazing sense of relief.

Rise

Today was the first day that I seriously thought about quitting. I was so close to walking out the front door of that school and saying, "No thank you, I'm done," to ending this charade and going out to find what I really want to do. I was looking at jobs online yesterday and getting so discouraged when I didn't find anything where I might fit. (Ma squashed my interest in the high-speed career of urn salesman, she said I wouldn't be very good at sales.) And at this point - as I told the guy who called from Concordia University to talk about a masters in education - I'm not interested in continuing with this venture after graduation - the next 43 days are merely a formality, a hoop to jump through, a means to an end that is unnecessarily overwhelming and confusing and not rewarding on most days. Most of the time I fly around trying to remember everything that I need to do while also trying not to stress out and to remember that this is just a thing, this is not a life. In 43 days this will be over, and I'll be moving on. To what, I have not the slightest clue. But to something other than teaching.

I took a  minute to look over the notes my 7th grades from my last school wrote to me on the last day I was there last year. And it almost made me cry to see those little smiley faces and heart doodles around the encouragement to "Mrs. Howls" to "keep the faith," "don't give up."

"We'll miss you."

"We loved having you."

"You'll be a great teacher."

These little people who had faith in me when now my faith in myself is dwindling.

I'm so overwhelmed, my heart is so full. My brain never shuts off and I don't see any break from it.

O God, my God, calm my writhing spirit. O God, my God, help me to lift my eyes to Your precious peace, Your ever-steady calm.

Decoder

I was legitimately offended last night when the punk at Wendy's asked if I wanted my Frosty to be chocolate or vanilla. I was born in an era in which all Frostys with chocolate. Vanilla Frostys are almost as white Oreos. If you want vanilla ice cream, go to Dairy Queen.

Anyway.

I am sincerely terrible at fiction.

My first story was about a little mushroom who got kidnapped by...some other evil food - they may have been eggs. We were going through our third grade reading books and I saw the title "Mort and the Sour Scheme," and I used it as a prompt to start my own story. One long paragraph typed in WordPad. In italicized cyan ink. 10-font.

I got close to a decent plot (if not the decent writing of a plot) in high school, inspired by "Beauty and the Beast" to take down the tale of an orphan boy whisked away to England to be a servant to an eccentric old man. Very Downton Abbey "focus on the servants" feel. I even had characters drawn out - one of them looked like Ratcliffe from "Pocahontas." But a friend lost my only printed manuscript and all of my typed work was lost in a computer crash. All I had left was about a third that I had handwritten - not to mention a very Jo March, my-whole-life's-work-and-purpose-down-the-drain feeling. And while I tried to get it back and have even thought about picking it up again with my now-more-mature writing style, the magic of the original is gone.

My later attempts have been depressing little scenes about rebellion, death, heartache, fear, isolation by and from others. I've started several times to pen the idea in my head of a rehab house where the inhabitants/patients/inmates/what-have-you are trapped there by a greedy counselor who uses his state funds to fuel his drinking habits. But my problem is, I can't write it down in a story.

I hear the dialogue, I see the details, I have the movements all planned out. But to write them down in a "John paused in his journey across the green linoleum" format is appalling. The lines become cheesy, the details unnecessary; and the whole thing takes on the feel of a Nicholas Sparks book that says "pick me up in your beach hotel gift shop when you finish everything else you brought to read."

I.e. "shiterature."

Hold on tight, we're shifting now.

I think I've narrowed down my near-but-not-total-future choice to two options: find a totally-unrelated-to-writing job (a "Muggle job," if you will), or proofreading. I really enjoy editing for some reason. Which is awesome, considering I have about two inches of essays to grade this weekend. If I could find a job where I can read, maybe stay at home for a lot of it, and get ideas for my own writing - that would seriously be awesome.

Unrealistic? Maybe. But I'm a dreamer, don't you know.

So I have some avenues. I can always look at Career Services at the 'Ville for options. My cooperating teacher said she has a contact who quit teaching to work in editing, maybe she could hook me up. And there's always freelance - certainly not as a full-time job but definitely as a means of some work if I were to just stick with a Muggle job. Which I'd be cool with.

Gah. I can't even decide what I want for lunch, how am I supposed to make these grownup decisions about my life?