Hello dear readers,
I can’t believe I promised I’d return to updating this website over a year ago...only to have failed in doing so. I will say, COVID knocked the momentum out of me. I spent the rest of the summer getting the most technical I ever had in my teaching career...as I knew I was going to be faced with the challenge of virtual teaching come September of 2020. I focused on teaching virtual summer school and learning about every single new online platform that could be used to (hopefully) keep my students engaged. I think I’ve had enough of Zoom for my lifetime, but based on what I’ve been hearing for the 2021-2022 school year...Zoom is not going away from the classroom just quite yet. Ay.
All my school days (before, during, and after our contract hours of 8 AM to 3 PM) and my weekends were either spent in virtual Collaborative Learning Teams (CLT) with my fellow history teachers (oy, did our ‘off the record’ meetings we had at each other’s houses get snarky…and filled with so many expletives), trying to do lesson plans and create assessments, converting PowerPoints into read aloud videos for our hard-of-hearing/Special Education/English Language Learner students, figuring out fillable fields in Microsoft Word for the students to have access to guided notes (not that they did the guided notes, but hey, the resources were there!), becoming a super expert with our “love it, but hate it at the same time” learning management system (LMS) - Canvas (oh, how I wanted to try Google Classroom), and going so far as to purchase a Nearpod Gold subscription to have more storage space for my history lessons to be converted into fun and interactive activities (I was reimbursed when my county purchased a District subscription for all teachers…$120 later…)
Wow. Okay, so Reader’s Digest version - I had the hardest school year to face, and therefore, did not have the energy to update this website...my labor of love...but let’s be honest, the stories of my forays into virtual teaching, and the many, many failures and successes I had, would have been excellent fodder for history-nerd.com (side note: you can follow bite sized offerings of my teaching escapades at my teacher Twitter account).
Anyways. Hi! I’m alive, I’ve taken a deep breath, I’m getting actual sleep, I took a vacation over a year later (what up, Kentucky?), I’m still in therapy (much needed during the Year of COVID), and I bought a townhome! I’m adulting, as you call it, and I think I’m handling it as gracefully as God will allow.
I took another adulting risk, and started to date (as much as the Year of COVID would let me). When things started to open up, I went out on some dates, here and there, usually for coffee or a craft beer. None of the dates manifested into anything meaningful...until just this past May as I was finishing off this crazy school year.
Honestly, I thought the guy I was scheduled to go out with would be like my past dates - he wouldn’t follow up, he’d forget my number, I’d shake it off (no loss there) and choose to either go out with someone else...or not. I remember us making plans and I was so nonchalant about the date, that all I focused on was what kind of food the restaurant had to offer. My work wife, Lisa, and I perused the menu together one day after school. We were impressed that for dessert, the restaurant had homemade Belgian waffles.
So Lisa was like:
“Well, if the date’s a dud, make sure you order a Belgian waffle (to go), and hey! You get a waffle out of it and we at least will have a new place to hang out and grab dessert together after a long school day!”
With the waffle mentality in mind, I bravely went out to dinner with the guy and again, kept reminding myself - it’s not a big deal if it doesn’t work out.
I remember seeing him, sitting in front of the restaurant, waiting for me. I remember thinking oh shit. He’s even more gorgeous in person than he was on his dating profile. His bluish green eyes beamed at me and he gave me the slightest, but sweetest smile as we introduced ourselves.
And so, I thought, once more unto the breach, as I followed him into the restaurant.
Like any first date, there’s always the awkward eye contact and questioning of what to ask and say. My other work bestie, Cymone, had advised that I be frank and ask just what it was he was looking for, but of course, I was too nervous to even bring it up. In due time, I thought. It’s only the first date. We ordered beers and meals - he, a salad of sorts, and me, the idiot, asking for a pound and a half of mussels (after that date, he still made fun of my, um, eclectic order because he had to help me finish the lot).
Conversation progressed when he asked me about the tattoo on my forearm. I could feel the smile grow on my face at the question - telling people about my tattoo is one of my favorite things to talk about. Two years ago, after my breakup and I was at my lowest mentally, I went to New York to visit my best friend Jessica, when she was working at Syracuse University. During my trip, we decided to get tattoos, and although I thought I’d never get one in my life time - I just knew I needed something to remind myself of my dear departed maternal grandma, Micaela. She always told me que le vaya bien (translates to: “I wish you well” or “all will be well”) whenever we would part after a visit, and I remember always feeling comforted by her smile and lovely, encouraging words. I obtained a handwriting sample and my tattoo artist was able to recreate the phrase on my forearm in her beautiful script.
My parents were livid after I got the tattoo, and said I’d come to regret “defiling” my body...but to this day, I grin every time I see it, because I’m reminded of my grandma. She was practically an earthly angel, and I am always reassured, that even when the darkness sets in and my anxiety and depression are heightening, things will be better knowing that her spirit and words are inked on my body. Telling this guy such a meaningful and personal story was so easy to do, and then I asked him about his tattoos. He told me about getting his half sleeve, in particular, when he was stationed with the Navy in Japan, but I couldn’t help and admire his commitment to the great state of Texas - he’d had it tattooed on his other arm (when we’d matched, we’d discovered our Texas ties and things went from there).
His time in Japan helped us start another conversation - we began to talk about (of all things) World War II and the Pacific Theater. I remember mentioning that I wanted to visit the islands of all the Pacific battles and that I enjoyed reading E.B. Sledge’s memoir of his time in Peleliu and Okinawa - With the Old Breed (this work would help form the script for the HBO mini series The Pacific)...and that’s when he looked at me, in astonishment. He was surprised that I had read Sledge’s memoir.
I think that’s when I knew I wanted a second date with him.
(I told Lisa the next day that I didn’t need or want to take home a waffle when she asked me how the date went).
We finished the damned mussels and he asked if I wanted to walk around the waterfront area the restaurant was located by. I agreed and we, again, fell into an easy conversation. It was rather chilly that night, so we didn’t get to walk around as much as I’d hoped. Then, all of a sudden, he told me I had something stuck on my face and, to my surprise, took his hand and gently brushed the offending item off of my cheek. I pretended not to feel the blush creep across my skin (or the butterflies that fluttered dangerously in my stomach).
We said our goodbyes and I prayed to God that he would follow up with me. I wanted him to follow up with me. Knowing my luck, however, I thought he wouldn’t. Unlike the previous dates I’d had with no follow up text, for the first time, I knew I would be disappointed if he didn’t ask to see me again.
Luckily, he did follow up the next day.
We went from there - dates every week. He was sweet, kind, intelligent, and funny. Steady head on his shoulders. Admitted to some baggage early on in the dating stages - of which I respected the hell out of him for being honest with me. He, in turn, respected me when I wasn’t quite ready to make the dating um, more intimate, if you will.
I didn’t want to read into things. I didn’t want to destroy the rapport we’d been building. I was hesitant to ask him very personal questions (like about his previous marriage) because I didn’t want him to think I was being too invasive. So, I focused on his actions and words - that he seemed to want to be taking things seriously between us. I didn’t ask him if he was dating other women, but I reminded myself that there was a possibility. I was perfectly fine with that, although I wish he had been more honest about how many women he was seeing alongside myself. I simply wanted to enjoy dating him, but with each date that passed, I found myself hoping that he would want to become my boyfriend.
We had a couple of blips along the road - especially one that happened just this past week. We parted on a Friday with the understanding that he was having a boy’s weekend with one of his good friends. I decided to peace off to Richmond and have a solo date; I went to my favorite craft breweries and carefully enjoyed drinking my beloved fruited sours at The Answer and The Veil. I texted him once, showing a picture of my beers, but ultimately, stayed aloof and respected his man time. I came home, blissfully exhausted, and then...the following morning, after I’d woken up and taken a shower before going to Sunday Mass, I saw that he’d texted me.
Only it wasn’t a sweet, good morning, how are you message (not that he ever sent any of those over the course of our “relationship”).
It was a picture attachment, of him, in full lip lock with a girl who wasn’t me - a girl who, of course, looked lovelier than I could ever dream to be. All my anxieties of my appearance (and how my ex always made fun of me about how I looked), that I had worked so hard to rid my mind of with my therapist, returned and slapped me in the face with that horrible picture. The girl had long hair, unlike me, who has still stubbornly kept it short (my ex always despised my shorter locks). Smooth complexion, excellent makeup application, and really, had an aura about her that she just looked like she knew she was sexy…and the look on his face in the picture seemed to think she was too.
I only received the picture. No other context. No words saying: hey, I’m out, I’ve found someone better than you.
I texted him back: “Umm...nice to know you think I’m a joke...goodbye.”
I angrily ranted to my friends, cried my heart out at Mass, and after grabbing a coffee pick-me-up at Starbucks on my way home, finally received a text message back.
He replied: “?”
I sent him the screenshot of the picture, telling him about the “lovely” message I received from him that morning. He didn’t respond; not right away. I went to bed early, exhausted and emotionally drained. I forced myself out of bed the next day. I went on a run to clear my head, ran some morning errands, and still, no response from him.
Finally, he replied: “I know it doesn’t matter now, but I do care about you, I don’t think you’re a joke, and I’m truly sorry. I still had my stuff at my old house where my ex still lives and I went there to get stuff, she somehow got into my phone and sent a photo, then deleted the message,” followed by a “bye.”
I’d written him off, without an explanation, so he caved in and respected my goodbyes.
We ended up talking it out (despite the warnings from my friends who still, to this day, think he was lying to me - they believed there was no boy’s weekend and that he’d hooked up with her…and honestly, I now think he was also lying to me, but whatever) and things seemed to be fine again. I wanted to trust him. I was tired of my distrust in every man I encountered after my ex.
I kept reminding myself: He was not my ex. It wasn’t fair of me to compare him to my ex.
And just when I thought everything between us was going to be okay...two days later (I won’t go into details), I received a medical diagnosis (no illnesses though, just some physical therapy!) that unfortunately, would cause some delays in our relationship becoming more intimate. I wasn’t happy about the diagnosis, as it only continued to remind me about the fertility struggles my body seemed to be going through lately, even before I met this guy. I wasn’t reassured with this news, because everyone who knows me is aware of how much I value motherhood. I’ve always wanted to have a family and bring life into this world. I’ve wanted to be called mother for a long time now. If I’m not able to work through this diagnosis, my chances of physically being able to become a mother are slim to none.
My doctor saw the worry etched on my face and tried to placate me - that the physical therapy would work and I would be on the mend by the early fall, but I remember driving home that day, heartbroken that God seemed to be trying to tell me you’re never going to be a mother…this is my plan for you, this is your agony in the garden, and you must feel this suffering now in order to accept my word and my will - with this new diagnosis.
I also wondered how the hell I was going to tell him about my diagnosis, but I knew it had to be soon, at least to quell my anxieties if he decided to leave me. The sooner, the better…am I right? I knew I had to be honest with him, even if it meant losing him for good.
So that evening, I called him and broke the news. I asked where he was feeling about us becoming exclusive - I knew, realistically, I would be even more heartbroken knowing he was with other girls while I recovered and completed physical therapy. He hesitated and said he wasn’t sure where we stood...and that he would call me. He hastily hung up and I started to worry as to when (rather if) he would call me.
Two days later, I was admitted into the ER, suffering from intense pelvic spasms, to the point where I could barely move or get up from my sofa. As I laid in the sterile hospital bed, waiting for test results and not mentally coherent because of the pain killers I was hooked up on, I realized I couldn’t wait for him to call.
So I texted him, wishing him well and hoping all the best for him. I said a resolute goodbye, with the painful realization that I had to let him, my glimmer of hope after two years of not letting anyone into my heart, go. If this sounds dramatic, well, it’s true. Ask my friends. Ask my sister. Ask my mother. The last two years of bitterness, of wondering why I wasn’t good enough for someone (therapy, of course has helped me process), were difficult. Then this wonderful man just comes in and…I panicked. I kept pushing him away, just waiting for the next proverbial shoe to drop. But the thing is, he kept staying, and I struggled to comprehend that he was staying. I’m used to the men I’m dating walking away from me. And despite the setbacks we had, up until this point, he hadn’t walked away yet.
He followed my cues, replied to my text, and said goodbye too.
My next proverbial shoe decided to drop.
This time, he finally decided to walk away.
(Not once has he bothered to at least ask me if I’m okay, or if I’m feeling better, or has sent well-wishes for a good recovery - he walked away with no emotion, feeling, or compassion…just very cold, abrupt, and clinical).
If you’re curious, my dear readers, I am improving with my physical health. The pains have mostly subsided (they are reoccurring, but not as bad as they were since the ER visit) and I’ll be starting physical therapy once the clinic is able to make an appointment for me, as they are not ready to see new patients for a few weeks. My friends and family have been reaching out to me every day since I was released from the hospital and he walked out of my life, asking me if I’m feeling okay.
Again, physically, yes. I am. I know I will be feeling even better whenever I start the physical therapy. Here’s hoping I’m stronger by the beginning of the school year, because the pains really are starting to impact my day-to-day life.
Mentally and emotionally? Well, it all comes in waves. I will admit, there are moments I am worried my depression may eclipse my anxiety, but to be honest, I feel stronger than I was during the last break up because I am 110% aware that I cannot blame myself for the end of this. It’s a diagnosis out of my control. How can I blame myself for this man leaving me for a diagnosis I surely didn’t want? So I know I’m being truthful with my friends and family when they are like, “Are you sure you’re okay?” after I reassure them that I am.
(But please remember, it’s okay to not be okay! Ask for help when you feel you’re drowning - I know I’m always a phone call, email, or text away!)
Look, if this was the 2019 version of me dealing with this relationship, I would be crying my heart out every day, refusing to leave the safety of my bed, wondering why I wasn’t beautiful, smart, sexy or whatever enough to get this guy to stay with me - to want to be my boyfriend. I would be calling this guy every nasty word in the dictionary (and every other synonym for those words in the thesaurus) wishing him ill will, and wanting him to be miserable.
I will admit, there are days where I am angry with him for: not caring about the pain I’ve been in, letting his ex-girlfriend throw their continued relationship in my face with that picture, writing me off like if I was the one who continually hurt him and broke his heart…
And, of course, for wasting my time. For getting my hopes up and dreaming of a relationship. For taking away the opportunity of falling in love, getting married, and having a family - something that I’ve never had and that he’s already received once in this lifetime.
But I learned, if you remember from my previous post, forgiveness is the key to mental and emotional healing.
So the 2021 version of me knows that I need to forgive and try to see some good in this guy, despite his decision to leave me due to something out of my control…in order at least give myself peace of mind. He and I clearly want different things. We prioritize different things. Part of me wishes that he would just realize, hey, she’s wonderful enough to be in a relationship with…who else will I ever meet that would have read ‘With the Old Breed’...that commitment can be a thing…she’s good enough to wait around for while she recovers...and, in the wise words of my grandma Micaela, all would be well.
Realistically, a bigger part of me knows that no one, not even me, could truly convince him to change his mind and commit - at least not at this time in his life. So let him find someone else - someone who can truly meet his needs and wants, as hurtful as it is to admit. Let him go back to his sociopathic, cruel, and scheming ex-girlfriend, especially if he hadn’t stopped seeing her when we were still dating. I don’t care. I just want him to be happy and, although I thought I could make him happy (oh, how I tried…and oh, how I gave, gave, and gave…and oh, how he took, took, and took), my efforts were never going to be enough because I didn’t live up to his expectations.
I miss him already, very much, and although I know I put a lot of pressure on him with this diagnosis…I just hope he knows that:
I was already having a bad week with the start of it being the incident with the ex-girlfriend.
I truly wasn’t expecting that diagnosis at the doctor’s office.
I was more concerned about how he would react about the diagnosis, and was mortified to tell him the truth…because I was scared of losing him (joke’s on me, I lost him in the end).
I simply had hope that he would be at my side, no matter what was told to me by my doctor.
I don’t understand why he had to act so cold, selfish, and clinical when he ended it. I didn’t hurt him. I didn’t cheat on him, call him mean things, yell at him, try to be spiteful like his ex-girlfriend, or simply be an all around terrible person. I simply told him the truth, and yet, he’s the one placing 100% of the blame on me by acting as though he doesn’t care about me, contrary to his promises that he did when the stupid text incident with the ex-girlfriend occurred.
I also don’t understand why he had to hit below the belt and throw my already shaky relationship with my father in my face when he broke up with me. He justified his “end” to our “relationship” because he thought it would be awkward that he would never get to meet or be accepted by my family. I told him my father would never want to meet any man I date who is not Catholic (this guy, clearly, isn’t). He, though, had been aware of my difficult relationship with my father - that he’s never been proud or accepting of my life choices.
All I could think was: my father hasn’t accepted me for almost thirty years, literally, since the day I was born, but you’re more concerned about him accepting you? As if. He used my father just so he could have a little less guilt over ending this for his own selfish reasons.
And last, but not least, that I was developing genuine feelings for him. I accepted him as he was, despite his own chaotic baggage…and I don’t regret my acceptance. I do not hate him. Not one bit.
As abruptly as he left me, I still refuse to believe that he’s a horrible person. I think his past (although he never told me much about it - I had to make some connections and assumptions based on the limited information I was given) has a lot to do with how he views relationships, intimacy, and really, women. Hurt people hurt people, says my therapist. This hurt man decided to hurt me. I realized after he ended whatever we were that he never cared about me - his words were simply just words. His words that he “cared” were never supported with actions.
I can certainly now realize how the blunt, selfish, and shallow way he “ended” us could have been impacted by his past relationships. That, however, doesn’t excuse the way he acted, but it sure explains it.
So, I’ll emphasize now - I truly did enjoy every second of our time together. We had a brilliant rapport. When we were together, he didn’t berate me like my ex did. He didn’t throw my mental instabilities in my face. He supported me and listened when I ranted about my frustrations with my father (although he sure didn’t mind using this against me at the end). He encouraged and respected my passion for teaching history.
I’ll always remember how he noticed I wore a different pair of quirky earrings every time we met for a date, and adored my sense of style...and my short hair.
He made me the most delicious steak tacos (because he knew tacos are the way to my heart) and remembered I preferred flour over corn tortillas.
I was simply impressed by how he remembered the little things about me - and it made my heart soar that someone, for once, was valuing everything I was.
He let me be me, really - and he wasn’t embarrassed by what I brought to the table.
Most importantly, for a brief second, he let me have hope again. He enabled me to open my heart up and trust - something I thought my heart wasn’t capable of doing again after my previous relationship. That’s why I’m hurting over this loss; I believed for a moment that this man was God’s way of telling me, I’m trying to give you what you’ve been wanting over these last two years.
I don’t doubt my faith. But I guess the reality is, God’s plan really is God’s plan, and I need to be patient to see what His plan truly will be for me. Maybe this guy isn’t my plan now. He probably won’t ever be.
I will never understand why someone who seemed so right just ended up being so, so wrong for me.
Either he truly wanted to be with me and simply ran away when things became too difficult…or he was just a really good liar and manipulator.
My heart, right now, is going with the latter.
But, to quote Kathleen Kelly from You’ve Got Mail -
“I wanted it to be you. I wanted it to be you so badly.”
For now, I need to focus on myself. This website, for example, seriously does need an update. I’ve had comments from readers wanting to do guest posts and I am very much looking forward to making that happen...as well as getting book reviews published and discussing my exploits as a history teacher this coming school year on this platform. I’ve decided not to date while going through physical therapy - I wouldn’t want the added stress of dating - I find no positive outcome in having to potentially bring this diagnosis up should a relationship manifest. I wouldn’t want to watch another man walk away from me, again, all because of my candor. I sincerely want to take time to improve my health (and I’m already on track to do that!), strengthen my faith, hang out with my friends, spend time with my family, further my teaching career, maybe write a book, and just...let my life unfold, especially as I prepare to celebrate entering a new decade in December.
One day at a time.
I’ve been alone for so long now. As I approach thirty, I truly thought I’d be married already. At this point, I am ready to face a life of being the perpetually single girl. I don’t say this as defeat or to be self-deprecating. Really. I say this as acceptance.
I’ve dreamed of domesticity since I was a little girl. The fairy tale. I wanted the fairy tale that was continually shoved down my throat with Disney movies, Hans Christian Andersen stories, and by my dad. He set the expectation that once I was done with school and gainfully employed, it would be time for me to meet a nice man, get married, and have children.
And I believed in the fairy tale; I took it to be gospel when I was young, hopeful, and filled with optimism - before my heart became so bitter and cynical after all of my failed relationships. I prayed for my Prince Charming to sweep me off my feet, a Pinterest worthy wedding day, a spacious and comfortable house complete with the cliché white picket fence, and the most beautiful children in my arms.
I remember once telling my mother during grad school that, if I met the right man, I would have put my education on pause to marry him, keep house, have children, and fulfill that fairy tale because it was what I believed my heart so desperately yearned for. My post-grad history diploma, as far as I was concerned, could wait. As you all know from other previous posts, I finished grad school, received my MA, and although I came close, I never did find my Prince Charming to start a life with.
After this guy, deciding to leave me for (again) something out of my control, I don’t think the fairy tale is destined for me. What more, I ask, do I have to do (or not do?) in order to be someone else’s fairy tale?
I’m tired of never just being quite enough for the men I fall in love with. I’m used to it by now, but that doesn’t mean I resent the way they walk away from me the moment things become challenging.
As much as I truly still want to, I know that I don’t have to get married and have biological children to be happy - that my life, up to this point, has been fruitful and blessed with everything else I have achieved. My mother reminds me every day that she’s proud of me; that my health and sanity come first…to stop putting so much pressure on myself to get married and have children, because, ultimately, the continued heartache and hopefulness will eat at me and destroy me. She has had to go so far as to reassure me that she would never be disappointed if I never give her grandchildren. She wants me, her child, to feel better first - physically, emotionally, and mentally.
My dad, however, has now been unfairly hinting for grandchildren (although seeing as he’ll never approve of anyone I marry, really, Catholic or not, joke’s on him - as he would never get to meet the grandchildren then). Sorry to disappoint, dad, but nowhere is it written that domesticity and motherhood has to be my be all, end all. Going to the hospital last week, by myself, was proof that I can handle practically anything on my own. Buying a house by myself earlier this year is even more concrete proof that I’ve got this.
On my own.
I guess I’ve crafted a different sort of fairy tale then, and I take pride in knowing my continued faith has helped me make most of my dreams come true.
I hope y’all stay tuned for a soon-to-come post!
Until then…
Many happy returns,
-Kate
