matthias417
06-01-2015, 03:47 PM
The cracked blinds that strained to protect my eyes from the sunrise failed at their duty once again, and I struggled to accept the fact that it was once again another sleepless night that had, with some mercy, come to an end. I throw the thinning quilt to the side, acknowledge the bed sheet still lying crumpled at the bottom of the bed, and shuffle the 15 feet to the bathroom. On the way, I make a mark on the calendar recently hung up on the kitchen wall. 27 days.
Maybe I will make it.
I think I forgot to put shampoo in my hair. It feels different.
I arrive 20 minutes early for work; a rarity until day 0. I don’t think this will be a story about a scorned lover or regret. I hope it’s a story about living with decisions and moving on and making a better life for yourself.
I wave at the aide walking outside to do her early morning playground duty. She sees a change, but she’s far too polite to say anything. I tell her I’m great and looking forward to the upcoming summer vacation. The reality is that I dread it. Too much time. Alone.
Maybe loneliness will be good for me. It will give me time to reflect and ultimately become a better person. I can worry about me and my well-being. Maybe get into yoga. Maybe learn karate in an adult beginner’s class. Maybe I’ll make it.
I’ve been drinking pretty heavy for awhile. I think that’s part of the reason she left. I don’t need to drink anymore. In misery, I find a comforting clarity. An understanding about the way relationships and people work. Everything is fleeting and tenuous, and it takes a certain amount of general passion to make it through. I wonder if I have that. Life doesn’t seem as complicated anymore.
The first student walks into my room, shouts a cheery, “Good morning, Mr. -----------!” I respond in kind and talk about what we did over the weekend. I lie. I say I had a fun time with some friends and read a couple books. I didn’t.
More students enter the room and talk excitedly about summer vacation. With every fiber of my being I join the conversation. My enthusiasm is infectious and the students (some of them) talk about how they’ll miss me next year. I say I’ll miss them too. I lie.
We talk about the differences in mediums like dramas, movies, and books. I must have been speaking in a language they understood. I don’t know if they listened or just stared, but this doesn’t happen often in 8th grade. Middle school kids are fantastic judges of character for everyone but themselves. There’s a kid in the back looking at me strangely. Maybe he can see I’m a different person.
The next period is much the same. I’m exhausted. I need to sleep. But we sign up for certain things, and there are few days off in education. I think back to the calendar. 27 days. Maybe I’ll make it.
I try to eat lunch. It doesn’t go down.
Sixth period is my favorite class. They like to have a good time. I tell them that today is one of our last days of work. They react in mock horror and gasp dramatically. Just like I taught them. We talk about dramas, books, and movies. I think they learned something. I feel better. I did something well.
I cry during my prep period. It’s a good time to cry. I needed it. 28 days will be hard.
My principal comes to see me at the end of the day for my end-of-the-year summative assessment. It is very complimentary. I suppose I should be flattered. I ask for a letter of recommendation instead. He looks at me knowingly. I hope my eyes aren’t too red.
I go home. Ignore a call from Mom. Lay on the couch. The broken blinds have to strain less now. I grab the knife that’s been on the coffee table since day 26. It makes more sense to me now. It’s simple, the way things should be. A clear purpose, a clear task. I think about the mess. I throw it at the wall with the picture of the cow on it.
Maybe day 28 will be better. It’s not about her. It’s about everything changing all the time. About how just as you get comfortable something goes wrong. Maybe that’s it, maybe there isn’t supposed to be comfort, or maybe I missed that day in kindergarten. I look over to where I threw the knife. Day 23’s is there too.
I walk over and pick them up. I put day 23 away. I don’t think I’m quite done with day 27. I want to be.
Maybe I will make it.
I think I forgot to put shampoo in my hair. It feels different.
I arrive 20 minutes early for work; a rarity until day 0. I don’t think this will be a story about a scorned lover or regret. I hope it’s a story about living with decisions and moving on and making a better life for yourself.
I wave at the aide walking outside to do her early morning playground duty. She sees a change, but she’s far too polite to say anything. I tell her I’m great and looking forward to the upcoming summer vacation. The reality is that I dread it. Too much time. Alone.
Maybe loneliness will be good for me. It will give me time to reflect and ultimately become a better person. I can worry about me and my well-being. Maybe get into yoga. Maybe learn karate in an adult beginner’s class. Maybe I’ll make it.
I’ve been drinking pretty heavy for awhile. I think that’s part of the reason she left. I don’t need to drink anymore. In misery, I find a comforting clarity. An understanding about the way relationships and people work. Everything is fleeting and tenuous, and it takes a certain amount of general passion to make it through. I wonder if I have that. Life doesn’t seem as complicated anymore.
The first student walks into my room, shouts a cheery, “Good morning, Mr. -----------!” I respond in kind and talk about what we did over the weekend. I lie. I say I had a fun time with some friends and read a couple books. I didn’t.
More students enter the room and talk excitedly about summer vacation. With every fiber of my being I join the conversation. My enthusiasm is infectious and the students (some of them) talk about how they’ll miss me next year. I say I’ll miss them too. I lie.
We talk about the differences in mediums like dramas, movies, and books. I must have been speaking in a language they understood. I don’t know if they listened or just stared, but this doesn’t happen often in 8th grade. Middle school kids are fantastic judges of character for everyone but themselves. There’s a kid in the back looking at me strangely. Maybe he can see I’m a different person.
The next period is much the same. I’m exhausted. I need to sleep. But we sign up for certain things, and there are few days off in education. I think back to the calendar. 27 days. Maybe I’ll make it.
I try to eat lunch. It doesn’t go down.
Sixth period is my favorite class. They like to have a good time. I tell them that today is one of our last days of work. They react in mock horror and gasp dramatically. Just like I taught them. We talk about dramas, books, and movies. I think they learned something. I feel better. I did something well.
I cry during my prep period. It’s a good time to cry. I needed it. 28 days will be hard.
My principal comes to see me at the end of the day for my end-of-the-year summative assessment. It is very complimentary. I suppose I should be flattered. I ask for a letter of recommendation instead. He looks at me knowingly. I hope my eyes aren’t too red.
I go home. Ignore a call from Mom. Lay on the couch. The broken blinds have to strain less now. I grab the knife that’s been on the coffee table since day 26. It makes more sense to me now. It’s simple, the way things should be. A clear purpose, a clear task. I think about the mess. I throw it at the wall with the picture of the cow on it.
Maybe day 28 will be better. It’s not about her. It’s about everything changing all the time. About how just as you get comfortable something goes wrong. Maybe that’s it, maybe there isn’t supposed to be comfort, or maybe I missed that day in kindergarten. I look over to where I threw the knife. Day 23’s is there too.
I walk over and pick them up. I put day 23 away. I don’t think I’m quite done with day 27. I want to be.