“Rage, rage against the dying of the light.”
This week was melancholy. This week was hard. This week? I almost quit this journey. I thought of how to tastefully bow out of this journey. There was a personal thing happening with my ex-husband, Zachary, and my children.
Note: One day, I will write that book. Moving on.
And the stress of that issue almost made me quit. I put my kids before my dream, as always, and I was enraged. I was tempted to quit in order to make it the financial sacrifice to take care of my kids. The same kids that I was teaching to read, to value education. I was going to quit and move everything around for them. I always had. Their father never did. Never had. Never will. He is a man with his own set of learning disabilities–who never understood that I read for fun.
I almost quit…and rage cried. I had not done that in years. YEARS. I wanted to withdraw. I wanted to take all my books back. Yet, my circle told me to pull together. They helped me pull back together. I am literally 11 weeks away from my degree. This thing I should have gotten years ago!
I am 38 now, and finally doing something that I am loving. Doing well in this. Preparing to really do what I believe I am made for, prepared to do! I almost stopped, was stopped, by a man whom I have not shared a bed with in over a decade. A man that couldn’t understand how essential, crucial reading and writing were to me. Still are to me. My best friend called him a terrorist.
And this week? I lead discussions in my 3720 class. I blew Dr. Wall away with my critique of a poem by Lucille Clifton. I made headway in my Invisible Man reading, and still getting other things done for the blog and other writing stuff.
I needed to fight this week. I had to remind myself what I was working towards. And not to give up again.
After my pity party, I had to pick up my work. Always the work…