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Five years ago, child, you came to me, delivered not by a doctor, but by a social worker. You arrived at my front door with your entire world in a sad plastic sack: two changes of clothes, a pink hoodie, and a quilt that your last foster mom had given you. Before that, I couldn’t conceive of motherhood, because the doctors had told us it was impossible. Then I saw you, seven years old and fragile, dressed in pink capris with holes in the knee, a fringe of bangs above your beautiful blue eyes and a pink pad of paper in hand, already full of your colorful drawings.
“Can you take her?” your social worker asked me. Five years ago, I said, “Yes,” and I’ve been learning how to love you ever since. It has been five years, child. Five rich, hard, beautiful, and complicated years. Five years of your sweet voice calling me “Mommy,” which you only called me in those first few weeks because you didn’t have another word for me. Five years of gradually becoming your mother—not in an instant as in birth, but over the course of time, feeling my heart warm and reshape and melt around you, transforming you from complete stranger into my daughter. Five years of pink dryer lint spangled with glitter. Five years of you looking for my hand and squeezing it tightly in yours. Five years of breathing silent prayers of thanksgiving at the miracle of your touch. Five years of watching you make fairy gardens out of antique jewelry and bird nests out of scraps to house eggs blown out of their tree by a storm. Five years of “What Shape Is My Food?” played at the dinner table as we examine our meals bite-by-bite. Five years of the sweetest nicknames: Doodlebug and Twinkles and Snuggle Nugget from me to you, and Poopy Loops from you to me. Five years of Bob’s Burgers on the TV and snuggles on the couch, my favorite way to spend a Sunday night with you. Five years of junk food picnics on the living room floor. Five years of pet houses crafted from cardboard and duct tape and yarn and whatever things you found in the garage and probably weren’t supposed to take. Five years of being moved to tears by the beauty of your voice as you sing in the shower, unaware that I am listening outside your door. Five years of being completely amazed by your artistic ability. Five years of your drawings lining my office walls. Five years of making space for you. Five years of learning how to push myself aside for you, of putting your needs before my own. Five years of crying over dead grasshoppers and butterflies and raccoons with you. Five years of your tender little heart breaking at the sight of baby animals without a mother nearby, of swallowing my tears as you ask why the mother animal isn’t taking care of her babies. Five years of tiptoeing around discussions of the past you don’t know that I know you have. Five years of hearing you scream, “Mommy, don’t leave me!” when I walk into the next room and out of your sight because you are so afraid that I will leave you as you have been left before. Five years of Reactive Attachment Disorder. Five years of “I love you’s” given but rarely returned. Five years of you pushing me away and pulling me close, of alternately rejecting and demanding my affection. Five years of trying to love you but feeling like I just don’t know how. Five years of crying in secret over your broken sense of attachment. Five years of locking myself in the bathroom and filling the bathtub so the rush of water drowns out my sobs. Five years of hiding the pain you’ve caused me because I don't want you to hurt. Five years of finding the strength to keep trying to show you love and push past the feelings of rejection. Five years of catching you up in sweeping hugs as you run past me, of holding you as long as I physically can because I know that both you and I need it. Five years of not having answers to the hard questions you have about your other family. Five years of only being able to offer you my arms, which always feel like not enough but are all I have to give. Five years of holding you while you sob and ask, “Why did they leave me?” Five years of only being able to say, “I don’t know.” Five years of watching your understanding of your past grow, piece by awful piece. Five years of watching your confusion, of watching your love for your other family mingle with your pain at what they have done to you. Five years of watching my own words, of being careful not to tarnish your precious memories of them with my judgment and disapproval. I know they are all you have left anymore. Five years of biting my tongue to hold in my rage about the circumstances that brought you to me in the first place. Five years of tempering that judgment, disapproval, and rage with joy and gratitude, because those ugly circumstances are what brought us together. Five years, child. Five years that feel at once instant and eternal: I always feel as though I’ve known you forever and yet have only just met you. Five years ago, I said, “Yes.” I became your mother, and you saved me from the crush of loneliness, the landslide of infertility that had buried me. Five years ago, you gave me hope for the future, for both mine and yours. Five years ago, I met you, child, and nothing was ever the same.
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Four years ago, I met you, child: you came to me dressed in pink capris with holes in the knee, with a fringe of bangs above your blue eyes and a pink pad of paper in hand, already filled with your colorful drawings. Four years. Four years of you in my life, of your sweet voice calling me “Mommy,” which you only called me in those first few weeks because you didn’t have another word for me. Four years of earning that title and privilege. Four years of pink dryer lint spangled with glitter. Four years of you looking for my hand and squeezing it tightly in yours. Four years of breathing silent prayers of thanksgiving at the miracle of your touch. Four years of watching you make fairy gardens out of antique jewelry and bird nests out of scraps to house eggs blown out of their tree by a storm. Four years of “What Shape Is My Food?” played at the dinner table as we examine our meals bite-by-bite. Four years of the sweetest nicknames: Doodlebug and Twinkles and Snuggle Nugget from me to you, and Poopy Loops from you to me. Four years of Bob’s Burgers on the TV and snuggles on the couch, my favorite way to spend a Sunday night with you. Four years of junk food picnics on the living room floor. Four years of pet houses crafted from cardboard and duct tape and yarn and whatever things you found in the garage and probably weren’t supposed to take. Four years of being moved to tears by the beauty of your voice as you sing in the shower, unaware that I am listening outside your door. Four years of being completely amazed by your artistic ability. Four years of your drawings lining my office walls. Four years of making space for you. Four years of learning how to push myself aside for you, of putting your needs before my own. Four years of crying over dead grasshoppers and butterflies and raccoons with you. Four years of your tender little heart breaking at the sight of baby animals without a mother nearby, of swallowing my tears as you ask why the mother animal isn’t taking care of her babies. Four years of tiptoeing around discussions of the past you don’t know that I know you have. Four years of hearing you scream, “Mommy, don’t leave me!” when I walk into the next room and out of your sight because you are so afraid that I will leave you as you have been left before. Four years of Reactive Attachment Disorder. Four years of “I love you’s” given but rarely returned. Four years of you pushing me away, of alternately rejecting and demanding my affection. Four years of trying to love you but feeling like I just don’t know how. Four years of crying in secret over your broken sense of attachment. Four years of locking myself in the bathroom and filling the bathtub so the rush of water drowns out my sobs. Four years of hiding the pain you’ve caused me because I don't want you to hurt. Four years of finding the strength to keep trying to show you love and push past the hurt of rejection. Four years of catching you up in sweeping hugs as you run past me and holding you as long as I physically can, because I know that both you and I need it. Four years of not having answers to the hard questions you have about your other family. Four years of only being able to offer you my arms, which always feel like not enough but are all I have to give. Four years of holding you while you sob and ask, “Why?” Four years of only being able to say, “I don’t know.” Four years of watching your understanding of your past grow, piece by awful piece. Four years of watching your confusion, of watching your love for your other family mingle with your pain at what they did to you. Four years of watching my own words, of being careful not to tarnish your memories with my judgment and disapproval. Four years of biting my tongue to hold in my rage about the circumstances that brought you to me in the first place. Four years of tempering that judgment, disapproval, and rage with joy and gratitude, because those ugly circumstances are what brought us together. Four years, child. Four years that feel at once instant and eternal: I always feel as though I’ve known you forever and yet have only just met you. Four years of learning to love you with a love more complicated and rich and hard and beautiful than any I’ve ever known before. Four years ago, I became your mother, and you saved me from the crush of loneliness that had buried me. Four years ago, you gave me hope for the future, for both mine and yours. Four years ago, I met you, child, and nothing was ever the same.  My old teaching job is posted.
Again. That same job that shaped me and helped me to recognize my life's calling is available, and those wonderful people I used to call coworkers and still consider family reached out to me to let me know that the position was open. Again. Three times this month, in fact. This is not an isolated occurrence. They have not kept an English teacher since I left the post in 2014, and they have told me over and over that the job was mine if I ever wanted to return to it. It is flattering to be wanted. It is tempting to return. But as much as I would love to go back, I just can’t, and I hate the reason: I am dependent on government disability. I broke down and applied for disability coverage after working a half-time load proved to be too much for me. My initial application was rejected, but my doctor recommended that I apply again. I didn’t want to, but I finally came to a place of acceptance and admitted that I needed it. I took my case before a judge, represented myself, and won. I was awash with emotion: relief and hope tempered by the taint of shame. Because I had waited so long to reapply for disability (two years after losing my driver’s license), I was only working a half-time schedule when I won my case, so my disability is capped at that level. I can work some, so I sub and direct the plays, but if I were to ever go past that cap--even for one month--I would be deemed "fit to work," and I would be immediately kicked out of the disability program. That means I would lose my health insurance. Um, I need that insurance. My medication--the stuff that I need to literally NOT DIE--is over $1,500 a MONTH. That is more expensive than my MORTGAGE. Those pills are so freaking expensive and precious that I have literally dry swallowed one covered in dust bunnies and hair and cobwebs after dropping it on a nasty Old Navy dressing room floor, just because I wanted to make sure that it would do its job and shut my brain up long enough to focus on the 40-mile drive back home without malfunctioning. In the seven years since my diagnosis, I have been on eight different medications, and this is the only one that has worked long-term. Unfortunately, it is also the most expensive. I need this medication, and I am relieved that my disability coverage makes it affordable. But If I took on a job--even a long-term sub job (I am asked to do those all the time, too), I’d be gambling away my coverage on the hope that I’ll maaaaaaybe be okay, all the while knowing that there is an MRI-confirmed knot of scar tissue in my brain that is still active, a dormant volcano of repetitive hand motions, mumbled gibberish, altered consciousness, and convulsions. One seizure, and it’s all over. I would lose my driver’s license again, and I would be back at square one. I would have to reapply for disability, a process that took me two attempts over the course of five years. I was rejected the first time, even though epilepsy is a condition that automatically guarantees coverage. (I found out that nearly everyone is denied the first time, regardless of their condition.) I have had to run the gauntlet of government bullshit to get this coverage, and I am not about to gamble it away on a chance that I might be okay if I return to work. That volcano of seizure activity has been there since I was two years old, sometimes active, sometimes dormant. It is not going away. It is part of who I am. I feel tremendous shame about this. I feel shame that I am a college-educated, battle-hardened teacher who can’t accept a job because her brain can’t keep its shit together. I feel shame every time I say no to these opportunities to do what I love, what I’m good at, what brought me such fulfillment and joy for seven great years. I feel shame that I am only turning down these opportunities because I am afraid of tipping the scales, of piling too much straw onto that proverbial camel’s back and breaking it. I feel shame when the kids I sub for now flippantly ask me: “Why don’t you have a real job?” “Why aren’t you an actual teacher?” “Why are you just a sub?” I feel shame that I have become “just a sub.” I used to be more, I swear. I feel shame when my friends joke that it “must be nice” to not have to work. Not gonna lie--in the beginning, it was. But that luster has long since worn off. I’m nearly 37--my peers are advancing in their chosen careers, becoming managers and supervisors, and I have the schedule of a teenager. Now, instead of feeling like a luxurious, never-ending vacation, being unemployed is a strange combination of boredom and embarrassment and loneliness. I wish I could go back to work. I want to. I miss it. I miss the kids. I miss their chaotic, teenage energy. I miss pep fests and fundraisers and chaperoning dances. I miss helping kids slog through Nathaniel Hawthorne and make sense of e. e. cummings. I miss hearing them absolutely murder Julius Caesar and Macbeth and Romeo and Juliet by reading them aloud, and then helping them to make sense of them. I miss lesson planning and reading essays and grading papers, even the awful ones. But I really miss the kids. I miss being a teacher, not just a sub. I want to go back. I would love to. But I just...can’t. |
Old Stuff.
June 2021
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