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!

life is worth living.

The basic reason for loneliness is that man today has divorced himself from both love of God and love of neighbor. - Bishop Fulton Sheen

Feliz año nuevo, y’all! I hope everyone reading this had a blessed and joyous New Year’s holiday!

I thought I’d start today’s post with a little advice from American bishop Fulton Sheen. In fact, the title of this post is a tribute to the eponymous television series Bishop Sheen hosted in the 1950s. The church I attend gave us a Christmas gift in the form of a book. It’s called The Wisdom of Fulton Sheen: 365 Days of Inspiration. There is a quote by Bishop Sheen for every day of the year. I was glad for the gift, as I am always on the search for daily Scripture/religious words to get my day started. The words quoted above is the entry for January 1st. It spoke to me, particularly, because these last few days of 2021, I’ve been having an interesting philosophical and religious debate when it comes to what we believe (or don’t) believe in - especially if is the “make or break” of a potential romantic relationship.

During the sermon of Christmas Day mass, my priest advised the congregation to try to “find peace in our hearts,” even after another chaotic and frustrating year since the pandemic started. His words moved me to tears. Since the summer, I’d been trying so hard to let go of bitterness from the failed “relationship” I’d placed so much faith in. I knew I wasn’t angry anymore, even though I’d been led to believe by the guy that he didn’t want to be with me for my health reasons. So, for my own peace of heart (and because I missed the dorky history conversations he and I had), I sent a “Merry Christmas” message to the guy who ended it with me this past summer. I went to bed with a lighter heart that evening, only to wake up the following morning to see (much to my surprise) that he had replied.

words of wisdom for 2022.

For the next few days, we were texting on and off. He admitted to failing to convey the reason why he couldn’t end us in a better way. Apparently, he had never dated a religious girl and realized he didn’t see us working out in the future. I admittedly called him out - I never hid my Catholicism from him the entire time we dated. I asked him why did he even bother continuing to see me - especially after things became more serious - when he was aware of my faith? My emotional attachment began - he opened up my heart once things took off, only to take it away so abruptly and unfairly, despite knowing my religious affiliation. Although I’m glad he told me the truth about why he ended it, (even though for months I blamed myself and my health problems) it still doesn’t mean I’m not struggling to process this new news - he knew, from the get go, that my faith was an important part of my life, and he continued to carry on, instead of ending it before I became too emotionally invested.

So, of course I’m still hurting over his actions. I don’t think he realizes just how much I’m hurting. I don’t know if he cares that I am still heartbroken.

I, however, bravely made the offer to be friends. I told him I respected the fact that he has his work, his life, his child, and his own dating. I made it clear that I would never want to be a burden to him, but I also told him that I wasn’t going to be doing all the work in a friendship; that one-sidedness was out of the question. Like I said in my previous post, I have some pretty awesome friends whom I would not want to do life without. I’m done with fair weather friends who sure don’t mind taking advantage of my kindness, but won’t return favors whenever I need help. Or, at the very least, respond to text messages within a 12 hour window. The people in my life are in my life because we all give and take when it comes to our friendship. I’d love to be able to cultivate that with him, even though we ended pretty terribly, because I know God put him in my life for a reason.

I keep asking God: why? Why did you bring someone who, on paper, seems to check all my boxes of what I’m looking for in a partner (intelligent, funny, handsome, historically and even politically similar)…except for the biggest box of all: religiously? I remember telling my mom over the summer that yeah, this guy seems to have almost everything I’m looking for…but I’m not sure where he stands when it comes to his faith.

I remember her being happy for me that I seemed to had found someone who was able to make me smile again. I know she would have wanted to meet him. She remembers how long it took for me to say I’m ready to date again after the guy from two years ago broke up with me. She thought he was something special, then, since I had decided to keep seeing him.

…And then I remember us deciding not to tell my dad I was dating someone….because we both knew that even if he was a practicing Catholic, my dad would find some other reason to say I don’t want to meet this guy. I was worried my dad would use the guy’s divorce status, or the fact that he already had a kid, against him. Or hell, even his tattoos. Anything. No one…and I mean no one makes my dad happy (not even me) and I am still hesitant to date again. I would never want to subject anyone to my father’s criticisms. Like I’ve said in the past, I’m still navigating how to improve my relationship with my dad. Only when I know I’ve accomplished that will I feel better about introducing a potential significant other to him.

So…I’d like to think that God put this guy in my life as a reminder that I am not lonely - going back to the quote from Bishop Sheen. I have my love of neighbor, if you will, because of my wonderful friendship circles. I’ve certainly had my moments of being “alone,” but the fact that I have my love of God means that although I don’t come home to a husband, I am not lonely because God is always with me in my house and in my heart. God is forever by my side, even if I cannot physically see Him. My faith, my prayers, and my belief are what help me realize that God will be in my life. Bishop Sheen, then, is saying in his quote that, without both love of neighbor and love of God, we may find ourselves feeling more loneliness in our lives. As much as I yearned for the relationship to work out, once again, God didn’t abandon me, even though the guy did. My lack of a significant other doesn’t mean I don’t have my “neighbors” who love and care about me. I have love of neighbor and God and I am blessed to have both. Love isn’t defined as only from a husband or wife, or your bloodline. Love comes from everywhere.

…still waiting to do our ‘tropic thunder’ movie night, y’all!

Even in the shape of three dorky history nerd teachers (pictured right).

Even in the form of three intelligent and relentless “work moms.”

Even from eight courageous, beautiful, and lovely ladies I’ve known as far back as middle school and as recently as three years ago.

Even from the four-legged friends - especially three furry, fuzzy, and adorable cats I’ve mentioned several times in this blog.

And, maybe, just maybe, even from the ashes of a summer romance gone horribly wrong.

My New Year’s hope is that you all (like I’ve been able to) will find your peace of heart in 2022 - and for the rest of your lives. Whether you have love of God or not in your life, my New Year’s prayer is that you all at least find your "love of neighbor,” in any way you define love of neighbor…and that you don’t take your neighbors for granted.

Be prepared for a post of my continued forays of teaching literature to a group of middle school students who don’t enjoy reading - coming soon! Posting today on New Year’s Day just seemed to be the perfect opportunity to reflect on life before I return to writing all things historical and/or educational.

much love and many happy returns…

-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

musings.

Unexpected poetry writings by me, after a heartache filled long weekend:

Hindsight

those bright brown eyes
a flicker of love, a spark of affection
just a second of hope
now, gone for good
eyes cold and desolate
forever frozen in time
filled with contempt and the choice
to never look back at me
I should’ve guessed it wouldn’t last
just based by my luck in the past

Never

she was never the beauty
she was never desired
she was always pushed aside
in favour of someone better
so when he called her his beauty
she fell for him
and his lovely words
but then he broke her heart
oh, to quote kurt vonnegut,
so it bloody goes

many happy returns,
-Kate

goodbye to all that.

The time in between the beginning and end of that relationship in my previous post are all a blur to me now. I do not wish to remember that time because I refuse to spend another moment worrying about him.

He’s moved on. He’s found someone else who will give him everything I wouldn’t. I’ve moved on by using my writing as an emotional platform to rid myself of lingering feelings.

The beginning - that seemingly magical moment we met in college - and the end, are the moments that will truly remain with me. Our end arrived, and although it pained me to let him go, I know now that he was not God’s plan for me.

And I thank God every day for the path I am on now, without him.

I wrote this piece on March 9th of last year, when I realized it had been his birthday and it was the second one I wouldn’t be celebrating with him. I was saddened by this realization - I, admittedly, did cry and spent the better part of his birthday in bed. But, the next day marked the turning point for getting over him the moment I chose to write down my feelings on paper.

That day, I wrote our ending and let it remain a relic of my past - a past that I do not ever wish to return to.

So here, dear reader, is our end:

March 9th, 2018

Yesterday was his birthday. It was the second birthday I’ve spent without him. Two years since I last saw his face. Two years since everything fell apart. I still wonder if he kept the DVD set of Downton Abbey  I got him for the first (and last) birthday we were together. I then smile, and think back to when we watched the series together - he’d never seen it, and I kept begging him to watch it with me. He adored it, and it was yet another thing that we could say we had in common.

And then, I feel my heart break all over again when I recall how we ended things over a phone call just a few months later in May.

Tuesday, May 3rd, 2016 to be exact. 

My worst day.

Just a few days before I’d started my comprehensive exams for my history graduate program.

The day that he finished his term teaching history at the community college.

He didn’t have anything to worry about if he was hurt by us ending things - no exams, no classes to play student in. He’d achieved what he wanted. He already had his MA. He had his job. He had the whole summer free to be away from writing papers, and thinking of a thesis for graduation. A broken heart wouldn’t affect his studies - he didn’t have any. 

Me? I cried non-stop, and listened to The Beatles (Rubber Soul, by the way, is the perfect melancholy break-up album) on repeat as I typed three exams from a variety of topics ranging from post-colonial Europe, Communism, Josef Stalin, modernity, and totalitarian governments. I wondered how the hell I even passed my exams. I couldn’t be bothered with thinking about what impact and role Fascism played in Mussolini’s Italy as I worked on the essays. I didn’t even think about the possibility of me failing my comps, and what it would mean for my future in the grad program, thanks to my altered state of mind. All I wondered was:

Does he hate me?

I miss his hazel eyes already. And those freckles. 

Is he thinking about me? 

Does me miss me?

Is he going to show up on my doorstep, profess his undying love for me, and ask me to marry him? 

I submitted my exams - all thoughts of him still fresh and painful the moment I emailed them to my professor and clicked “send.” The last hope I had for him did not occur in that four-day period, burrowed up in my room, as I struggled to write each exam.

He was gone. There would be no grand gesture from him. He didn’t love me. He didn’t want a life with me. He told me that, plain as day, especially when he told me I’d never be the girl who would be the mother to his children (my heart broke at that statement). He was over me. He didn’t want to fight for me.

He didn’t want me. 

I can easily state these realizations now. It took me almost two years to get to this point.

Almost two years. And my feelings remain unchanged. I don’t know if I’ll ever really get over him.

(But, oh, dear reader. I did. I’m so glad I did.)

Many happy returns…

-Kate

first impressions

As someone who has, to put it lightly, uhh…unusual tastes in the history I study, I have struggled to find a “better half" who will tolerate my quirky interests. Here’s an example if you’re wondering what I mean by “quirky.” My mom and I were talking about weddings and cliché proposals. I said that I would absolutely hate it if my boyfriend (we’re talking imaginary here - as if that’s going to happen any time soon) proposed to me on Valentine’s Day, my birthday, Christmas, or New Year’s Eve. So, she then asked me what my ideal proposal scenario would be.

Without missing a beat, I said, “June 6th, the Normandy beaches, preferably on the Omaha or Utah sector.”

Then she dared to ask what day the actual wedding would occur on.

Again, without missing a beat:

“May 8th of the following year, to commemorate Victory in Europe Day…and grandma’s birthday.”

I’d really need to find the right man to make that happen. The right man who would just get me enough to make those scenarios happen. Someone who wouldn’t be afraid to take my quirkiness on, but accept and love me for it. I could be wrong, but I doubt there’s a man out there who would do all that for me…just to make me happy. Now you’re probably wondering, my goodness, are all of these posts going to deal with sappiness and heartbreak?

To answer your question: no, they are not. I think, however, it’s okay for me to talk about my (lack of a) romantic life because I want you, my readers, to know that:

It is absolutely okay to be yourself. I have thought, for years, that I need that better half to define me. That myself isn’t good enough for this world. I’ve only recently come to the conclusion that no, I do not need a better half. I can be my own better half. I can be a better me and let the world take me as I am. I am happy with the way my life is turning out so far. I’ve finally embarked on the path I’ve wanted to take. I’m using my historical nerdiness in a relevant field. I am a teacher, sharing my passion for the subject to a varied pool of students from all walks of life.

I teach Language Arts to preteens, hoping to instill the value of reading in them while they are still young. I teach world history to college students - most of them are in my class to fulfill general education requirements. I, however, have some older students that are there to prove to their family members that it is never too late to get a college education. It makes me feel like I am making a difference as a teacher by being that educator who will help them prove that no, it is certainly never too late to learn.

If there’s not a better half for me out there, wanting to stand by my side and be my cheerleader as I become a seasoned educator, then that is his loss. I know I have achieved an iota of self-fulfillment by doing what I do best - sharing my love for learning and history…and I get to do it in a professional realm.

That still doesn’t mean I don’t hold on to hope that my better half is somewhere in this world - whether he’s somewhere where I live in northern Virginia, an ocean away in Ireland…

Waiting. Just waiting. For me. Little, unremarkable, unashamedly nerdy me.

Once upon a time, I thought I had found my better half. I thought this would be the guy who would give me that Normandy beach proposal. I thought I was going to marry this man - I prayed that he would ask me to be his wife. I had dreams of us blissfully married; our days filled with history, books, being underpaid teachers, living in a cozy house with our cats…and eventually, our children.

I was wrong. I was so so wrong. It took me a long time to get over him. Sometimes I do wonder if I truly am over him. Part of the reason I started writing about my historical endeavors was because of him. I began to put our story to paper - the two history nerds in love - as a way of coping with the heartbreak. The writing process has finally helped me get over him.

So, I offer y’all First Impressions, a vignette of the day I truly believed I met my better half:

I’m pretty sure I was in love with him from the moment I caught him smiling at me during the first class session of one of my graduate history seminars. I walked in the room with my friend Christina, and I could feel a gaze on me instantly. This bearded guy, wearing a black and red checkered shirt and glasses. I took him in…his adorable freckles. His mirthful brown eyes. His floppy dark hair, sprinkled ever-so-slightly with grey. His good-natured grin.

Just him, really.

He wasn’t trying to play coy; that was a definite. Not with the way his gaze remained fixed on me.

So, I take back my earlier sentiment: I know I was in love with him upon our first meeting.

I didn’t think that first day back to school would have me instantly falling for some guy I’d never even spoken to. I honestly thought I’d be on my own in that seminar. Christina, of course, was with me, and at least I’d be able to make some snarky commentary with her underneath our breaths during whatever lecture we’d have, but really, the class was meant to be an independent research project. Maybe I’d have to make some awkward small talk with the other students at some point in the semester. Cultivating relationships? Nah. I was beyond caring about that in grad school, and this class was giving me the opportunity to work (mostly) independently.

I liked relying on myself. I liked being alone. Alone meant I could focus on getting a good grade; the class was a “capstone.” You needed to pass to meet all requirements in the MA program. The final paper was worth 60% of my grade—I knew it would be hard work. I didn’t need (but probably secretly wanted) the distraction of a man to prevent me from doing thorough research and writing a concise, well-mapped thesis.  I didn’t want to take the risk of having someone break my heart in the middle of the semester, causing me to have an emotional upheaval, and jeopardize my work. With my track record, I knew that’s exactly what would happen. 

(Just sayin’, men are absolutely, the worst distractions.)

But that evening, when my professor asked each of us to introduce ourselves, had me pray to God that I’d get to know the man who smiled at me. No distractions weren’t an option anymore. Who was he?

Name. Concentration. Ideal topic that we would base our final papers on. That’s what we were forced to tell the class as we went one by one around the classroom to speak.

I barely paid attention to everyone else. I didn’t even care; everyone was like, I’m so and so who just loves America so much, that I made my concentration American history!

Those damn Americanists. Where were the European historians at? I get it; we’re in America, but still…

So it’s this one other guy’s turn. He’s the epitome of tall, dark, and handsome. Couldn’t resist staring at him for a moment; he was total eye candy. Still, didn’t even care to note his name. He said he was interested in Scottish history. Okay, cool…decided I wasn’t interested. My eyes followed back to my man. I waited like an impatient sod, desperate to hear his response. If it was Europe, that was it. We were soulmates.

Finally. It was his turn.

“My name is David. My concentration is European history—”

Oh, thank God.

“And I’m interested in researching about Oscar Wilde and the sodomy charge that was brought against him.”

Interesting, I thought, as I processed what he’d just said. I myself would not have decided to research about Oscar Wilde in a history class. I think it’s because I relate Wilde too often to a literary background that I forget that yes, the charges that were brought against him would have had historical impact. As I continued to dwell on his topic (and how much I really wanted to ask him about his research), I completely ignored everyone else’s turn. Before I knew it, I had to speak.

I cleared my throat, aaaand…

“I’m Kate. My concentration is European history (there were like, five of us in the room, compared to the nine Americanists—clearly, we were the minority, but whatever), and I would like to study the libel trial against the Irish nationalist leader, Charles Stewart Parnell.”

Boom. That’s right. Go Ireland. My professor commented on my topic but I can’t even remember what he told me. My mind was elsewhere.

I dared to look at David.

(Wasn’t even paying attention to Christina, who was now telling the class about her research project.)

And he was still staring back in my direction.

(Those pretty brown eyes.)

Class ended at nine that evening. Tall, dark, and handsome, to my surprise, flagged me down. Wanted to know more about my fascination with Parnell.

Especially was wondering why I hadn’t signed up for the “Ireland in War and Revolution” course that he was in.

Honestly, I had wanted to. My favorite professor was teaching it, and he’d told me about the course before I’d signed up for fall semester classes the previous spring. The truth was, I was craving a different area of Europe to study (as much as I loved Ireland), so I told him that I opted to take “Stalinism” (of all topics) with my second favorite professor in the history department instead.

And I was barely paying attention to him. I was trying, not-so-subtlety, to look for David, but he’d walked out ahead of me and this guy, who politely introduced himself as Josh (glad he did, because I really didn’t remember his name from the classroom introductions.)

Like the nerd I am, I continued to ramble to Josh that I wanted to learn more about Stalin… because I loved discussing rhetoric in totalitarian governments (truth) and that was the reason I hadn’t wanted to take the Ireland class (double truth). My history obsessions are sooo seductive, I know. I thought Josh would be turned off after that (he probably thought, wow, this girl’s a weirdo, let me walk away from her slowly), but no! He continued to walk with me to the quad. Josh was talking up his interests in Scotland (…meh), but said he had an interest in Ireland, and then I’m there correcting him when he merely referred to the Provisional Irish Republican Army as the “IRA.”

They had different names. The PIRA, the faction that emerged during the Northern Irish “Troubles,” was the one we were discussing, and I always get so pissed when people just call them as the the “IRA.”

(Nitpicky, yes, I know.)

But on our way to the quad, I saw out the corner of my eye, someone lighting up a cigarette. Oh eww, secondhand smoke. Gross. I turned my head from Josh, and looked at the offender.

David. Trying so desperately to get his lighter to work. The flame met the cigarette just as I locked eyes with him again for probably the sixtieth time that night.

He looked at me guiltily, and it was sooo awkward that I just turned my attention back to Josh. We walked past David, and I felt like a total jerk.

Ugh.

(I was a fool. In love.)

And it would be another week before we saw each other again.

(Double ugh.)

Until next time…

Many happy returns,

-Kate