Blog

When I was a kid,, back to school clothes were a big deal. Mom and I would go to Pueblo and do all the stores. I remember going through the stacks of shirts at KMart, and pants at Germer’s and hitting the mall. I’d get everyday stuff and usually a new dress for picture day, and new shoes, and a lot of times a new coat too. I’d lay all my clothes out on my bed and take off the tags. Mom would always wash them first to get off the store cooties, but I’d hang up my first day outfit in the closet because I wanted it to have that fresh, crisp newness to it. Even after I started going to Catholic school and wore a uniform, Mom and I’d still go back to school shopping and I’d get shoes and some clothes for dances and weekends. When I started student teaching, Mom went with me to Haven’s downtown and bought me a blue dress that is still hanging in my closet, because I can’t let go of that memory.

At some point in my life, I gave up going back to school shopping for myself. I had to buy school clothes for my kids and pay bills and a mortgage and shopping for myself just became totally unnecessary. Plus as an art teacher, all my clothes had paint on them anyway. Last year, when I left the art classsroom, I knew I needed some new clothes, so I went thrift store shopping with my daughter. She sat me down and asked me about what I liked. Here’s how that conversation went.

“I like soft things.”

“Good, you should touch the clothes, because texture is the most important because that’s what you said first. “

“I also hate sleeves, high waists, floral prints, animal prints, plaid, and button down blouses. And collars. I hate collars on shirts. ”

She stared at me, and then she sighed and said, “Fine. Stay here and I will get you some clothes.” And I have to say, she did a fair job because everytime I wear the clothes she picked out, people compliment me. Clothes got fun again.

The school district does a big kick off where all the employees come together on the first day. It’s a time for introductions, information, and inspiration. My first kick off was in 1995, when I student taught. One of my elementary teachers greeted me that day with a hug and welcomed me to the district. I used to enjoy the first day, but over time my joy has eroded. When my parents died, my HR director told me that I could just do what was comfortable for me. I skipped the kick-off. As my trauma continued, walking into the crowd at the beginning of the year became like its own little source of trauma.

I was completely overwhelmed about everything about going back to school, especially the kick-off. I am afraid of having panic attacks again. I am afraid of the conversations of why I left, why I am back. I am afraid of meeting new people and being in a new building and managing all the balls that get thrown everyday. I am afraid that I am too shattered to put myself together and be everything I need to be to do this job. My new principal had asked us to wear purple to the first day kick off. So I was also was worried that I didn’t have anything to wear. A trip to the mall seemed like the way to handle it all–instead of overthinking back to school, I overthought purple.

For the record, I don’t hate purple, but I have opinions about it that aren’t necessarily flattering and it is not my go to color. I decided I wanted to wear purple camouflage pants to school the first day. Since I have to touch the clothes first, on line shopping isn’t my first choice. I set off on a pretty impossible task to find purple camo pants locally. Of course, I couldn’t. And after checking an Army supply store and taking in the rows of camouflage clothes and posters of soldiers and weapons, I decided that camo could be perceived as symbolically representing going into battle and that is not the attitude I want to convey. I did say I overthought this, didn’t I?

Next I tried a Western boutique that I have been in before. It has a classy, but comfortable vibe and the salespeople are nice. I bought a very nice blouse with an almost watercolor looking flower print, even though I HATE button downs and floral prints. I also bought a purple tank top and some gray soft brushed denim pants with purple flowers embroidered on the pockets. A whole outfit. I could have been done, but I wanted shoes. And I needed make up and a new lanyard. So I went to the mall.

I was still thinking about purple camo, so I went into Hot Topic when I got to the mall. On the sales rack was one pair of purple plaid pants. I spotted them immediately and they were my size, so I tried them on. I could see with the right shirt and belt, that I could pull them off, even though the phrase “clown pants” went through my head. Perfect for school spirit day. I felt a little ridiculous, buying pants at a store for edgy teens. But I felt like I was ready for school as far as purple went.

The morning of the kick off, I put on my new flower purple shirt, and brushed denim pants and looked at myself in the mirror. Flowers. Buttons. A collar. I couldn’t. I took it off. I looked in my closet and found my Prince T-shirt. It sort of worked with the gray pants, but I hate the texture of it and I didn’t know if wearing a rock music t-shirt was a good first day look. I didn’t want to look too casual, like I don’t care about the first day of school. So I took the T-shirt off and looked in my closet for a purple flowy top that I remembered I had. Technically it’s more of a purple sage. Okay, so gray. It also has spaghetti straps. I didn’t want bra straps peeking out, so I tried some brand new silicone breast petals that I have never worn. I read the directions and sort of wondered what sort of gravitational force held them to the skin. I also wondered if I wore them to school if they’d fall off. Maybe they’d come lose with sweat and slide down my body and fall to the floor in front of everyone. Oh great. I had just given myself something else to overthink. I tried on the new purple tank top, with a real bra and realized that the clown pants might work. I put them on. I looked like Donny Osmond. Flashy, yet wholesome.

Because I had spent so much time getting dressed, I walked into the kick off with minutes to spare. Before I had time to overthink where to sit, my old elementary teacher, a board member now, came up to me. She gave me a hug and said, “Welcome back.” It was like full circle. I can’t say it took away all my anxiety, but it did make me remember that I was home with my friends who love me. It reminded me of my old excitement and stirred some sort of forgotten passion. I know the purple pants aren’t magical, but all day I felt okay. Actually happy, and that is magical. I am ready to let go of the fear and step into what comes next.

My son turned thirty. Since his diagnosis, birthdays have been turbulent. As a young boy he got a heavy dose of goal setting in school and set goals for himself for every year of his life. In some ways, the goals were impossible to achieve in the best of circumstances. For example, one of goals was to run an ultra marathon by the time he was eighteen. Most organized ultra marathons don’t even let kids participate. When the voices started hijacking his life, each birthday became a symbol of another year of failure. We have had more than one birthday with him in a full on psychotic break and missing. There was the catatonic birthday and the birthday that included a grid search for his body. So I was nervous about thirty.

But turning thirty was uneventful. He sent me a picture of a house on Zillow. The house was in Detroit. The text read, “Unless you are buying me this house, for my bday, I’d be happy with seeing Mission Impossible.” We went to the movie and then joined the day drinkers at Old Chicago for an early dinner. The server brought a cookie and a scoop of ice cream and the bar joined in singing the birthday song. When we got home, he went to bed, exhausted from the effort of being a person with a birthday. I sat on the front porch. I didn’t think about HOW I have a child who is THIRTY, instead I thought about my own thirtieth birthday.

Thirty is too young for a mid-life crisis. But I sort of had one at thirty. I woke up one morning and decided that instead of bitching about my life, I should change it. I wrote a resignation letter, sold my stuff and left Alamosa. I was a single mother of a kid about to start kindergarten, but I didn’t doubt that I’d be okay. I also had my parents, so it wasn’t like I was taking a giant leap without a safety net.

I have thought about that decision more than once. The ability just to trust in a giant leap of faith. I am more educated, have more money in the bank, and my kids are grown more or less. I could do the same thing now, except that I can’t. My ability to trust in the universe has been damaged and my safety net has been repaired with off brand tape. In fact, some days I feel like I have fallen into the net and am struggling to be free from the ropes and tape and all the debris that has collected over the years.

A few weeks ago I went to Albuquerque. I did the round trip adventure in one day. I am not a long haul driver and I get sleepy driving. On the way home, my mom was in the cab of the truck with me. I didn’t have a vision or anything, I just felt her there. She was there to keep me company, to keep me safe. I could feel it. Then on the way back from Detroit, I pulled over on two separate occasions because my eyes were closing and I just couldn’t stay focused. I fell into deep, deep sleeps and my dad came to me in both. In one he was helping me cross the sand dunes as I carried a baby in my arms. In the next, he was coming to pick up a friend; he stopped by for a visit. He told me that everything was fine and he was there, I’d be okay. It’s time to fly.

I have been thinking about the flying thing. I know what it means. My dad was a paratrooper. He made combat jumps in the Korean War and Viet Nam. Once on a road trip, he told me about the training and tests he took to become a jumper. He said sometimes in the battles, he saw lights, like angels, showing him the path.

So while I was at the movies celebrating with my son, all my Pueblo friends were back at school getting ready for the new kids. I think I feel guilty for leaving Park View. I loved those kids and know I made a difference. And not everybody chooses to work in that neighborhood. I want the best for them, yet I know in my heart that I needed something a little easier, a little lighter, for my own mental health.

Teaching is not easy or light anywhere. I have agonized and agonized over my decision to go back into the classroom at all. I am doing another year. Just language arts. It feels feel full circle. My first year as a teacher; I taught sixth grade language arts. I know I can use my art skills and get kids to connect to words and stories and build their confidence with writing,. I’ll be in a building with strong women who have been my rocks on this journey. I can ride my bike to work and the view from this school is the best in town. I will be closer to home, so maybe I can help Shayne stay on his meds and keep the voices from domination. For myself, I am going back to college to get some graphic arts skills. It’s time to focus on the things I want in my life and go get them. My dad is right. It’s time to fly.

Detroit is not a day time city and it doesn’t do Mondays at all. In fact, I found the emptiness kind of eerie, like a ghost town of skyscrapers. There were no people in business suits rushing off to work. There are no corner markets, or Starbucks or Dunkin’ Donuts on every corner. The traffic lights are working, but there’s no reason to wait for a walk sign. There are no cars coming. I saw one jogger and and a few street people out and about, early like us. One man hit us up for spare change. Shayne gave him two dollars and then they struck up a full blown conversation about life on the street. Shayne told him that he’d been homeless before and then they prayed together. I watched this unfold. I can barely get my son to say two words in a row to me most days.

We discovered this thing called “the people mover” which is a train that loops the downtown, but high in the sky. The stations are full of art and there are great views of the street murals. I was super excited, snapping photos, and then I saw the baseball stadium and I wanted to get off and go see it. There was a woman laying on the sidewalk, completely passed out. Shayne said, “This is so sad. We can’t just leave her here.” He actually watched her for a full minute to see that she was breathing and then took his sweatshirt off, and put it on top of her. I snapped photos of the giant tigers in front of the stadium, but couldn’t get the woman on the street off my mind.

After spending a long time getting off and on the people mover, we decided to go to the Henry Ford museum. While waiting at the bus stop, an older man came over with a shopping cart and a random metal pole, like maybe part of a tent. He commented on Shayne’s green t-shirt, which was covered in paint. He has other clothes, but he almost always looks like he purposely took his clothes from the garbage pile. Shayne asked the man a question about brown pants which made no sense. But the man answered and they had a little chuckle.

I got on the bus and I was going to tell Shayne that he didn’t have to engage with every homeless, crazy person that we met, but then I swallowed my words. He was being nice and genuinely interested and what was it really hurting. When our stop came, the man’s metal pole got stuck in the door way and he couldn’t get his shopping cart out of the tram. People started cursing and yelling. Shayne turned back and dislodged the pole and got the cart down onto the ground. We missed our connecting bus, but I decided that it didn’t really matter. The museum would still be there. We got Detroit pizza and sat in the sunshine instead.

The restaurant was in the theater district, which I guess has the second most theater seats in the United Staes. The Fox. The Fillmore. The Gem. These buildings were built when money was flowing. There is marble and brickwork that is unbelievable. The word that came to mind was opulent. I felt like I was on a scene of a movie. A dystopian flick. The war is over. The city didn’t burn, but most of the people did. The survivors are still emerging from the shadows to see what can be salvaged.

Shayne said he liked Detroit. He said it felt like the place that he belonged. I could see it too. There was a light in him that I haven’t seen in a long time. I like Detroit too. It doesn’t feel like home to me, but I understand it. It’s a place with a rich history, but has seen its share of darkness and pain. It’s just trying to figure out how not to wallow in the despair and find the light for what is next.

My very first memory is riding on my dad’s back as he waxed his 50’s era Chevy truck. It was turquoise and white. I can still picture the gleam of the chrome on that summer day. I spent half my childhood sitting next to my dad handing him tools while he worked on a vehicle. I can never remember a time in my life when I didn’t love cars. Going to Detroit has always been on my secret bucket list.

I was ready to turn around and go home yesterday, or maybe end the trip in Chicago. I told my son what I was thinking and he said, “I want to go to Detroit.” He rarely offers an opinion. So I asked him why. He said, “Because I don’t want you to give up on your dreams.” I wouldn’t say Detroit is a dream, but it was definitely a destination on my mind.

For all my friends and family freaking out, I am aware of Detroit’s reputation as a dangerous city. I just spent a year in Pueblo which actually ranks higher on the danger scale. I figure I have traveled enough to keep myself safe and so we left Iowa City headed east not west.

A few things happened on the way. First off, we detoured and backtracked to see the future birthplace of James T. Kirk.

Then we pulled way off the interstate for an emergency bathroom spot. This trip has made me seriously wonder about adult diapers. Believe me, that’s not something I really have wondered about before! We spent thirty dollars on gas and snacks and won twenty-five on a scratch ticket, so that felt lucky. Then we stopped off at Indiana Dunes. I am also trying to see all the sand dunes in America. The sand is soft and warm, but didn’t feel as magical as other dunes I have explored. I guess because these dunes are up against the lake shore and it feels like a beach. In my mind sand goes with water, but it still was nice to walk barefoot and feel the soft texture of the sand sift around my skin. And I have never seen the skyline of Chicago from across the lake. But I definitely didn’t get that powerful feeling of awe as dunes usually leave me with. Instead that came for me later that night when I rolled into Detroit.

Maybe because of doing a lot of backroad driving, I haven’t felt like we have been through major cities on this trip. Detroit is a big city and I was blown away when I got downtown. It was a little like dragging Main, but on steroids. People were cruising in souped up cars with loud reverberating music. People were on the sidewalks waiting to get into clubs or just watching the cars. I could have done some serious car watching myself. I saw one guy driving a Lincoln convertible that was as long as a house. I saw a Caddy with different color doors, and a Charger with the hood taken off on purpose, the engine dazzling under all the neon. I looked over at Shayne and he was soaking it in. For once I could see he was alive, and energized and the pulse of the city brought him closer to the boy I remember. I went to bed, dead tired. So much has happened in three days. I got up once at three in the morning. Shayne was sitting out on the balcony, still taking it all in. I can’t remember when the last time he was so excited and alert.

I am glad that I didn’t turn back. The automotive empire may be gone, but Detroit is still here, tough, bold, and proud. It is learning how to reinvent itself. I cannot wait to see how that unfolds.

One of the goals of this trip was to get to Iowa. I wanted to cross it off my been there, done that state list. I guess I had this illusion that I would stand by the Welcome to Iowa sign and snap a selfie or something. I didn’t know the sign was going to be in the middle of the freaking interstate and I would see it and exclaim–“There it is! I guess we’re in Iowa!”

Iowa has a ton of associations for me. My roommate in college was from Ottumwa, which is also where Radar from MASH was from. My son’s father is from Iowa. My high school bestie went to medical school in Iowa. I could go on. Visiting Iowa has become kind of a quest for me. I have been to all the states around it without ever going through it. Twice I have right on the edge of the border and not crossed the line. I signed up for the Great Bike Ride Across Iowa, but had technical difficulties with registration and just didn’t retry. So getting to Iowa has become like one of those goals, like climbing a fourtteener or running a marathon–hard to accomplish, but maybe worth the effort?

Since getting to Iowa was the THING, I didn’t really have a destination or activity planned. We stopped off at the zoo in Omaha before “crossing the border.” A stop off at that zoo, isn’t just a stop off. The zoo is HUGE and has all the things–rainforests and deserts and insects and water parks. My little boy son would have loved this zoo. My grown up son loved the zoo for about two hours, then I could see that he checked out. Probably too much for him. I also wonder if he brought his medicine. I am not seeing outward signs of him losing his shit, but subtle stuff reminds me that he is fragile. He needs rest and too much stimulation bombards his brain and makes him feel attacked. I haven’t actually seen him physically take his medicine either. I asked him if he brought it. I asked him if he is taking it. Both yeses. But he also tells me what I want to hear. So it’s a strong possibility his pills are on the counter back home. If that’s the case, going home today is probably the plan. However, that MIGHT be difficult.

My tire popped on the interstate yesterday. It’s been a minute since I had a flat, but I do know how to change a tire and I have the tools. A sweet farm kid stopped off and offered to help and I let him because I was pretty sure he’d be faster than me. It happened near a town called Atlantic. Long story short there was no tire to fit my car. I did learn that you can use the INTERNET to search for stores that have the exact tire you need. There were exactly three stores in Iowa with the size of tire I needed. All very far away from Atlantic and only one open on Sunday.

So taking the backroads and driving 45 miles an hour, I set off for Iowa City. At first it was kind of fun, rolling through the green country sides with weathered barns, and rolls of hay, and horses and white tailed fawns standing with their ears up. Shayne and I ate a dinner of food I had packed and it was like we were on a picnic in an old timey movie. Shayne said, “Maybe we’ll see the field of dreams out here…” and then we passed a sign labeled Madison County. And he said, “Hey, Bridges of Madison County.” And sure enough we were on the scenic byway for covered bridges.

At any other time in my life, I would have stopped and gone to all six of the existing bridges, but I was driving on a donut in the middle of nowhere. Most of the roads to the bridges are gravel and I was already miles and miles away from my destination. I did take one detour to one bridge which turned out to be on Francesca Lane. We also saw the Warren County Fair and a balloon festival in a field. The balloons weren’t up yet, but a kite flying completion was underway. When the darkness settled in, I was over the backroads, and ready to go home. We made it to Iowa City safely and I had a good night’s sleep and the car tire is being fixed.

We are in a hotel right next to Iowa State. –home of the Jayhawks. The city has a nice vibe. A river. Art. Ducks. Iowa State has an excellent writing program. I sometimes wonder why I didn’t think I could be a writer when I was younger. I have to remind myself to focus on the path that I am on, not the one that I didn’t take. The guy just called to tell me that my car is ready and I noticed that Shayne’s medicine is on the floor next to his bag. I guess trusting the journey is a lesson I am still learning. It really isn’t about where you are going, it’s about how you get there and what you learn on the way.

My son was six years old when I went to graduate school in Virginia. I remember being so excited to road-trip across America. I grew up road-tripping. Not a summer of my childhood passed without the road atlas being brought to the table and destinations like the Grand Canyon or San Fransisco being routed out. One of my jobs was to help my dad load up the big, heavy red cooler with ice. Then I would decide how many books I would read and get my “side” of the back seat ready with a pillow and my favorite swimming towel. On my son’s first road trip he took a stack of Pokémon cards, Harry Potter and his battered Kermit the Frog.

Even though things like Garmin existed in the late nineties, I didn’t have that technology. I didn’t even have a cell phone in graduate school. It became my son’s job to follow the route in the big atlas. I remember him reading off the names of the cities, sometimes spelling them if he wasn’t sure how to say them. He started circling them as we passed them by. I still have the atlas with all the cities and towns circled along I70. I couldn’t bear to let it go, even if atlases are passé. I considered bringing it on this trip, but didn’t want to unearth it from its hiding spot.

I have been on a quest to get to all fifty states. The ones I have left are random and I have had no pressing need to go to any of them. Iowa is one the list. I have been to all the states surrounding it. Twice this summer I went to Omaha and didn’t make it across the state line to set foot in Iowa. So I decided I would traverse across Nebraska one more time and make it to Iowa. And I’d take Shayne.

Shayne has been struggling. The effects of the antipsychotic he is on has worn off and he has been improperly medicated or maybe not all for several months. At the beginning of July, he finally got into his provider and she changed his medicine. He has gone through an adjustment period and he seems to be in a better place. At least he isn’t accusing me of being an imposter anymore. I asked him if he wanted to go on a road trip. His response? He got his bag out, threw in his clothes, a novel, and his Beats.

The first day was uneventful. We took the back road route. At one point I said we were traveling like Rain Man and Shayne looked over at me and laughed. We talked about our dream houses and wind energy and memories of past road trips. We stopped for gas at a place surrounded by cornfields. The station had a single pump and it was old school with the dial numbers. An old guy dressed in overalls came out and said, “fill er up?” It was like a cartoon.

When I came to Nebraska at the beginning of the summer, I landed at the airport and saw a giant elephant sculpture. I didn’t think much of it until I started seeing random elephant art in the small towns I was passing by. I learned that thousands of pioneers made their way across Nebraska on their quest for a better life in Oregan or the goldfields of California. They called the journey “chasing the elephant.” I keep thinking about that metaphor. I can relate. I feel like I am chasing something too. I just don’t have a clear vision of what it is. But Nebraska keeps calling me. I find the endless green fields and wide blue sky calming. Last night I saw fireflies. Magical.

I awoke to the sound of rain this morning. The forecast is promising a break in the heat. Shayne was laughing at something only he can hear in the shower. Usually that kind of stuff makes me uneasy, but he wasn’t screaming or cursing, so it could be worse. When he emerged from the bathroom, he was clean, smiling, and said, “What’s on the map today?”

I am not sure. But we are hitting the road.

Someone asked me recently why I haven’t been blogging lately. I told her that I have spent a lot time this summer pulling weeds and it’s not the most thrilling subject. . Between the rain and the heat, weeds have been ridiculous. And that’s not even commenting on the swarm of insects that rises in a cloud of turbulence with every weed unearthed. I have decided that I don’t love yard work.

My house is hot. I have a window air unit and it keeps the living room bearable. The swamp cooler upstairs keeps the attic cool when it works. The swamp cooler is a millennial because it works when it feels like it. I have replaced every part of it and tonight it was the fan that quit. I turned off the pump and turned on my old fashioned fan and got back in bed.

I couldn’t go back to sleep. At first, I thought about the swamp cooler some. Do I get a new fan? Buy a new swamp cooler? A window unit? Central air? I tried to think of something else.

I went to see The Sound of Freedom. It’s like Law and Order SVU only on the big screen. The cinematography is incredible and it is based on a true story. I am sure the Barbie movie will make a better profit, because living in a Barbie world is much more entertaining than living in a world where children are sex slaves. But what really resonated with me was the power of storytelling. Some stories are harder to tell and even harder to hear. Those are the stories that can change the world. Stories that remain buried only gain in power until they explode.

The real reason I haven’t been blogging is that someone recently asked me not to. Not quit blogging exactly, but to not blog about teaching. Censor myself. I am kind of laughing at that. Imagine what I could say, if I wasn’t already censoring myself. That’s the power of storytelling. And I guess that’s why it makes people uncomfortable. Don’t talk. Don’t complain. Don’t cry. Don’t say trauma.

August is coming and apparently the weeds aren’t stopping and I have to make a decision about the damn swamp cooler. Also the rest of my life. The only thing that I absolutely know to be true is that I am not going to stop writing. I just don’t know which story comes next. I’ll keep thinking about it.

I know it’s only July, but I have already had my first stress dream about school. In the dream I showed up to the wrong school to teach and I was in a grade I hadn’t expected to teach. I had a teaching partner who was an old robot and the students were androids. My job was to plug-in the students and charge them by programming them with repetitive tasks like writing their names over and over. I woke up from the dream and decided that I was not going to even try to unpack that, instead I was going to spend the day with my nieces.

My brother lives in Asia, so I only see him and his family once a year. I am always amazed each year at how my nieces have grown and changed. I always feel like I only get them for a little bit, so I need to soak it all in. Most of the time, we don’t really do anything super fancy, play board games, eat pizza, go to the park, or the river, pick strawberries, swim. Normal things we do around here. I realized that my oldest niece will be going to college soon and I might not get too many more summers. My younger niece was a baby when my parents died and has really only known me during all my trauma of the last years. We haven’t really built memories. I wanted to have some time with them, build memories that they could take home and remember forever.

My nieces have traveled far more than I have and have been to some of the most beautiful and famous places in the world, but I felt like the Denver Art museum would be a big hit. It really is a great space. It’s not like a place just to walk around and look at paintings, it is so much more. The curators are friendly and knowledgeable and go out of their way to guide visitors to a good experience. There are interactive displays to help engage with the art. For example, there was a wooden story book model that could be touched and unfolded right next to a centuries old story book. Getting to touch the model really provides understanding of the complexity of the art. There are videos of artists working through their process, interactive maps, and lots of places to sit down and do art with quality materials.

I was a little disappointed that my brother just delivered one niece to me, but ten minutes into the drive to Denver, I realized that a day alone with my oldest niece was going to be a treat. She is sixteen and just getting ready to be an upperclassman, which in her country is really all about what comes after schooling is over. She is planning on college, so she was telling me about her interest based project (painting) and the difficulties she had with the process. She is also going to a summer program in Japan after her US visit and she was worried about staying in a dorm and if she’d have enough clothes and what the classes might be like. My own kids have been through these experiences of camp and going to college, but it was different with my niece. I didn’t feel like I needed to advise her or reassure her, or worry about her choices. I just could enjoy the conversation.

I didn’t plan our visit around a special exhibit, but it just so happened that our visit coincided with an exhibit of Japanese women and brush strokes. Since my niece is interested in painting and Japan, that exhibit caught her attention right away. The walls were full of centuries of work from princess and pagans hidden in the shadows, finally brought to light. We saw work of one artist who had her arms cut off as a child and learned to paint with the brush handle in her mouth. Her work was delicate and fluid. We ended the visit in a studio, grinding our own ink and painting with fine brushes for as long as we wanted.

After the museum, we had lunch. The day turned out to be the perfect temperature and we sat outside with the tall buildings all around. Everytime I am in the city and I get a moment just to sit and gaze around me, I remember that I love Denver. I love the energy. It makes me feel alive and full of possibility.

After lunch, we went to an art store on Broadway, then checked out an arcade Monica wanted to go to. I have never been much of a gamer, but I did grow up in the eighties, so I have been to arcades and as a teenager spent my fair share of quarters in pinball machines and Ms. Pac-Man. While my own kids dabbled a bit in gaming and I have listened to two decades of students telling me about different games, nothing really prepared me for Round One. First of all, it was the largest arcade I have ever been to. It is in a mall, in one of those defunct department store spaces, but it has been filled with hundreds of pulsating, neon, machines. I thought about my son. I wondered how he would process the lights and noise. I imagine it would like the machines were calling out to him, each vying for attention. It felt a bit like that to me without the schizophrenia. Monica was at home though. She knew how to load credits on her card and headed right for the dancing machines. .She clicked through the screen, even though everything was in Japanese, choosing the music, the pace, the level of difficulty, and then she jammed. I am going to say that I felt like I was getting cardio just from watching her. The machine gave her an A. I got an F on my turn. We did one of those racing games together and it actually felt like I was racing my car through a mountain canyon. I found a version of Pac-man which was definitely more my speed, but it wasn’t the same memorized pattern that is still automatic for me, but more complicated and larger than life. We took our “tickets” which were automatically loaded onto the cards to the “prize” store. Mostly, we saved all the points racked up by my Pac-man prowess, because Monica is hoping to get to take her dad to Round One. My brother would love it. If not, there is a Round One in Tokyo. Monica was telling me that the arcade started in Japan and the one in Tokyo is eight stories high. She said that not only are there video games, but restaurants and a sports complex. The one in Denver has a bowling alley and air hockey, pool, and karaoke rooms. Monica was sweating from the dancing, and so excited to be there. It was awesome to see her so happy.

When I delivered her back to my brother, my younger niece begged me to play a game of pool with her. I told her that I was disappointed that she didn’t come. She told me that she didn’t get up that early. I have to think about night owl activities for that kid.

I drove home happy to have had the day. My niece is growing into such an amazing young woman, but still has the unspoiled excitement of a joyous little kid at her core. It was a pleasure to spend the day just enjoying love. It gave me hope for all the possibilities ahead.

I avoid social media at this time of year; the memories of all the past June tragedies are a lot. But that doesn’t mean the memories don’t come anyway. Lately, I have been thinking about my mom. I used to go over to the house and sit at the kitchen counter and watch her cook and tell her the stuff that was happening in my life. If it was good stuff, she’d cheer. If it wasn’t, she’d suggest we go shopping. Hence, whenever I have decisions to make, I wander around The Buckle and Forever 21 for while.

I have had an incredibly difficult time sinking into the rhythm of summer this year. The whole decision of what I am going to do next year for a job has been weighing heavy on my mind. I was thinking about what my mom would say. First off, she wouldn’t understand my angst about teaching. She always thought teachers are to be held in great esteem because they are giving everything to kids for the better of the world. She was proud of me for being an artist and a writer, but she was most proud of me for being a teacher. Second, she wouldn’t have understood the Pueblo thing. She would look around at the boarded up buildings, and weeds and graffiti and just see DANGER. She would recognize that the kids need safety and someone to care about them. She probably would have trotted out her wallet a dozen times and bought hoodies, backpacks, and books for my classroom. But she wouldn’t have thought that I would have to be the one to teach there. Let someone else do that. Then she would have had plenty of things to say about my personal life. I don’t know what she would have said about her grandson though. My guess is she would have been at a loss with him and probably doing the same thing I am, hoping for better.

There have been plenty of bad summers with Shayne since his diagnosis, but this is the worst. I don’t know how to help him anymore. The strong roots of family that I was raised with hold me in the game and support him and love him and just try to make it through whatever obstacle comes our way. On the other hand the absolute enormity of a lifetime of his disease makes me want to push him to be as self sufficient as he can be, which every time puts him on the street or in a situation were he ends up being held down by security guards and shot up with a cocktail of drugs. Both scenarios keep me up at night.

Earlier this week I went and finished the llama mural I started at Parkview. I ran into one of my students. His face lit up and he came and gave me a full on hug, not a “dab me up” fist bump. He said Miss Tay Tay! Then he went and got his crew and they rode their bikes over and shared their Takis with me. After that I went and turned in my resignation.

I don’t know if it was the right choice. I love those kids. I know that not everyone wants to teach in that neighborhood and I want the best for them. But I also need to take care of myself and my own family. I guess I am practicing making decisions for myself instead of everyone else. It’s not so easy, after a lifetime of thinking about everyone else first. Dad came to me in a dream last night. He was sweeping up my bedroom–all sorts of stuff–cat litter, Monopoly money, piles of dirt. I was scrambling to pick up dice out of the debris, thinking about using it for math games. He stopped me and said, “Let it go. It’s time for a new story.”

Okay. Message received. So instead of worrying about the future and fretting about the past, I am going to try to just live in the moment. This past year has taught me so much about grace and love and strength. No matter what happens next, those lessons live in my heart and will take me to the next chapter.

I always share my blogs on social media, but this will just be for me and my few followers. I have thought a lot about sharing this. Most people will be appalled and frightened and turn away from me like a disease that might be catching. If the stigma is to be broken, then stories must be shared.

My son assaulted me a week ago. He punched me five or six times in the face and head. The attack was sudden and brutal and I didn’t see it coming. Even though, I was surprised in the moment, I guess I’ve known that it could happen. The voices don’t like me. They keep a running commentary about me–“she isn’t your real mom”–“she never loved you”–“she wants your soul”–“she wants your money.” Who knows what else.

I don’t manage his medicine. I used to try, but it was an illusion. He would take it or he wouldn’t. He’s one of those interesting cases where the medicine doesn’t really work anyway. Maybe at best it brings the voices from screaming to a mutinous whisper. So this time, he blitzed me. I have a black eye, my mouth was cut inside and is bruised, but most of the blows were to my head behind my ear and my arm that was shielding my face. I don’t look horrible because my hair is hiding some of the injuries. Emotionally, it’s a different story.

At first, I was numb. I couldn’t take in what it meant. The few people I did tell all had opinions about what should happen. Police. Hospital. Out of the house. The cycle of abuse has started. The genie is out of the bottle; it will be easier for it to come out again. I know about all that, and I’m not saying it’s wrong, but at the same time, he is my son and he is ill. If he had cancer or AIDs, would I kick him out and make him live on the street? I went to social services and asked for help. I went to adult protective services. I’ve been there before. I was turned away. This time fresh bruises got me in the door. They listened and said they’d discuss his case and see if he qualified for services. I reminded them that I’d been before, trying to be proactive. I’m back, lucky this time. It could’ve been worse, maybe next time, I won’t be so lucky, maybe it will be someone else. Who will be responsible at that point?

I was able to apply for some services that my son is not getting and I did find out about a new resource in my community that might actually help with housing and maybe employment. I set up appointments. But that doesn’t fix the situation immediately. My son seems as shell shocked as I do, like he can’t believe that he is capable of what happened. He isn’t denying it, but he also can barely face me. My emotions are stealing in around my armor and my overwhelming feeling is sadness. But a sadness so big, that if I fully unleashed it, I am sure it would engulf me like giant tidal waves and carry me far out into an unreachable place. So I am acknowledging that the sadness is there and allowing it to wash over my feet; I’m not strong enough to swim in it. Yet.

Strength is a funny thing. Every time we come to a crossroad on this journey, I don’t think I have the strength for what comes next, but the strength finds me and I move forward. I am looking for the light. I sure hope it shows up soon.