you go on and i'll be happier.

Today, dear readers, I did a hard thing.

Today, I stood up for myself.

My friend, who has been in my life since we “dated” (I use that word lightly) in 2021…is no longer my friend.

Then again, was he ever really my friend?

We haven’t spoken since we had dinner (this was mentioned in the last post), and he left the last message I sent him on read for about a month. 

All I could think was…this is it. He’s ghosted you again…or he’s at least getting ready to do it. I’d sent his daughter a box of school supplies without a response that he received the package. I waited for a message…something…anything…to indicate that he was still alive. I’m sure part of this silence has to do with the fact that he’s dating again, which helped me come to the realization that he only thinks I’m worth speaking to whenever he’s single and bored.

He’s not single, so therefore, he doesn’t need me right now.

So, I sent a long message to him, knowing that it would either go ignored or he just wouldn’t care about my feelings. Long story short, I told him that I wasn’t going to put up with another ghosting (especially after the previous ghosting lasted almost a year), I said that I was putting myself first, I mentioned what I stated above about only being his friend when he’s single, I said that I was tired of the back and forth and being treated like a joke, and most importantly, that I hope he finds his happiness in this life. 

And I do. I truly do hope he finds happiness. That’s all I’ve ever wanted for him. Once upon a time, I naively thought I would be the one to make him happy. As I admitted, also, in my previous post…I was more enamored by him than he was with me when we met. 

To my surprise, he sent a brief message back, and claimed he wasn’t ghosting me…but that if this decision is what I wanted, then he and his daughter (whom I will really miss) enjoyed knowing me.

That was it. No acknowledgement of my feelings, no admitting that he was sorry for anything. Nothing. The same lack of communication from him…a true hallmark of our friendship. I didn’t bother responding back to him.

Friends, lovers, whatever…

I was a joke to him and I always will be. 

I don’t want to end what we were, contrary to what he might think. I just felt like I had no choice but to end it before I was hurt even more by him.  I was the one who tried so damn hard to keep us afloat. So for him to be so cold and dismissive…well…it is what it is. That’s how he acted when we dated…I shouldn’t expect him to act any differently in this case. I guess I had hope that maybe, just maybe, he’d be honest with me…but I was mistaken. 

I know that when his birthday passes this September, I’ll sadly still think of him and mentally wish him a happy birthday, since I told him I won’t message him anymore.

Same for his daughter’s in October.

But mine will pass in December and he’ll go on like he always has - and never take the time to wish me a happy birthday. Christmas will approach and I’ll spend it like I did last year before he decided to come back…with the people who truly do value and love me as I am. 

I’m sad. I’m heartbroken. I’m in tears. I’m riding out the emotions and I’m trying so hard to be strong so I can get through another week of school. He doesn’t care. He never did.

I’m going to take time for me and focus on my new school year, continuing therapy and navigating my relationship with my dad, making better dietary choices (I’ve started seeing a dietician), exercising more, helping one of my dearest friends out with her final wedding preparations before the ceremony in November, and completing my graduate certificate course work for teaching English Learners (this is being paid for by the county I teach in). 

I had an incredible first week back to school with my students and although I’m exhausted (there is no kind of tired like first week of school tired), I truly felt a spark again as I got to know my new pupils. They actually seem excited about learning history so I’m going to do my due diligence and be the best teacher I can be…and not channeling my energies into wondering if my “friend” gives a shit about me every day is going to help me immensely in giving my all to my career this year. I can’t wait to document more of my adventures this year with this group of kiddos…I really can’t.

I’ll always care about him. I’ll miss him and his daughter so, so much, but really, he and I don’t fit. We never did and I’m tired of trying to make us fit. So me ending it, as much as it pains me to do so…this is just all for the best…for both of us. 

I’ll use the words of the song inspiration for this impromptu blog post (A Fine Frenzy, “Happier”) to end my ramblings for today:

You go on and I’ll be happier. You’ll be gone and I’ll be happier.

Many happy returns. 

-kate.

coffee cup and i'm sailing out to sea

Y’all, I tried so hard to draft my Rome entry while I was still in Italy…but the trip kept me busy, so I did not achieve my goal in wanting to write as I was traveling. No matter - everything has been documented and I can’t wait to share the rest of my adventures now that I’m back stateside! I had an incredible two weeks in Europe and the travel bug has bit me once more…I’m thinking…Portugal? Summer 2025? We’ll see.

I feel like I do now have some energy to continue this site, at least, for the foreseeable future. The history I took in while traipsing across Europe did reignite my passion for learning and teaching. I, however, know that I do need to actively search for other potential career paths…and I have started to apply for openings on USA Jobs. My father (we’ll talk about him in a moment) may get what he wants after all and have a daughter in the civil service.

Maybe then he’ll finally be proud of me.

Personally, things have been strange since I’ve returned from Europe and many old wounds that I thought have healed are now reopened. Of course, I am still going to therapy, and at least I have that as part of my coping mechanisms, but I was not prepared for the emotional upheavals I’ve experienced this summer…

So what better way to decompress than by having story time with y’all?

To begin our story time, I received a phone call from my mother just before her birthday. This was during the week I had returned. I already had started the week adjusting from jet lag and recovering from my annual exams; the Pap Smear, unfortunately, exacerbated my pelvic muscles and I was bedridden for two days as I suffered through painful cramping. When I finally felt better, I decided to start going on daily walks to get my 10,000 steps in…and my body was grateful for this positive choice in attempting to get some exercise. During one of those walks, my mother called, and immediately apologized for what she was about to tell me.

Confused by her words, I stopped talking and listened to her.

Apparently, my mom and dad had an argument about how my dad can be racist towards Mexicans. My mom, then, accidentally used the wrong wording about how I also think he’s racist (side note: I have never said that to him). My dad got offended by this accusation, even though I wasn’t there in the room with them to defend myself. He told my mom that he was going to stop by my house to yell and give me a piece of his mind.

I knew what my mother was trying to convey to him regarding that statement. A few months ago, while I was visiting for Sunday lunch, he’d gone on some rant about (shocker) all the Mexicans coming in through my hometown of Laredo. I was taken aback by his offensive words, gestured to my mother and I, and said we’re right here. I never, however, told him in that incident that he was a racist.

When my mom made that phone call, I was planning to visit later during the week so I could celebrate her upcoming birthday. She and I both realized it would be best for me not to go to their house until he cooled off and she could get him to understand that she misspoke. She also advised me not to text her as he sometimes has her phone and sees her text messages. So, I spent that week frustrated with my mother, in fear of my father potentially coming to my house to tell me off, saddened by the fact that I wouldn’t be able to celebrate her birthday with her, and…mainly…

Heartbroken by the realization that, after thirty-two years of being on this earth, my maternal ancestry is still something that my father has not accepted. I texted my history nerd friends in our group chat about what had happened. They know my story; they have helped me work through my feelings towards my relationship with my dad throughout the years.

Lisa: Holy shit.
Me: She was angry at him for making Mexican comments and let the comment slip.
Keith: Sometimes the truth can hurt. Then one is apt to blame someone else rather than taking the responsibility of owning it.
Me: He has said hurtful things, don’t get me wrong. But I never actually said he was racist, my mom made a mistake in the heat of the moment…and now he’s super angry at both of us.
Lisa: It sucks you got pulled into it.
Me: So much for her birthday plans this week…I’m definitely not going over to their house now.
Lisa: Probably best to not.
Keith: Oh, I believe that. The problem is that many racists don’t realize what they are saying is racist.
Me: Nope and unfortunately he’s in denial.
Keith: How can someone be racist against Mexicans, and yet be married to someone with Mexican descent?
Me: Ding ding ding!

EXACTLY. Like Keith said…why does my dad say these hurtful things about Mexican immigrants when he’s married to someone who is Mexican and, furthermore, has kids who are Mexican?

I spent the week grappling with my feelings. Some of my other friends were telling me to have a heart to heart with my dad about this incident. Those other friends, however, aren’t quite at the level of understanding that Lisa and Keith are regarding my dad. Those other friends don’t get that there is no such thing as a “heart to heart” when it comes to speaking to him. Part of me wanted to finally bring up the fact to my dad I know about the blood test his mother wanted when I was born to prove I was his daughter. My parents have always known my blood type (AB+). My sister, however, once asked what her blood type was and they told her they didn’t know it. She was upset that they didn’t know hers but knew mine. She pulled the they must love you more card.

For some reason, years ago, on my 26th birthday, this was the conversation of choice at my birthday lunch. I then started to truly wonder…why do they know my blood type and not my sister’s?

When we got home from lunch, my dad disappeared to take a nap. I found my mom and while we were alone, I decided to ask her about the blood type debacle.

She looked at me, with sadness, and said that if she told me, I better not tell my father that I’m aware. So, I promised her I wouldn’t say a word to him.

And when she told me…that’s when I realized…they don’t know my blood type because they love me more.

(You were mistaken, dear sister).

My paternal grandmother, prior to my birth…sometime during the summer of 1991…wrote a letter to my dad explaining that people should marry their own kind. She was not happy with his choice in a Mexican bride and had no qualms giving her opinion. When December arrived and my mother was about to give birth, she decided to come to Texas and (as I so stupidly thought when I was growing up) offer the family support during labor. To this day, I still have a photo of her, with us in our former Laredo home, documenting that same visit.

Only now I know she didn’t come to Laredo for genuine reasons.

On the day my mother was discharged from the hospital, my dad came to her room and told her that my grandmother wanted a blood test to prove his paternity. My grandmother truly believed my mother was a gold digger trying to trap my father into a marriage with an illegitimate Mexican child.

Me. I was the illegitimate Mexican child in question.

The blood test was performed. My dad didn’t refuse my grandmother’s request. My mother, probably mentally and physically exhausted out of her mind after having just given birth, acquiesced so they could leave the hospital ASAP. Blood test or not, I am my father’s child.

The birth of a little brown Mexican girl tainted my paternal family’s bloodlines, legitimately, and it was just something they were going to have to deal with.

Thirty-two years later and I’m tired of carrying this burden. I’m tired of not being enough for the men I date as well as not being enough for my own father. I’m tired of holding onto this pain of knowing that I was not wanted by my father’s family the moment my mother married him in the spring of 1991, simply because of my heritage. I’m tired of the past because it keeps messing up my present…and preventing me from having the future I so desperately want.

My father’s frustrations and narrowmindedness also translates into him not wanting to meet the men I date. I’ve said several times before, his refusal to meet any man I want to bring home has destroyed possible relationships from developing. Although I would be okay with keeping a distance and cutting off contact should he not accept my choice in a potential spouse, the man I’m with would also have to be okay with not knowing his future father-in-law. I would never expect anyone to convert to Catholicism on my behalf, but I would hope my faith would be respected. I would want any children to be baptized, of course, for the sake of saving their souls if God forbid, something awful happened to them in their youth. I’ve learned though, that my father still would not want to meet any boyfriend of mine, even if he was Catholic, because he would just find some other reason to dwell on as to why the man is not worthy of me.

Perfect transition then, to part two of story time!

My friend I once dated (the one who cancelled lunch plans before my trip) and I have had some interesting and open conversations about relationships. We’re okay now; we’ve discussed our disagreement about making plans/maintaining a friendship since I returned from Europe and are on speaking terms again. He once brought up that when we dated, he was enjoying the options online dating was giving to him and eventually concluded that perhaps he was taking too much advantage of these many options.

We had dinner this past weekend and he asked me if I had finished a book he’d loaned me about dating. I brought up that the subject matter in the book made me feel uneasy about the way some men approach dating; that they seem to focus on intimacy, which makes dating difficult for me. My goal is to date meaningfully…that just because I don’t want to be intimate, that doesn’t mean there’s something wrong with my decision.

I then, explained to him (yet again) that when we dated, I wasn’t trying to be intimate with him right away because I was simply trying to enjoy, you know, actual courtship…so obviously, we were both looking for different things when we met. He, however, had never been upfront about what exactly he wanted with me…even when I had asked where things were headed between us.

I also then explained to him that I hope he understood why it took me so long to process the end of whatever we were, and that was really, about the extent of our discussion. We found another topic to dwell on, enjoyed our dinner and beer and, as always, we had a nice time together. Clearly, we ARE capable of having hard, yet respectful, conversations while maintaining (I pray) a legitimate friendship.

After having had this talk with him, I realize now that I was always way more invested in him than he was in me. Three summers ago, I was catching real feelings for him…I was falling in love with him.

No, I’ll be brave and admit it now. It won’t change the outcome.

I was in wholeheartedly and unconditionally in love with him. I would’ve, back then, done anything to make him happy because I was so in love with him.

I know now, based on his admittance that he was having all the fun with online dating, he was not trying to date me “meaningfully.” He sure as hell was not falling in love with me! He could throw out every excuse he wanted to…my father, my faith, my health issues…

(In love with me? HA. He wasn’t even in like with me! Wow, I was so optimistic - gotta take off those rose colored glasses…am I right, y’all?)

Bottom line - I was never going to be good enough for him to be his girlfriend. I wasn’t someone he viewed as serious or worthy enough to be with in the long run. When we first met, he wasn’t focused on commitment and I was. I guess, all I was that summer was someone he was passing time with…to cure his boredom (and other things). At least, that’s how I’m perceiving it now that he’s told me that the summer we met was his summer of simply having fun with every single girl he matched with online. He claimed that he “cared” about me once while we dated…but I know that was a lie.

I was never special to him.

I was only one of who knows how many useless and worthless girls to him…a name lost in a sea of feminine names. I was trash, really, and he threw me away.

I was, and forevermore, nothing to him.

There can never be ‘what could have beens’ between us. I honestly fell in love, hard, and he didn’t even like me anywhere as much as I thought he did when we dated. At least I learned this hard and emotional truth this summer…although I wish I’d known it three summers ago…instead of placing all the blame on my father and my health as to why he left me.

No, he just didn’t want me in any sense because he wasn’t even thinking about embarking on a serious relationship that summer.

I wasted so much time praying and hoping for more from him…when I should’ve realized he was, from day one, never considering me for the long-term. I went home after that first date enamored and hopeful while he went home and probably asked out another girl on a date…without so much as a second thought of me.

Wow. Seriously, what a “come to Jesus” realization for me.

And even now I’ve only figured this out, on my own, with the limited evidence he’s given me: his admittance to how he approached online dating that summer we first met. I know that he’s probably never going to take ownership and point blank tell me the truth about his intentions/how he felt about me, apologize for how he treated me, or even admit why he came back after the 2023 ghosting (I wish he would just be candid for once…I think it’d make our friendship even easier to navigate, but again, I don’t want to risk pushing him away).

Three summers ago, he treated me no better than my teacher ex that I dated pre-Covid by letting me believe that that there could’ve been a chance…when clearly he had so many better options available to him.

And oddly enough, that statement is the perfect transition to the third emotional and odd moment that will conclude story time.

I thought I had finally put my teacher ex in the past. We’d mingled at happy hours scheduled by our mutual work friends and had made peace (we’d shared a friendly embrace with each other at the last happy hour we attended). I found out that he’d been in a serious relationship for almost two years and even had a child with his partner! I was happy for him that he seemingly had matured and settled down. I was proud of him.

Just before I jetted off to Europe, I learned that he was cheating on his partner/mother of his child by actively using online dating profiles…

And that he, more than likely, may have roofied and taken advantage of a girl he took out one evening.

When I told some of my girlfriends and my mother about this, they all pretty much said the same thing to me:

Can you imagine if you had continued dating him? Can you imagine if he was doing this to you while harming other girls? Can you imagine how much worse it would’ve been had you married him?

As painful as it was to navigate the end of that ‘relationship,’ then yes, I can only imagine what would’ve happened had we continued to date. I would have been absolutely miserable…just like I’m sure, right now, his partner, who apparently has decided to stay with him (more than likely, for the sake of the child) is feeling.

And as awful as he treated me, I didn’t think he’d ever go that far as to drug and assault someone.

When I heard about what he had done…my mind finally…finally went back to the year that he and I dated.

2019.

Whatever happened that year seems like it was an eternity ago, especially because of Covid.

I then remembered an event that I experienced not long after we broke up.

An event similar to what he had just done to this girl he met through his dating profile.

An event that, while I have started to come to terms with it by writing it as a part of the novel I’m attempting to draft

(Please note, some names have been changed but everything else is true).

…Is something that is, I think, preventing me from truly wanting to physically entrust my body with anyone I date…

…And is something, I pray, that one day, I can forgive myself for…although I know the Lord has already seen to forgive me.

But yes, that all being said, this has indeed, been a strange summer of emotions.

Dear readers, I’m grateful I’m able to unload and unfold my life here to you on this site. I’m glad I have this site as an outlet to help me cope. You’ve no idea how much your reading of these posts means to me. Thank you for supporting me through my ups and downs, my mental issues, and my uncertainties as to what I truly want in this life.

Somewhere, in all this mess, this passionate history nerd is wanting to come out and just true to herself again. I pray she’s still there in this mess. I know deep down, she is still there.

I promise, next post…it’ll be all about Rome. Until then -

many happy returns…

-kate.

P.S. The title of this post is a line from my new favorite ‘go-to’ song from one of my favorite bands, Ride (shoegaze experts extraordinaire). There’s just something about this particular line that soothes me…grab a cup of coffee, casually sip on your brew as you try to tune out the noise and chaos of the world while, at the same time, attempt to find and enjoy the stillness and tranquility that life can offer you - if you look hard enough.

I don’t know, at least that’s how I’m interpreting this line from the lyrics. Really, this song does calm my nerves and makes for excellent driving music!

benvenuto a napoli

I’m so glad I was able to get past my writing slump with the last two posts I created, and now that I’m finally on my trip, I have the inspiration and motivation to document all of my European shenanigans.

After a six hour red eye flight from Dulles to Dublin, and a three hour one from Dublin to the very tiny regional airport of Naples…Michelle and I are finally on Italian soil. The flight from Dublin to Naples was particularly rough…many crying children running along the aisle and less legroom, as it wasn’t on a plane meant for a long haul international flight. I managed to sleep for an hour on this flight, probably because I was determined to drown out the noise and chaos! 

Bright eyed and bushy tailed, patiently waiting at my gate for the first leg of my journey from Dulles to Dublin. Of course, I had on my Blessed Mother necklace and my Scapular for divine protection during my trip.

Upon landing in Naples, everyone immediately got up from their seats and pushed past Michelle and I…even though we were trying to be polite and leave our seats when it was our row’s turn. How dare we try to be nice…the audacity! One of the aforementioned crying children pushed right into me after Michelle and I boarded the bus that transported us from the tarmac to the airport. The Naples airport does not have jetways, so I felt like I was transported back to the 1960s as I came down the staircase of the plane and walked the tarmac onto the outdated bus. The parents of the child who hit me, of course, did not apologize for their child’s behavior, and seeing as I am not fluent in Italian, I couldn’t very well tell them off in their native language. I also didn’t want to cause an international crisis so early on my trip, so I rolled my eyes, and let it go.

Michelle’s amazing cousin Amy, whom we are staying with in her beautiful Napoli home, waited with us as we collected our luggage from the also equally outdated baggage claim. She then escorted us to our driver (yes, we had a driver pick us up from the airport), and he, bless him, placed all of our suitcases in the back of the van. During our drive to Amy’s house, he realized we are American, and his English was not so great, but I took it upon myself to pull out my translator app and with the realization that Spanish and Italian have many things in common, attempted to converse with him in Italian. I successfully managed to tell our driver that:

  1. I’m Italian American on my dad’s side and my great-grandparents were from Reggio di Calabria.

  2. It was early morning back home in Washington, D.C.

  3. Michelle and I were on our summer vacation and we teach teenagers.

We freshened up at Amy’s house and then took a train into Naples proper. She drove us to the train station and pointed out the beautiful coastline and beaches. We parked the car and twenty minutes later, we were in the heart of Naples. My lack of sleep did not deter me from enjoying the city (I had caught my second wind) and we eagerly followed Amy along the cobblestone streets. We stopped inside, to my joy, a Catholic church; the Basilica della Santissima Annunziata Maggiore. This church, due to the rough translation of its Italian name, is dedicated to the annunciation, or when the Angel Gabriel arrived to the Blessed Mother and told her that she was to give birth to Jesus. 

I realized, due to it being 3 PM (this the time we visited) the congregants gathered in the pews were finishing one of my favorite (and most powerful) prayers, the Chaplet of Divine Mercy. This prayer is typically recited at 3 PM because this is the time that Jesus Christ died, so we use that hour to pray and reflect on his death and the sacrifice he made for us by dying on the cross for our salvation. I pray it every day, sometimes with my mama if I’m visiting her, and find so much peace of heart when I am finished with it. It truly helps me get through my day. Imagine my delight when I recognized the prayer, even though it was being recited in Italian. I blessed myself with some holy water and we continued our trek through the city. 

We decided we needed a pastry break, so I took the risk and ordered, in Italian, a pistachio filled croissant (un cornetto) and my goodness, the Europeans do not joke about the lack of additives in their food. My croissant actually tasted like real pistachio…because it was all natural and real pistachio. The pistachio filling melted in my mouth. I couldn’t get over how delicate and buttery the crust of the actual croissant was. Amy promised us even better desserts at another patisserie, so we kept walking, this time, in search of an actual dinner before we decided to enjoy more pastries. 

My first real Italian meal, pasta carbonara.

We thought we wanted traditional Napoli pizza, but our stomachs said otherwise, and we ordered pasta dishes at the trattoria we sat down in. I’m a sucker for pasta carbonara and let’s face it…Italian American pasta is not even close to real Italian pasta. The pasta carbonara that I love to order at the Cheesecake Factory, I’m aware, is not carbonara one would find in Italy. So, reassured by the fact that pasta carbonara was on the list, I decided to order it. I also saw, on the cocktail list, the classic Italian aperol spritz, and Michelle and I did as the stupid Romans did, and decided to order one. Because, when in Rome (Naples), right?

WRONG. 

The drink was incredibly bitter and dry. Amy told us that while the aperol mix is meant to be slightly bitter (and I knew this too after some preliminary research), our drink should not have tasted like that. She promised we’d find a better aperol spritz; that the bartender probably did not properly mix the aperol base with the prosecco. 

So, we switched our drinks to Italian Fanta, which we thoroughly enjoyed because the Fanta is not the fake, bright and bold orange soda we’re used to in the United States. It’s still orange soda, but it’s made only with real and natural sugar and orange flavor. It tasted light and bubbly and was super refreshing. Michelle, who does not even like soda, loved the Fanta and has not stopped drinking it since we’ve arrived in Italy. 

Our pasta arrived and the carbonara was definitely what carbonara should look and taste like - creamy and decadent. I finished it quickly (I was starving from the flight) and didn’t feel as though I had a brick sitting in my stomach. My stomach was satisfied and content, not heavy and bloated. Amy attributed this again to Europeans not using preservatives and additives in their food.

Here I am in front of the famous Gran Caffè Gambrinus.

To walk off our meal, we continued to explore Naples. Amy insisted that we needed dessert and led us to one of Naples’s famous coffee houses, the Gran Caffè Gambrinus. This place was frequented by some of the most well-known literary icons like Ernest Hemingway, Oscar Wilde, and Jean Paul Sartre. I enjoyed eating a small pastry filled with a custard-like cream. Michelle had some sort of Italian donut coated in granulated sugar and took half of it home, as it was bigger than she had anticipated and wanted to finish it later. 

My custard filled Gambrinus treat!

Amy, Michelle, and I having our first gelato (notice the natural orange color of my beloved cantaloupe flavor).

We popped into some shops and took tourist photos at the spectacular Galleria Umberto I, but apparently, we still had dessert on the mind, because we kept talking about gelato. Amy made the executive decision to lead us to a gelato shop. I had my third dessert of the day and purchased a cup of gelato. I was craving more of a sorbet/fruit based flavor and was allowed to pick two flavors for my small sized cup. I’m always happy with lemon, so I picked the limone, but was surprised to see, of all ice cream flavors: cantaloupe. I do love me some fresh cantaloupe, but of course, had never had it in ice cream form, so I selected the melone as the second flavor. These two flavors combined were delightful. The lemon was good, but the cantaloupe was a game changer. In that moment, I thought of my mama and how much she also likes cantaloupe…and wished that she was with me in Naples so we could enjoy some gelato together.

We felt the exhaustion kick in and Amy led us back to the Napoli train station so we could take the local train back to her neighborhood. We went grocery shopping and picked up some snacks (of course, we bought a Fanta). We spent some time conversing and relaxing before we retired for the evening. One refreshing shower, a melatonin, and a comfy bed later - I was passed out and slept for a wonderful twelve hours.

Me, with the more superior aperol spritz I drank my second day in Naples.

We spent the next day relaxing and taking it easy. We booked our train tickets for Rome. Amy took us out for a quiet meal nearby her home (this time, I ordered gnocchi and thought of my papa, as gnocchi is his favorite dish). I had a superior aperol spritz at this restaurant…it tasted like I imagined; citric and easy to drink, with just the right amount of bitterness. There was a gelato shop three doors away from the restaurant…so naturally, we went there, and I had two separate scoops of gelato. One scoop, apparently, was not enough. My first scoop was a crunchy black cherry with some chocolate. My second scoop was classic pistachio. That evening, we had an earlier night so we could be well-rested for our Rome excursion.

Day two of a gelato run (here I am with my second one I purchased - the pistachio). Michelle’s a fragola girl…strawberry!

So, I’m safely in Italy. It’s been an adjustment getting used to the time change (six hours ahead of Virginia), the lack of American comforts (no regular trash service, Italian bluntness, no ice, and no central A/C), but I’m happy to be here…focusing on me…and fulfilling my European bucket list items. I’ve kept in touch with my family and my friends who actually want to speak to me, posted my major tourist moments on Facebook, and still have a few days left here in Italy, before Michelle and I take a flight to Paris and meet up with Lisa and her younger daughter.

Next up - you’ll read about our crazy Roman adventures at the Colosseum, Trevi Fountain, Holy See (Vatican) and our navigation of the Rome Metro. 

Until then…

many happy returns,

Kate

i need your grace to remind me to find my own.

Three days. Three days.

THREE days.

And then, I’ll be sitting on an international flight bound for a quick layover in Dublin (low-key kinda wish I was staying in Dublin on another Irish adventure, but oh well) before I arrive at my final destination of Naples, Italy. Michelle and I will be making Naples our home base for about a week while we traipse all around my “fatherland” and get in touch with my paternally inherited Italian side of the family. We’ve got a day set in Capri, the Amalfi Coast (ahem, Pompeii), potentially Florence (hello, Michelangelo’s David), and of course, a day dedicated to the beautiful city of Rome, with stops scheduled at the Colosseum and, where every Catholic dreams of going…Vatican City and St. Peter’s Basilica. 

Will I meet the Pope? Probably not, but still, just to be in the Eternal City…the center of the Roman Catholic Church? I can’t believe my return to Europe is just in a matter of days…but indeed, it is.

We’ll spend some down time in Naples proper, enjoying Neapolitan style pizza and hopefully basking in the night life (and maybe meet some charming Italian men) before we then board a plane to Paris/Charles de Gaulle for a quick layover in Paris. This is where Michelle and I will rendezvous with Lisa (and her daughter) before we go to our final final destination - Normandy. Lisa, Michelle, and I booked a day excursion in Paris; we’ll hit up the Louvre, Sacré-Cœur (French for the “Sacred Heart” of Jesus) of Montmartre Catholic Church (my mother already said to try to find her a rosary here), the Eiffel Tower (this is where we will probably act like idiotic Americans abroad taking gratuitous selfies), with a cruise along the River Seine to end our day. The next day, Lisa’s picking up the rental car, and we’re going on a road trip to Normandy…with a pit stop at Versailles!

We booked a charming airbnb in the commune of Port-en-Bessin-Huppain within driving distance of the major D-Day sites. On Sunday, we’re going to the D-Day Experience museum in Carentan - 

Cue Captain Lewis Nixon’s quote and uppity French pronunciation from Episode #1 (Currahee) of the epic war mini series - Band of Brothers (and duh, I’m rewatching the mini series to, you know, help me historically prepare myself for my visit):

“Airborne’s [101st] objective, gentlemen, is to take the town of Cah-rhen-tahn, or Carentan, thus linking Utah and Omaha into a single continuous beachhead.”

I’ve been waiting like, forever, to use that quote, and I fully intend to use it once we’re in Carentan for the museum visit. You can listen to it in all its Ron Livingston deadpan delivered glory since I decided to link it here (to the exact minute of the quote).

There will, of course, be other quotes from the book/series to use as we make our way through Normandy.

After the D-Day Experience, we’re going to drive over to Omaha Beach to see Lisa’s other, older daughter, perform with her high school band for a performance in honor of the D-Day 80th Anniversary commemorations. 

We will also be doing a day trip to Bayeux, where we will hopefully see the legendary Bayeux Tapestry, which tells the story of the conquest of England by William the Conqueror, and also visit Mont Saint-Michel (Saint Michael). I’m keeping my fingers crossed that we drive over and visit the Pointe du Hoc and Sainte-Mère-Église (Holy Mother [Mary] Church). Sainte-Mère-Église was the first town liberated by the Allied forces after the invasion…it’s a must-see for any World War II history nerd. 

On our way back to Paris to catch our departing flights, we’ll most likely detour to Rouen, and then it’ll be time to head back to the States.

Two weeks seems like forever…and the trip anxiety right now is real. I don’t want to say goodbye to my family, I am apprehensive about leaving my house and my comfortable bed, I’m scared that Ike and Mamie will forget all about me, I’m nervous about my luggage and the long haul flight…and I’m disappointed about the way I left things with my friend who came back into my life. We were supposed to have lunch, but of course, I’m the one who suggested to hang out and have this meet up in the first place. He finally gave me two days we could make this happen, and I went with Saturday. Then, he tells me he can’t do Saturday due to some house stuff, but can do Friday evening for dinner. Okay, cool. 

Friday evening dinner then somehow became Friday at 3 PM for lunch. Fine. Whatever. 

Then, Friday afternoon, he tells me he can’t even do 3 PM due to some work stuff delaying him from leaving his house. When I asked him why we couldn’t just move it to the evening (as he’d already earlier suggested via text), he told me why (he was going on a date) and I just felt like, once more, that I’m being taken for granted by him. All I wanted was to see him before I left. That was it. One lousy dinner. And there I went…making the plans, trying to accommodate him…but yet I’m the one who was passed over and forgotten about. 

He already accused me once of still wanting to be with him.  

And while that ship has sailed…a long, long time ago…I just thought maybe, after all this time, he at least valued my friendship enough to at least keep his word, especially since I’m leaving for awhile, and just wanted to say my goodbyes. Especially after I decided to try to trust him again once he returned at the end of 2023 and ended his disappearing act.

I don’t ever want him to think I don’t want him to find his happiness. Of course I do. I want nothing more than for him to be happy, and find the girl of his dreams (and I would hope he wants me to be happy too), but right now, it seems like it’s all going to be at my expense. Here I am, trying to make things easier for him and his schedule…like a friend should, and yet, he couldn’t even be bothered to take into account my schedule. I’ve been running around getting my trip details set and packing my suitcase, all while trying to finish this insane school year, but I still tried making time for him and worked with his schedule.

Let him be angry, let him think whatever he wants about me, let him think I’m a bitch like he thought I acted as to why he stopped talking to me the last time. I don’t care. I’ll never understand why he does this to me…why he doesn’t understand how I feel. Why he even came back. It hurts. I want to trust him, I want to rely on him as my friend, and it’s like I’m burdening him and asking for too much. I hope he knows that I’m sorry, but I also hope, this time around, he will finally understand how I’m feeling.

So right now, I’m going to use this time and this space away from him and focus on my historical adventures. I’m going to go off on this epic trip of a lifetime with people who do value my friendship, who don’t take me for granted, and will be by my side as I finally fulfill this dream of mine. 

Maybe, just maybe, this trip is what I need to revive my heart…my passions…for living, breathing, loving, and teaching history. I may not have the love of my life accompanying me, but the way this trip is happening, with Lisa and Michelle, is more than I could ever ask for.

I pray to God that this trip will save me from this slump I’ve been in…and I put it all in His hands. If I’m meant to live this life solo, then I only hope to spend my time now by exploring the unknown and making my own adventures with the people I love most in this life. So I’m taking a moment here to thank you, dear Lord, for these blessings you’ve bestowed on me…and I’ll try not to take this life for granted.

I’ll be bringing my laptop with me, and hope to find downtime to blog and write as we make our way through Europe, so please…stay posted for updates, Band of Brothers themed quotes, and all the amazing pictures. 

many, many happy returns…

-kate. 


moratorium.

I have been contemplating what to say for a new post for a while now…and I realized just today, that I don’t know what to say. For once, I have no desire to say anything. I don’t feel compelled to continue my website, at least for the foreseeable future. I don’t feel like talking about my teaching career, or the excitement I get when I teach history to my students, or even the joy I receive when I get to geek out at a museum or historical site.

No desire. Whatsoever.

And I don’t care.

Right now, I’m trying to come up for air and survive. 

Recently, I lost a friendship with the guy I had dated a couple of summers ago. I was optimistic that we could forge a friendship, and all seemed well for awhile, but then, in January, he fell off the face of the earth once more, gave me no indication he was done with being friends, ignored my text messages, and did not acknowledge anything that I sent to his daughter. I think, honestly, that’s what I’m more disappointed about this friendship ending…that I don’t get to have a friendship with his daughter, even though he promised me I’d always be able to maintain one.

Losing this friendship, with no explanation, has impacted me more than I thought it would. I know we weren’t meant to be together in the romantic sense, but I had hope for a friendship…and I thought he did too. He’s gone. His daughter is gone. And I have to accept that, even though it’s been difficult to do so. I remind myself every day that they do not belong in my life anymore and I did what I could do keep the friendship going.

This, combined with the facts that:

  • My reproductive health is still affecting my day-to-day activities

  • I’m tired, but can’t pinpoint why I feel so tired (thyroid, maybe?)

  • this past week, I finally realized that my relationship with my father is a detriment to my personal life, and my anxiety/depression, while better than it has been since I have a therapist, still needs better control.

I could go on a tangent about my father, so I’ll give you the Reader’s Digest Version:

Nothing and no one makes him happy. I will not subject a future, potential boyfriend to my father’s beliefs, attitudes, behavior, and temperament. I don’t want this future, potential boyfriend ending a relationship with me because of my father (much like the guy mentioned above had done when he ended it with me in the Summer of 2021).

Simply put, I just want to feel better…in some way…whether it be physically or emotionally first…but I don’t know exactly how to make that happen. But I know that continuing to blog about the topics and career that used to bring me happiness isn’t going to help me feel better…since I can’t even find a silver lining in teaching history.

It’s sad for me to admit that I’ve lost the spark of loving to teach history.

But at least I’m being honest with myself.

I can’t say if I’ll come back to this website. I can’t decide if teaching is going to be my future.

I’m lucky, right now, to be able to make it out of bed every morning and find some solace during this difficult, uncertain time, in my faith.

So, I’m going keep doing that for now, and place this site on a moratorium.

Pray that I find some relief and come back sooner, rather than later, before I lose all momentum.

Many happy returns…

-kate.


my star is fading.

You would think that even with a slightly better school year, a group of 7th graders who show improved behavior compared to last year’s students, and the fact that I’m only teaching one subject would have reassured me yes, I want to stay teaching for the long term.

My last post was all about making this year my ‘year of grace.’ I was optimistic that this year would erase the negative feelings I had towards teaching during a pandemic for the past year and a half. I was hopeful that my new school and supportive administrators would enable me to enjoy being an educator once more.

I’m sorry to say that my year of grace - and we’re not even at the half way point yet - isn’t shaping out the way I prayed it would. I’ve found myself browsing at federal jobs, applying for contracting jobs, and considering going back to school, if only for a little while, to obtain a certificate in technical writing. I still have no energy to stay after school and offer tutoring to my students, stick around to support them in their sports and fine arts activities, and hang out with my friends.

My goal at the end of my school day is to get home, curl up in bed with my laptop ready to stream a favorite show (more than likely Downton Abbey or King of the Hill), enjoy a Dr. Pepper (the soda fix has been insane lately, much to my closet’s dismay…I’ve gained a few pounds), finish my daily prayers (at least my faith is still strong), take my medications, and go to bed. If I’m in bed by 8:30, I call it a success. 9 PM is pushing it…9:30 PM is late for me. 

I find myself unwilling to get out of bed in the morning, even if I have been going to bed earlier. I can hear my mind telling my body ‘no’ and I end up sleeping through my alarms. 

I am sure most of my lack of energy is due to my past medical diagnoses. I still haven’t figured out physical therapy (it’s rare to find someone who specializes in pelvic floor therapy nearby to where I live), a biopsy I had over the summer only left me in more pelvic pain, and I’m finding it difficult to complete simple chores around the house because of how much pressure the bending and kneeling (example: cleaning the bathroom) places on my pelvis. I still get my chores done, but I’m in a lot of pain afterwards.

I know I need to try to get some exercise in - yoga has been recommended to me as it doesn’t place as much pressure on the pelvic floor - but once I’m home, having been on my feet most of the day at work…exercise is the last thing I want to do.

I have no energy to be the best for myself because I exert most of it at work. I want to be the best I can for my students…but even then, I find myself struggling to give them my best.

Then I factor in my personal life, and oh dear lord, I really just do not feel like trying anymore. 

I feel like I’ve lost any sense of who I thought I was. I truly believed turning thirty was going to be a wonderful year of growth, happiness, and settling down…and it wasn’t.

My thirtieth trip around the sun was spent with too many medical visits, questionable dating choices, arguments with my dad about my dating choices, and an extreme amount of doubting of my career. If I hadn’t been holding onto my faith, I know I’d be feeling even worse about how this year went. 

A couple of months ago, I had one particularly terrible week that started with a Sunday visit to my parents’ house. I found out from my father that a family they know at our church recently hosted a wedding. The eldest son of the family just got married and we found out that the bride was not even Christian, let alone Catholic. I was surprised when my mother told me this, because I thought, based on how devoutly Catholic this family is, that the groom would have married a Catholic girl.

This discovery then caused me to wonder…if this family can accept a non-Catholic/Christian daughter-in-law…why can’t my father accept a non-Catholic/Christian son-in-law? I proposed this question to my mother.

We decided to have this discussion away from my father’s ears. What started as an honest and calm discussion led me to burst into tears, not in anger (and not directed at my mother) and tell her that I am honestly scared to date and fall in love again because I could not bear to:

#1 - lose my relationship with my father over my choice of husband, should he turn out not to be Catholic.

#2 - have someone leave me again because my father would not want to maintain a relationship with a potentially non-Catholic (or Christian, even) son-in-law. 

While I was able to get past a good guy breaking it off for me for this reason last summer (as he claimed at the time of the break-up), and eventually become friends with him, I do not wish to have someone else provide this as a reason to not pursue a relationship with me, as a choice of my father’s is something that is 100% out of my control. 

It took me awhile to get myself together and drive home after that conversation. My mother checked in with me all week, but I knew that mentally, I was struggling. I had paused on seeing a therapist while I was recovering and going to a chiropractor after my car accident last year…but this break down helped me realize it was time, at least, to restart my mental health care journey.

I asked my friend for the contact information of her daughter’s therapist and before I knew it, I was signed up for my first session to see if we would “fit.” Thank God we did; I’ve had four sessions with her now, and while I’m still struggling, she’s been giving me some amazing coping strategies. Most importantly, she’s been reassuring me that I’ve come a long way since my initial start with mental health care three years ago (wow!)…and that I should be happy with the progress I’ve already made (even if there are days where I feel like I haven’t made any progress).

I turned thirty-one just this past week. While it wasn’t as festive and fun as my thirtieth birthday celebrations were, I’m relieved that as I started this new trip around the sun, I’m aware that I’m struggling with my life choices and where I’d like to be in my life right now. At least I’m trying to start some sort of recovery and plan by resuming therapy. At least I know that I have a fear of dating and falling in love again - even though having a marriage and my own family is something I’ve always prioritized. It’s not immediate progress, but it’s progress nonetheless, and I’m sure I’ll have some setbacks as I continue to make progress. 

I’m empty. I’m faking it for all it’s worth right now at school, and my coworkers don’t suspect anything…but I know I’m not myself anymore.

I’m not the feminine, constantly in a dress, perfectly coiffed girl I was always noted to be the past few years - as much as I adore putting on makeup and wearing heels and stockings, even during the winter.

I’m not someone who is willing to open her heart, wax poetic about literature and history, and immediately fall in love with the first handsome history nerd she encounters.

I’m not the optimistic, bright eyed, history loving educator, that I started my teaching career as, five years ago.

Right now, I don’t have any semblance as to who I am, and that scares me…but I’m hoping this first small step of progress with my therapist (and being able to recognize my struggle) will help me gain momentum once more.

Like that Aesop’s fable about the tortoise and the hare…

I’m the tortoise and right now, I must echo his mentality: 

Slow and steady will win the race.

God willing, I pray.

many happy returns (and a blessed and merry Christmas)

-kate.

nobody said it was easy.

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:

  1. I was already having a bad week with the start of it being the incident with the ex-girlfriend.

  2. I truly wasn’t expecting that diagnosis at the doctor’s office.

  3. 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).

  4. I simply had hope that he would be at my side, no matter what was told to me by my doctor.

  5. 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.

  6. 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.

  7. 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


and though she be but little, she is fierce.

Added to on 6 June 2019:

I don’t want to push him away. I don’t understand why he thinks I’m trying to “destroy” us. There’s nothing left of us to destroy, because he destroyed it first. I don’t get why he just can’t give me what I want so I may find inner peace. I know I deserve to be at peace. I decided, after this initial post was written, that I wasn’t going to continue to hold onto hope, contrary to what I told him after we’d played tennis. I told him that over the phone. I don’t think he liked hearing it, but I have let go of any hope…because I will never be happy with myself if I don’t.

I miss him so much. I miss his words, his smile, his arms, his kisses…everything. But I don’t know just how much he might miss me. In all honesty, (and there I go assuming again) my heart and my mind tell me that he doesn’t miss me one bit. He can’t even give me some reassurance that yes, maybe, just maybe, he does.

It’s breaking my heart to let go of that hope, since I was the one falling hopelessly in love. It, however, must happen.

I know I said I wouldn’t use this as a platform for my failed romantic endeavors, but…

I’m brokenhearted. Again. So it goes. I need to vent.

I had so much faith in him. So much. Is there such a thing as too much faith? My Catholicism has led me to believe that it is okay to have faith.

The better question is: Should I hold onto faith in him?

I honestly am in love with this man. I am. I fell, hard, and my heart is shattered. I thought…wow, after all this time, God has finally given me this blessing of this wonderful, handsome and intelligent man. This man wants me and my imperfections - his affections are mine.

How stupid I was to believe in his words. They were empty promises. The actual events leading up to the break-up are too much to go into detail. Reader’s Digest version: he got upset some guy hit on me at a bar, he was drunk, and he blamed me for letting the dude flirt with me (I really, really had no idea how to fend the guy off). He left me in the parking lot after I asked him if he was okay - he just brushed me off like whatever. I was so worried he would hurt himself or someone else by drunk driving. I texted him to make sure he made it home…

And he ripped me a new one. He told me horrible things that really made me start to doubt my mental state. He made me feel like everything was my fault and I spent a week, burrowed in bed, crying my heart out, wondering what did I do to ruin everything? That I was crazy for daring to believe someone like him would ever want someone like me.

He finally wanted to talk, after I’d sent him a pretty candid and honest letter about my feelings. He called me, surprise, surprise, on his way into DC on a Friday night, ready to cut loose, have fun, and forget about me. I had to pull over, because he was literally breaking up with me before going to do this. Probably thought I was just a weight off his shoulders - once the task was over, he could think clearly and enjoy his life again now that my presence was gone.

The man in question started to apologize for his abysmal behavior at the bar. He told me the situation was stupid and he didn’t think I did anything wrong to try and offend him. He apologized for his reactions and told me nothing was my fault - that I wasn’t crazy or emotional.

He then decided to say that the reason he’d been so distant was because he got scared. He, based on his word, decided he was catching feelings and was not emotionally ready to have a relationship with me (or anyone) because the divorce he’d gone through still had him hesitant about embarking on one. He let his guard down, for a second, with me - and then realized he could not be with me because of his emotional baggage. Again, he repeated, it was not because of me.

I can’t…I can’t help but feel like it was, even though he keeps telling me not to make assumptions. I can’t help but feel it’s my fault because he made the decision to leave. I’ve always struggled with feelings of inadequacy. That I’m never good enough for anyone. That my flaws are the reasons I’m twenty-seven and still single. That I’m nerdy, weird, prudish, ugly and unworthy…

So when a babe like him showed me attention and claimed that he wanted me, I really did struggle believing that he thought me beautiful, intelligent, and lovely. I hesitantly started to believe in his words. When he decided it was over, my doubts emerged once more and I just assumed he didn’t want to tell me that he decided I just wasn’t good enough.

I told him that I felt like I was losing him, despite his pleas not to blame myself. He told me he wasn’t going anywhere - that we should still get to know each other, take it slow, and be friends. That we could still go and play tennis together (we did, just yesterday, and I was a jerk, but I needed him to know I wasn’t about to be peachy-keen around him right away) and just have fun.

Which really, was how things should’ve started between us when he returned from Colombia in April. Instead, we jumped right into everything (and I mean everything) and I genuinely started to fall in love with him. I did.

So, can you blame me for wanting to blame myself? All of a sudden, he went from calling me his “beauty” and his “princess” to not wanting to even look at me. He told me he was so blessed to have me in his life - that I gave him “joy and peace” - to barely tolerating me this past week. Does he still have feelings for me, and now he’s doing his best to keep them in check so he can worry about himself? Or, did he stop liking me weeks ago and is now using what he told me on Friday as his “out” for this relationship?

I told him, after we’d played tennis, that I was still going to hold onto a little hope. A little faith. For my life, and for him.

He texted me later: “maybe you shouldn’t.”

That hurt. Again, is it because he doesn’t have any feelings for me at all? Or is it because he doesn’t want me to wait around forever? All I’ve wanted to do is talk rationally to him, but he won’t let me. I need closure. I deserve closure after the hell he has put me through. I cannot wait around for the rest of my life - I know this. What I also know is that I was willing to see where he and I truly could’ve ended up had we had been given more time to just be with each other.

My heart hurts when I picture him already, forgetting about me and flirting with other girls…he’s so handsome, he could have anyone. Why did he even want me? Did he see a vulnerable girl who has “self-esteem issues” written all over her face? Did he take pity on this history nerd and wonder why he decided to take a chance on her when she really was not the girl of his dreams?

I told him today that I was starting to fall in love with him. That all I wanted was just to see him happy and be by his side as he continued to fulfill his goals and aspirations - that he’s done so much already that he should be proud of. That I won’t hold onto my faith forever, but that he cannot tell me what I can and can’t think because he is not the one trying to hold onto the pieces of a broken heart right now. I wrote this all on a note that I stuck in a book - one he had recommended I read. It was called “Hopscotch” by the Argentinean writer Julio Cortázar. Cortázar was influenced by the James Joyce stream of consciousness writing style, so I was immediately hooked and wanted to check it out.

I decided I couldn’t read “Hopscotch” anymore without my heart aching over him. I have a strong connection to books - see my “All Things Must Pass” post - and “Hopscotch” is ruined for me now. With the note folded into the book, I left it in his mailbox outside of his classroom before he arrived in the morning.

He hasn’t said a word. Not one.

I doubt he will.

I’ve said my peace.

I hold onto a little faith.

For now.

Because I have to worry about me.

Me, and only me.

This is my journey. He could’ve shared in that journey and had my love for the rest of his life if he’d wanted it. Maybe I’ll find someone who won’t take my love for granted. Maybe he and I truly are destined to be - that we really are written in the stars and we will happen algún día. Who knows what the future will bring us?

I wish him the best. I want nothing more than for him to find some peace of mind, because his soul deserves to be fulfilled and at ease. He will always be in my prayers. I will always let God know to help him have a blessed day. That I will always be here for him, and carry a bit of him in my heart for always.

For now, I worry about me and succeeding in my life - the right here, right now. I take flight on my journey and make it wonderful.

Stay tuned for my post on my DC Monuments at Night excursion!

Many happy returns,

-Kate