And time stood still...

It has been 5 years since I was investigated, exonerated, and my case with the BOEE was thrown out. In fact, 5 years ago today, I took a personal day to go to the actual meeting and hear my case. It wasn't on that meeting that time, but I took the day anyway. 

It's been a long time since I thought of all the dates associated with my case, my PTSD and really, what I saw as, at the time, the end to my teaching career. 

I have been blissfully unaware, kicking ass and taking names, where I currently am. No longer do I think about what had happened. Not too long ago, Eric actually said her name and it shocked me; I hadn't thought of her, or heard her name in ages. It was weird to think about, and we were able to laugh it off. 

But in these situations, there is never one person. There is a small group of people, with one person leading the herd. That was this student, and mainly, her mother. They went on the witch-hunt, and they got two other parents involved. When I think of the situation, I don't think of these other parents. I just think of the one person who started it all. The one person who mainly lead the pack. The one person who caused me the stress, anxiety, tears, hatred. 

Today, I came face to face with one of those parents, and was not ready for my mind's reaction. 

As I was walking out of my office, I came face to face with one of those parents, who was carrying mail in from the district office. That's right, because he works for the school district. 

At first, it was hard to recognize him and I remember thinking, "No, that cannot be him." But when I made eye contact with him, I knew. And I knew he knew. I could see the recognition in his eyes. But it was like my mind didn't believe it. So I continued my walk back to the mail room, and so did he. He sorted the mail and walked out. I took a minute to compose myself, because while standing there watching him get the mail as I checked my mail box, I realized that it was him. It was, in fact, someone who had made my life a living hell. Someone who had accused me of things my principal called "crazy" but yet, still allowed the school district to investigate me, time and time again. 

When he left, I asked the secretaries if they knew who he was, as he looked familiar to me. They said his name was Bill. As I was asking what his last name was, a custodian was walking by and said his last name.

Immediately, my heart rate soared, my hands turned cold, I couldn't breathe and it felt like I was having an out of body experience. Immediately, my eyes began to tear up, and my fight or flight response kicked in. I had to get out of that office. My co-worked, who had been standing at the desk, noticed my response and was concerned.  I explained to her that this individual had tried to get me fired from my last school district. In fact, he had run for the school board on the platform of getting me fired. Talk about a strong hatred for someone! Of course, he didn't win, but at the same time, it was apparent that he, and these other people, would stop at nothing to make sure that I didn't have a job. In fact, it got to the point where the school district had to tell him that he no longer had children in the system, so they were not going to listen to him in regard to his complaints about me. But that was after the damage was already done. 

It was the first time in a long time that I dissociated. It was like I was floating above my body and I couldn't breathe. I had to concentrate really hard on breathing and acting normal. It was the worst 5 minutes I have had in a long time. 

But I can tell I am better. I am stronger. I snapped out of it long enough to pull myself together. 

The rest of the day was up and down. There were times when I had the flight response and wanted to hole up in my office. But there were other times where I wanted to say, "Bring it, fucker." I had to repeat to myself "this situation does not define me as a teacher or a human being." The same thing I had written on those orange post-it notes and hung all over my house. 

In the end, I won. I won against every single ridiculous accusation there was. Because I didn't do anything wrong.

I went back and forth between talking to my principal about the situation, as Bill is also a bus driver in our district. I have, just this month, requested 3 buses. Odds are, he will be the driver for one of them. It makes me wonder if I should actually say something to someone. But I don't want anyone to know. Those days, that school, that life is behind me. I don't want to drudge it all up again. But at the same time, I want and HAVE to protect myself. Isn't that my right? 

I also went back and forth between talking to my school resource officer. Again, I don't know if what I would tell him would be confidential, Again, I don't want to bring this life back up again if I don't have to. So I emailed a friend of mine, who also happens to be a detective, but one day a week serves as a school resource officer, and explained my story to him. It was via email, and it was a very abbreviated version, but hopefully, he can give me some insight. 

Otherwise, I suppose I will continue to do what I know how to do. Teach, love my students, and live my life. 

Bring it, fucker. 

The Haircut

You don't know how far you've come until you know where you've been. 

Or something like that. 

It's funny when someone tells me that they were "on the verge of a panic attack" in regard to something they have experienced when I know full well they have no idea where that precipice actually lies. It somewhat pains me to have to throw my head back and let out a chuckle at their dramatic rendition of the time they forgot to add theeeee key ingredient into a dish they were making for Thanksgiving, and they were "on the verge of a panic attack" in thinking that they weren't going to get to the store in time when they realized that the store was actually open later for the holiday season. But I respond that way because I know they are simply using verbage to make their story somewhat entertaining. They aren't doing it to spite me, egg me on, make fun of me or anything of that sort. They are simply telling a story. 

But I know what it's like to be on the verge of a panic attack all too well, which usually shocks some people. My pride doesn't appreciate the fact that at one point in my life I was so broken that my mind would actually dissociate, or disengage, to protect me if I ever sensed any danger. Yet, that's what happened. It took a long time to be able to bounce back from that, and even now, I'm still not where I was before. I doubt I ever will be. 

Last night, I cut the last of James' baby hairs off the top of his head. His hair grew in weird so that he had more hair in the back and on the sides than at the top. So although I've cut his hair three times, before last night, I had never cut the top. 

That haircut sent me into a tailspin. At first, I was gung-ho about cutting his hair. His little curly locks were getting so long and with summer coming to an end, I knew those curls would only last as long as the humidity did, which isn't for too much longer. So I gave him four freezie-pops and told him to sit out on the deck in his chair so I could cut his hair. He was all for it. 

I started with the sides and worked my way back. And then I cut the top. I was sad, and by that point, James was through all four freezies and I was getting tired, so it was a quick snip-snip here and there and it was over. 

Panic attacks sneak up on you. You can't see them coming and you have no idea they are about to occur. You only recognize them when you are in the middle of one. Then you can begin to calm yourself down. 

So last night, I was jittery giving James a bath. I was jittery while nursing Catherine. I was jittery after Catherine went down for the night because she went down all too easily and I thought for sure she was going to start crying, which was going to feel like nails on a chalkboard. I couldn't sleep and kept tossing and turning. And all of a sudden I was crying. 

I tried to center myself and calm myself down. I asked Eric to rub my back and I'm sure sensing something was wrong, he did. And then I just started talking. 

I talked about how I cut the last of James' baby hairs off the top of his head. And that once I did, I couldn't go back. Which got me thinking about how in everything we do with him, we can't go back. We have the ability to screw up his entire life with one simple decision if we want. And it makes me sad. It makes me sad that I can't go back after those quick snips, or after the decision to put him in time-out or the decision to put him in a real bed or the decision to let him go to bed without supper if he refuses to eat what we put in front of him. 

And at that moment, in talking everything through, I actually talked myself down. There was a time when i couldn't do that. 

Panic attacks have grown further and further apart, and less severe with each one, but they still have the ability to squeeze me so tight that I feel like I can't breathe. What-if scenarios repeat themselves over and over, so far into my sub-conscious that I have no idea I'm even doing it. 

As an exercise during counseling for my PTSD, my counselor had me write whatever was on my mind for one minute. In reading it afterward, I was shocked at how much negative self-talk there was. Almost every sentence had something that was wrong, and why it was my fault. She had my highlight all the "but if I" and "what if I" and "I should" sentences, and eventually, I wound up highlighting almost the entire thing. It was then that I realized I am my own worst enemy.

After three hours of tossing and turning, and eventually getting up to nurse Catherine, I was able to fall asleep, if only for a few hours. Luckily, I woke up less anxious, just a little sad, but thankful that I am not where I used to be. I always tell my students that the lovely thing about being you is that in whatever you do, there is always someone worse than you. So no matter how you do on something, someone out there has done much worse. However, in everything you do, there is also always someone better, so you have to strive to better yourself every day to remain a contestant against those that are better, and hopefully, you can become one of the best. 

I try to make myself better every day, and working out my negativity about myself and the way I do anything is a struggle. But it's a struggle that I'm dealing with and trying to change and striving to better every day. 

It's my struggle that makes me who I am. And I'm ok with that. 

  

November 19, 2010

November is a shitty month.

Usually, it's just starting to turn cold. Not October-cold, but wintery-cold. No more will two sweatshirts do it. You actually have to dig out your winter coat and prepare for a long winter.

November 2010 was indeed, a shitty month.

I was four months into my disastrous year at my new teaching job. A job that I made the decision to take not even a year and a half after my dad passed away, and not even a full year since I had been exonerated by my school for allegations of discrimination and "being an indecent human being."

I was taking a cocktail of little blue crazy pills, white uppers, green downers and was walking around like a zombie. The closer that I got to November 19, 2010 the more like a zombie I began to feel.

It was surprising that I could feel anything at all.

Even though the sun was shining that day, it was still bitterly cold. The type of cold that you really need gloves for, but you forgot them at home because you're not quite ready for this weather yet. So you're in some sort of denial, like if you don't wear the gloves, the sun will keep you warm.

Of course, maybe I forgot my gloves that day because I really couldn't feel anything.

Regardless, I parked and walked inside the state building that houses the Board of Educational Examiners. The same board that would be reviewing my case and making a decision on it that day.

Inside, I met my best friend. Out of the goodness of her heart, she met me downtown so I would have someone there with me.

I remember thinking how smart she was to have worn gloves.

We took the elevator up to the third floor. The whole time, I was reciting my case number so I knew immediately when it was up for discussion and be aware when they ruled on it.

It was an extremely quiet ride.

The union was sending someone to the same meeting to take notes, most likely for all the other teachers who were brought to this same place by disgruntled students, parents, or actions of their own accord, most likely illegal and unethical. I knew that as soon as a ruling came down and the meeting ended, I would be getting a phone call or email telling me what the verdict was.

But I had waited four long months for this meeting t take place. I had been waging this battle for three long years. I didn't want to rely on someone who was "there to take notes." I wanted to hear it for myself.

NOT GUILTY. 

So in to the meeting room we went. It was cramped and I didn't say much to my best friend. I thanked her for being there, but for the most part, just having another human there to comfort me should shit hit the fan was enough. I didn't want to jinx the outcome by talking about it.

The case that was up for discussion before mine was apparently a doozy, because they asked to go to a closed session. So we all filed out of the meeting room and took up seats in the lobby. And sat there for almost two hours.

Numb to any feeling at all by that point, I kept my jacket on the whole time.

Finally, we were shepherded back into the meeting room and before I knew what was happening, my case number was announced.

The verdict was going to go one of three ways. In lay-man's terms, 1) I didn't do anything wrong, as proven by the facts. 2) It was undetermined that I did anything wrong, but the school has already taken action, therefore warranting no action by the Board of Educational Examiners or 3) Action as proven by testimony and/or proof warranted by the Board of Educational Examiners. The first two are good. The third is bad. The third is what happens when you hear about it on the news. The Board of Educaitonal Examiners revokes your license, or puts you on probation. The second is worse than the first in that the Board of Educational Examiners is stating that yeah, you might have done something wrong, but the school has already handled it and there is no need for them to step on the school district's toes. The first is what everyone wants.

The first is what I got.

NOT GUILTY is essentially what the first verdict states.

You didn't do anything wrong.

YOU ARE FREE.

"The testimony and proof shows this case warrants no action taken by the Board of Educational Examiners and is therefore, dismissed."

You would think I would have leapt for joy upon hearing that. It was finally over.

I just sat there.

Finally, as they were reading the verdict for the case following mine, I told my best friend we could get up and leave.

We left. I remember she was so happy for me, hugging me from the side as we exited the elevator and walked toward the sunshine.

I remember thinking how warm it looked outside. And how I was excited to get outside and feel that warmth.

But when I opened the door, I didn't know what to do. It was the most bizarre feeling knowing that I had just been exonerated and that these parents could no longer do anything to me, my family and my career, and I couldn't even muster up the energy to put a skip in my step.

I walked with my hands in my pockets, my head down, and pushed through the door.

I couldn't even tell how cold it really was outside. Or how warm it was.

I had no idea.

I hugged my friend, thanked her profusely for coming and supporting me, and we went our separate ways. In the car, I text my family and friends letting them know I had been exonerated. And as the text messages came back, as my mom was crying and exclaiming on the phone how thrilled she was, I felt absolutely nothing.

I tried to sound more jovial about it. I tried to sound more upbeat and thrilled that I no longer had to have sleepless nights, dissociative states, and horrible anxieties.

But I was dead-pan. There was absolutely no emotion. I just remember thinking how I was glad I forgot my gloves so I wouldn't have to worry about texting with them on. Or how I was sad I forgot my gloves because my hands were freezing.

Looking back, that was how far they had broken me down. I could hardly feel joy for anything, including being given my life back.

I'm happy to say that a few months later, I didn't want my uppers any more. I didn't want the downers to help me sleep. I didn't want the little blue crazy pills.

By May, I was able to feel again. I was able to smile and laugh and make plans with my husband. We were going to start a family and I was thrilled to become a mom.

It took a long time to get back from where I was. It was a long road with a lot of people helping me along the way.

And although November is a shitty month, I am grateful for every November since then, because I can finally feel again.

And for that, I am thankful.

-15 Degrees

January 15, 2009 was the last time I ever talked to my dad.

That day also happened to be one of the coldest days on record for the state of Iowa. Thanks to the frigid wind chills of more than -40 degrees, all metro schools canceled for the day. I was busy preparing a master work (think choir and orchestra performing together) to teach students in a short two months and was swamped lesson planning, sending emails to our hired orchestra players, and emailing back and forth with the band director as to what rehearsals would entail.

If anyone know anything about me, it's that I hate interruptions. I don't let students use the bathroom in my classes, I hate it when my office phone rings in the middle of a meeting, and when I am deep in my work, like I was that day, interruptions are possibly one of my biggest annoyances.

So when my dad called me three times that day, I ignored every one. And finally annoyed by the fact that he would not stop, answered on the fourth call.

I didn't try to mask my annoyance and my answers to his every day questions were clipped. So I didn't hide my exasperated sigh when he told me to throw a cup of hot water outside and watch it freeze in mid-air.

At the time, that was one of the dumbest, most juvenile things I had ever heard. I didn't have time to do that. I only had time to work on building a music program, and putting my name in the record books with a master work, written by Paul McCartney and never before performed in the United States no less, in my second year of teaching.

So I never threw the water to watch it freeze in mid-air. And now this "polar vortex" that will give us a high of -4 and low of -15 on Monday with wind chills in the -40s, the act of throwing a cup of hot water to watch it freeze in mid-air is staring directly into my soul.

If I do it, if I complete this "juvenile task," it will be like closing a huge chapter on my guilt that I have carried these past 5 years. But on the other hand, the second I do it, it will be like ripping open a huge wound. I cry every time I think about doing it, even when there isn't a "polar vortex" in the weather forecast. I'm crying now.

It's crazy what this weather pattern is doing to my heart, and even crazier that after 5 years, I have managed to experience just about everything without my dad. First days back to school after his death, Christmas, birthdays, anniversaries, the birth of my son. But it's this, this simple two-second task that is reducing me to a puddle of conflicting emotion. At any given moment, I don't know exactly how I feel about it.

But I do know how I feel about that last conversation with my dad. When I think of my dad's death, I don't quite remember what I said to him when he was lying on the emergency room table. I don't quite remember who was at his wake. I don't quite remember whose faces I looked into while reading his eulogy. So many times I wish I could go back in time and have that conversation over again. But I can't. There is nothing I can do to change that.

Except maybe throw some hot water outside to watch it freeze in mid-air.

Rock Bottom

PTSD is born from fear. It's natural for people to feel the "fight-or-flight" response when faced with fear. In people with PTSD, that "fight-or-flight" response is changed, or damaged, and essentially, becomes simply,"flight." In a lot of cases, "flight" during PTSD episodes is simply dissociating.

You don't know when you've hit rock bottom, until you've seen rock bottom in hindsight. In my case, rock bottom was October 15, 2010. I had had several dissociation episodes at school, and after a horrible meeting with a counselor that worked for my school, I remember calling my best friend. I couldn't stop shaking, crying, or getting "out of my head," so-to-speak. I can't remember what I said, but I can't imagine it was a great conversation. When I got home from school that day, I relayed my day to Eric, again, shaking, crying, and essentially, feeling like I was losing my mind. In hindsight, on October 15, I had already lost my mind. I had lost it to PTSD.

I don't remember the conversations I had later that day, I don't remember what I did. But I will never forget the intense fear that I felt. I couldn't stop my mind from racing, I couldn't stop moving about my house, and I couldn't focus on any one task. I just wandered aimlessly, crying, shaking, and wondering if maybe someone should take me to hospital. To say I was emotionally distraught would be an understatement.

I felt like I was staring at the shambles that was my life. I once was confident, I once was excited about teaching, I once was a person people wanted to be around. With PTSD, you don't succumb to fear. Instead, fear envelopes you. It's not a shallow fear, it's a deep-seeded terror that you absolutely, cannot escape.

I don't remember if I ate dinner that night. But I do remember after dinner, there was a knock on my door. Sitting on the couch, my anxiety was sky-high, and that knock sent me running into the kitchen. I remember looking in at myself - my eyes red from crying all day, my clothes hanging off me because I had lost so much weight. My hair a mess from dragging my fingers through it all day and my make-up long gone. I stood in the kitchen, hiding from the front door, terrified of what that knock would bring.

I remember hearing Eric let someone in as I stood huddled against the kitchen cabinets, hands cupped around my mouth and nose, breath held. Who was it who was it who was it?  When my best friend rounded the corner to my kitchen, I remember losing it. I sighed out a huge breath and instantly began convulsing with sobs that wracked my body. She carried a basket of goodies, like bubbles for a soothing bath, and a mug with a smurf on it that said, "I Love ME."

I think in that instant, when she saw me, she knew that no basket was going to fix what was going on in my head. So she hugged me, and held me, and told me I was ok. She had driven 45 minutes on a Tuesday night, to simply make me feel better. But the basket, the hugs, the pats on the back, wasn't enough ammunition for the war I was waging in my head.

I was able to calm down enough to talk to her. I don't remember what we talked about, but I remember she didn't stay long. Sometimes, I wonder if it's because what she saw scared her. It scared me.

When she left, Eric and I talked about going to the hospital. I felt like I was losing my mind. Instead, I called into work, sick, for the next morning, and told myself, and Eric, I was going to make an appointment with the family doctor the next morning.

I cried throughout the night, barely slept, and the next morning, made that appointment. I truly believe that appointment is what saved me. When I finally met with the doctor, I remember telling him that I thought something was wrong with me. Something was very, very wrong with me. I remember him probing me with questions, and I remember finally telling him everything that was going on. I started from the beginning, gave him the Reader's Digest version, and he patted me on the knee. He told me he'd be right back, and from there, left me, curled up on the exam table, still crying. When he came back, his exact words were, "We're going to get you in to see someone who will be in your corner." And with that, he made an appointment for me to see a psychologist across town, and filled a prescription for what a friend jokingly calls, "Little Blue Crazy Pills."

In hindsight, that was the worse day of my life. People will say the day they lose a loved one, the day they lose a job, the day they lose a pet is the worse day of their life. But the worse day of my life was the day I felt like I could not get away from the immense fear I felt. It was overpowering, more-so than the grief I felt the day my dad died, and the days thereafter.

After several appointments with the psychologist, psychiatrist, and a lot of more Little Blue Crazy Pills, it was determined that my fear stemmed from self-fulfilled prophecy. If someone tells you something enough times, you begin to believe it. For three years, I had been told I was a horrible teacher, a horrible person, and I should leave. And I began to believe it. From there, that thought bubble grew until it was consuming my entire world and all thought processes.

My psychiatrist wrote on a piece of paper, "This situation does not define me as a teacher or a human being." I took that piece of paper and copied the mantra on post-it notes. Bright orange post-it notes that adorned any place I would look in my house. On the mirror in the bathroom, by the closet where I dressed in the morning, at the bottom of the stairs, and tucked safely inside my wallet.

As time went on, as I was exonerated, and as I began to take down the beasts that had taken root in my mind, those orange post-it notes began to lose their stickiness. As they fell, one by one, off the mirror, wall, door, steering wheel, and anywhere else I had posted them, so did the monsters that lived inside my head.

The mind is a powerful thing, in the fact that even after fear had enveloped it, it was able to bounce back. My confidence returned, my personality returned, and a love for life returned.

In hindsight, October 15 was rock bottom. But with rock bottom comes another direction, and really, the only direction.

Up.

The Investigation: The Truth Shall Set You Free

Being accused of something in real life is terrifying. Usually, if you're accused of something in real life, it's something that will take a lot of evidence to convict you. However, in order to be convicted, you usually have to stand trial, and in order to even go to trial, there has to be enough evidence to support the case.

It's really not any different in a public school system, which for a lot of students, is nothing like real life.

An accusation can damage a teacher's reputation for the rest of their career, even if the accusations aren't even credible. I can think of three colleagues off the top of my head who have resigned from their careers simply because of accusations, which usually turned out to be so outlandishly false, that it almost made the situation laughable. But it isn't laughable.

On July 22, 2009, I got a phone call from my administrator, asking me to come in to school and talk to him. So I went.

My dad had died only 5 months earlier. If you've ever gone through the grieving process, or you've read this blog, Month 5 was hard. It was the month where I was resenting my brothers for not living closer and being able to be there for my mom. Month 5 was the month that I was grieving the loss of my dad so heavily, my marriage was rocky, my eyes were constantly swollen from crying, and I was beginning to think there wasn't any way off the bottom of this murky pool of tears.

So I went to school as soon as I could and spoke with my administrator. He told me the version he had heard of the Target incident (he was sorry, he said), asked me for my version, asked me a few questions, I replied to them the best I could, and then proceeded to fold his hands together and lean forward at his desk.

"Laura, these accusations are either so crazy, they're true, or so crazy, they're not true. The school district will be launching an investigation to figure that out."

The word "launch," by definition, means to "send forth, catapult, or release, as a self-propelled vehicle or weapon." The word "launch" catapulted me into a panic attack, right there in my administrators office.

I was told I would be questioned by the associate superintendent a week from that day. I was to wait, 7 days, suspended in a constant state of anxiety. It was like that moment had "launched" me into suspended animation.

Day 1: hysteria. getting my facts straight. reviewing documentation
Day 2: calmer. reviewing documentation. taking moments for myself.
Day 3: back to hysteria. crying. reviewing documentation.
Day 4: complete calm washed over me and my life moved faster than it had days 1, 2, and 3.
Day 5: hysteria. crying. more hysterics.
Day 6: complete panic. reviewing documentation. fight with Eric.

Day 7 came, and I dressed in what I thought was one of my more professional looking outfits. Pointed-toe, black high heels, black dress pants, teal sweater, black long necklace, matching black earings. I wonder if my subconscious thought I was, instead, headed to a funeral.

I met my union representative outside the district office. She told me to keep my answers short, but honest.
In all, there were 27 questions. Questions about whether or not I would make gay jokes in class (no). Did I threaten this student in any way (no). Did I ever tell her she wasn't good enough (no). Did I do this, that, the other things during class, after class, out in the hall, during lunch (no).

At the end, the associate superintendent asked me, "Is there anything you want to say?" Yes.

Did you know she had sat outside my house at night? Did you know she had said things to people who had come into my classroom to observe me? Derogatory, hurtful, leading things that would make those individuals believe I might actually be a bad person? Did you know she wrote me letters, telling me what a horrible person I was? Did you know that I can't even go into Target anymore because she works there? Did you know she has said things to other students, who have then told me what's going on? AND I CAN'T SAY ANYTHING ABOUT THIS! Did you know she doesn't try in class, but that I'm forced to give her an A anyway because God forbid this leads to anything about discrimination? Did you know I've asked the administration to remove her from my classroom and they didn't for an entire year?! Did you know my administration have made jokes about this to my face? Did you know my administration TOLD ME they were going to remove her from my class, tell her and her parents, and when I double checked with them later that day, they told me IT HAD BEEN DONE? DID YOU KNOW THAT THEY ACTUALLY DIDN'T DO THAT??? That's why I'm here. THAT'S WHY THIS IS HAPPENING. 

But I didn't say anything like that. Instead, I said, "I haven't done anything wrong."

I cried when I got out to the car. I came home and cried some more. I was exhausted. I was thoroughly, and completely, exhausted. And then it was done. Just as slowly as my life had suspended itself in those 7 days, it all of a sudden caught up to that moment in time, sitting in my driveway, with my head against my steering wheel, crying.

And just like that, it was done. Again. Or so I thought.

Target

If you're like any 30-something mother, you go to Target on a weekly basis. I take James there every Saturday morning for something. Today, it was to look at Cozy Coupes (you know you're a mom when...) and pick up some baby sunscreen, since I couldn't seem to find the other one I had bought not too long ago. This was after I went to Target yesterday, to pick up some wipes, deoderant and a card for the wedding we went to today.

If you're like any 20-something college graduate, in your first job, you go to Target on a weekly basis. You need this kind of make-up, and maybe a cute, cheap skirt to wear to school the next day because you're sick of your own closet. You go there to pick up tanning lotion, tank tops, pantyhose, new sunglasses, some jewelry.

Target has everything. So that's where I shop. It doesn't draw the Wal-Mart crowd, they carry clothes that keep up relatively well, and it has everything a child could want in their toy aisles. They have good deals, and with coupons, even better deals. I can buy food, something to cook the food in, and something cute to wear while cooking said food... if I want. Which I usually do.

One day, I went into Target, and she was there. Working the register. I thought it funny, considering that when I was a high school student, Target was my first job too. I mentioned that to her as I checked out, while she scanned my things and put them into my plastic sacks.

But as things got weird, and she apparently worked more hours there, I tried to avoid her line. At one point, while standing in line behind four other people, a lead cashier pointed me toward her line. "It looks like she doesn't have as many people in her line, if you'd like to jump over there."

"No thanks, I can wait."

And that's how it usually went.

At some point, I started walking into Target and if I would see her working the registers, I would turn around and walk out. I didn't want to take the chance of 'something' happening. It wasn't worth the $10 bottle of foundation that I needed when I could just run across the street and buy it at Wal-Mart. It wasn't worth the feelings of incredible anxiety. 'Incredible anxiety' being an understatement.

One day, I walked in and she wasn't working. In fact, it was summer, very early in the day, and there was only one register open. And that check-out lane was being manned by one of her friends.

This same friend of hers had, a few months prior, asked to talk to me in the hallway after class. So standing in the hallway, I let this student berate me, telling me that I needed to stop being so negative to the class, and that he didn't appreciate it. I needed to be more positive. I needed to come into class with a big fucking smile on my face. Two months after my dad died. Two months of agonizing hell I was going through, all while trying to plaster a big ole' smile on my face when I walked into my classes.

Then he said to me, "We know what you're going through. We've all lost someone Mrs. Engels." Did I mentioned my dad had just died?

If anyone has ever described to you what the stages of grief are like, they cannot do it justice. Any description they give is a gross understatement of what it's like. When you experience it, you don't go through the typical stages as described by health professionals who have spent thousands of dollars studying it. Grief is not something that happens to you. Grief becomes you.

And I sat there, and took his verbal beating. A beating that I later found out was on behalf of his "friend." The one girl who was making my life hell.

The only response I could muster was, "No. You have no idea what it's like." And I walked off so they couldn't see me cry. And minutes later, had to splash water on my face, suck it up in my office, and walk into another choir and teach them for another 50 minutes. With a big ole' smile on my face.

A few days later, this friend and this girl wanted to have a meeting with me and an administrator in regard to my response to their "talk" they had with me in the hallway.

When brought to light what really happened during that conversation, my administrator simply said, "That was unacceptable, and that's kicking someone while they're down." He then promptly ended the meeting, and following the students leaving, I told him we needed to get this girl out of my classroom. He agreed.

Long story short, it was agreed upon, by the administration, that this girl would not be in my top ensemble the following year. In fact, she was not going to be in the Vocal Music Department at all. And since I was to not put her name on the "list" for the top ensemble, they would be contacting her to tell her and her parents themselves.

Only they never told this girl. They never told her parents. I remember going into my administrator's office and asking him if he had contacted the parents. He said yes. He said yes. They didn't have the common decency to call the parents and tell them that this girl had been harassing me beyond measure, therefore she did not have the right to be in my classroom anymore.

So when I put the list up, and her name wasn't there, the administration had put a target on my back. And the parents took aim.

A few days later, this friend of this girl came rushing into my office. My heart started beating faster, my palms got sweaty, and I had no idea what was about to happen. He was crying, wanting to talk. I kept my office door open as he spilled apology after apology regarding everything that had happened. I was his favorite teacher, he said. He was sorry, he said. He wanted me to know that I had changed his life is so many ways, he said.

He was sorry, he said.

So that day, in Target, when this friend was working, I felt safe going through his check-out lane. I asked him what he was doing that summer. He was quitting Target to work at Wells Fargo, he said. I asked him how his summer was treating him. He was having a lot of fun, he said.

He was sorry, he said. 

On July 22, 2009, I got a phone call from my administrator, asking me to come in to school and talk to him. This administrator stated the parents of this girl had come forward and complained that I had gone through her friend's lane at Target, and had spoken badly about this girl (not true). I had said some "pretty horrible" things (not true). Some things about this girl not being in the top ensemble (not true). Because I had decided not to put her in the top ensemble (not true). Because she was gay (NOT TRUE).

Anger becomes you. 

And I became a different teacher after that day. I felt like I could not trust anything students said. I didn't know what students were her friends and therefore, on her side, and what students could see through the bullshit. I didn't know who I could trust. Not necessarily in what I said, but what I did. All of a sudden, all of my movements were being scrutinized, and I had no idea by whom.

It was a slippery slope that left me devastated, paranoid, and a different human being. I didn't walk into Target for two years after that. Even after I left Southeast Polk, where I knew she would not be able to do anything more. Even after I knew she had graduated, and I knew she could do nothing more. She was still tormenting me, in my own head.

All of a sudden, she was everywhere. She was in my mouth, putting words there that I had never said. She was in my head, making me think twice about everything I did. She was in my sight, always thinking she was lurking somewhere. And then, when it had been a few months and she hadn't truly been in my sight for awhile, she was there in real life. Hy-Vee, in the card aisle. Driving alongside me on the road.

Walking into Target now, I still do a double-take. It's better than it was for a long time, and I know that if I were ever to come into brief, passing contact with her, I would be safe. I have hundreds of pages of documentation, rulings in my favor, blatant lies she told that were proven false. I was victorious, after all.

And that is an understatement.

April 2010

For three years I fought tooth and nail. I documented everything that had happened in regard to this student, from her bringing me a cookie, to her driving by my house with friends, to her writing me notes and making horribly inappropriate comments during class.

And every time these parents came to my school administration with allegations of something else, I had documentation to show it didn't happen. Or, in my best case scenario, I had witnesses in my favor.

Students are attracted to my office everywhere I go no matter what. I take a vested interest in all my students and I take a vested interest in everyone I meet. I like to get to know people, their stories, and that includes my students. I give good advice because I've gotten good advice, and students enjoy having conversations with me.

I was having a lesson, and thankfully, it was with two boys and two girls. We were nearing the end of the semester, and it was getting close to graduation. The students were in my office, watching a video on proper singing, only it was a humorous video showing someone improperly singing (Miranda Sings - look her up if possible because she's hilarious!).

And then I saw her. She had come down to the music wing, even though she had been told by administration (so they told me) that she was to stay away from the music wing, since she was no longer a part of the music department. But there she was, peaking into the choir room, while I sat in my office looking in dismay, a clear shot of her.

I'm not sure if it was fight or flight that made me suddenly get up from my seat around the computer, but I told the students to keep watching and went into the music library, which was an internal room surrounded by my office and four others. My first thought was to run the other direction, but I knew I couldn't possibly see her as it would throw me (or had already thrown me, whichever way you want to look at it) into a tailspin.

So I took a deep breath as the video came to a stop, and asked one student to close the door. I didn't want to give this girl any reason to think we were talking about her or any reason to make anything up about what she "thought" she had heard or seen. I began asking the students various and sundry things about "next year" just so I could keep them in the office. I didn't want to risk opening my door. I'm sure they thought it was a weird lesson, but I just kept the conversation light. Really, my heart was beating horribly, I was shaking, and I was trying to keep my cool in front of my students.

Finally the time came for them to go, and I dreaded them having to open my door. So as they did, I went back into the music library and hid, hoping and praying that nothing would come of this awkward encounter, if you can even call it that.

Oh, but something did come of it and as the day came to a close, I was called down the principal's office. How many times had I made that trip? How many times had I made that trip with these exact same feelings? How many times had I wondered what he was going to say to me?

And when I got there, he asked me to sit down and closed the door. This time, instead of saying, "What happened today between you and this student?" he said, "This student came forward (again). She stated (for the millionth f-cking time) that you were in your office with some students. What is it that you were doing with those students?"

"I was giving a lesson."

"What was the lesson about?"

And I proceeded to tell my administration the story. Again. The same story I had been telling for the last three years. "I didn't do anything wrong."

And then they threw a curve ball at me.

"SHE alleges that as those students were leaving your office, she spoke with Student A and Student A said you had asked HER was she was doing down in the music wing (yeah, what the f-ck was she doing down in the music wing? Didn't you tell her that she wasn't supposed to be down there?) and then proceeded to make some snotty comment about how she's not allowed to be down there. So we called in this particular student and questioned him, along with the others who were in your office for that lesson."

WHAT?! And again, the feeling of the floor coming out from underneath me that I knew all too well began, the room started swimming and I was in shock. They conducted an investigation, within hours of this girl coming down the music wing, without my knowledge? They questioned "witnesses" and allowed this girl to, yet again, sit in their office and spew her dirty, dirty lies? Witnesses that may or may not have been friends with this girl?

I had been shaking the entire walk to the principal's office with pure anxiety. What was he going to say to me? What had happened now? But after he told me what had transpired that day, I started shaking with anger. How dare this school official act in this incredibly unprofessional manner. How dare this school official make me feel like I am the problem? How dare this school official, who is supposed to make sure I have a safe work environment, create an environment where I am threatened, scared and quite frankly, sick of?

But I had a wild card that this girl hadn't thought of. I take a vested interest in my students. I like to get to know their families, I love hearing their stories of their shopping trips to the mall; I genuinely care about everyone student I see on a daily basis. Even when I have to kick students out of class, I still like them as people. Even when I have to discipline a student for a stupid decision they make, I still like them. They still have a clean slate with me the next day.

I had taken a vested interest in these students who were in my office that day, and because of that, when questioned by the administration, stated that they had no idea what this girl was talking about. And then, all of a sudden, the tables had turned.

Here I was, a victim of this girl, her wicked lies, her witch-hunting parents, her sick and twisted friends. These students saved me that day. They proved this girl was a liar. They proved that this girl was out to get me. They told the truth. The truth about how I was professional in every sense of the word. The proof that they were truly having a lesson, and learning something from me. They spoke the truth when they said that this girl was the liar. They pointed the finger, which broke the camel's back.

In the next days, I felt like I had won. I was done with this girl. The administration had had enough. My union representative had stated that this was probably the last I would hear from this family. Finally, she told the lie that sealed her fate and I had won. I had won. I had won.

But this was April. July had yet to come.

July 7, 2010

July 7, 2010 is not the date where my world came crashing in around me. Those dates had already happened. October 18, 2008, July 28, 2009, February 6, 2009. If the world had crashed in around me on July 7, 2010, it would mean there wasn't any world left. Rather, July 7, 2010 was a date where my world as I knew it completely changed.

It was an exciting day for me. I had taken the job at Waukee and I was meeting my co-worker for lunch to discuss the year. My three years of hell were behind me and I was thrilled to leave them behind.

I was wearing my bracelet that said, "Live, laugh, love." I had bought the bracelet on a shopping trip the month prior with my best friend. It was something that signaled my new beginning, and something I wore every day to remind me that I was a fighter and that I had made it through the gauntlet.

I was wearing my green skirt, white shirt, sandals.It was a beautiful day, only a few clouds in the sky, and hardly any humidity, which was rare for July. We met for lunch, discussed the year, and overall had a very pleasant lunch. We talked about new beginnings, for the both of us, and our lunch was filled with excited chatter and laughter.

It was a Friday, and as I got home mid-afternoon and putzed around the house, I kept thinking of my new beginning. The things I would get to do, the name I was building for myself. The world I was leaving behind. I picked up the house, read a few of my professional magazines, and when the mail came, went out to the mailbox.

It was weird that I should get a huge envelope from the Board of Educational Examiners for the State of Iowa. Those are the people who grant teachers their licensure. I knew that I didn't need to renew my license, nor was I expecting anything from them in regard to my license.

The envelope was at least an inch thick and I had no idea what could be in it. So I opened it and from there, tried to make sense of the letter at the forefront of this stack of papers. And as I read, it was like someone had found a string in my confidence, and I was watching someone ever-so-slowly pull this string to unravel me.

I couldn't figure out what the letter was saying. Too many big words, a ringing in my ears and blurry vision. Concentrate. My mind began racing. What was this letter saying? Concentrate. I remember starting the letter again, "Dear Laura" and again, getting lost in the second paragraph. I read words like, "investigated" and "harassment" and "discrimination." What? 

Still not making sense, I flipped quickly through the stack of papers that had come addressed to me. Again, I read words like, "harassment" and "discrimination." I saw dates, I saw accusations, I saw red.

This letter, followed by the diatribe of accusations that followed blurred together. I remember picking up the phone and calling someone. Maybe it was my husband, possibly my best friend, but I remember the first person to answer my frantic phone calls: my mom.

Part of me didn't want to tell her what I thought this letter was saying. Part of me was embarrassed. This only happens to teachers who really did something wrong. I didn't do anything wrong. I didn't do anything wrong. I DIDN'T DO ANYTHING WRONG.

I don't know how often in my three years of hell that I repeated those words. "But I didn't do anything wrong," became a mantra for me that I began nearly every sentence with. I had people working in my defense, but clearly, with this letter, all had been in vain. That mantra had never, truly, been heard by anyone of any importance. Because this was still happening to me.

So I talked to my mom. I'm sure she said some comforting, motherly words that I will never remember. But I do remember my mother asking if I needed a lawyer. Yep, I think I did.

But I had tried a lawyer. In fact, I had tried several times. Several times, I had been turned away, after being told that it was a "school issue" and I needed to take it up with "school officials." You mean, those school officials who continue to let this happen to me? Several times over? These school officials treated these issues like they were a stain you cover up with a rug - you can't see it, but it's still there. These parents and their child, they were still there. And these school officials were still not doing anything about it.

So I hung up with my mom. I re-read the letter, now only seeing red and ready to fight. How dare this student and her parents accuse me of the things they were accusing me of? Discrimination? I had only opened up my door and my teacher's heart for this child. I had handled her delicately, and with every ounce of professional being I had. For three years. And this is how I'm repaid for it?

"But I didn't do anything wrong." It didn't matter.

I called my new colleague, who probably felt like I hit her with a ton of bricks. She advised me to call my union representative. So I did. My representative gave me the number to the Iowa State Education Agency, which is, essentially, the union that I belonged to. The union who was a rug, to cover up the stain. They never once got rid of the problem. They didn't do a damn thing for me.

Being it was Friday, I was only able to leave a message. I remember when Eric got home, having to tell him what happened. He was furious. We thought this was behind us. We had been fighting these exact same allegations for almost 2 1/2 years.

I remember my best friend calling me and me telling her what had happened. I remember later that night she called again, telling me that she had done some research and in allegations such as these, not a single accuser had won. Not a single one. But that didn't mean that I couldn't be the first defendant to lose, right?

As we went to bed that night, myself exhausted from crying and crying and crying, I whispered to Eric in a tiny, shaken voice, "I don't know if I can do this again. I don't know if I can keep fighting." Eric rolled over, embraced me, and told me that I had to keep fighting, because there was no other option.

July 7, 2010 was not a date where the world came crashing in around me, because, as I said, that would mean there wouldn't be a world left. But there was one. A new, scary, shaky world. And as I closed my eyes that night, that new world opened.

PTSD

"You are a walking poster child for Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder."

What? I remember saying something like, "But I've never been in combat."

The psychologist looked at me and said, "Yes, you have. You've been in combat for the last three years."

And then I wept. Finally, there was a name for these feelings. There was a name for my debilitating, jagging crying episodes. There was a name for the out-of-body experiences I kept having. I wasn't losing my mind.

But I was. 

After more conversations, more sessions, and more comprehension behind those words, I finally came to grips with the fact that I, indeed, had endured three years of things that someone should never endure.

 I am not a soldier. I am not a prisoner of war. I am not supposed to have this disorder.

But I did.  

So thus began the long road to where I am today. There were days where I felt like I couldn't even get out of bed. I was tired from not being able to sleep the night before, having had horrible nightmares that kept me up once I was able to finally fall asleep. I leaned on my friends, husband and sometimes family to help me through the toughest days. There were days, a lot of days, where I really felt like I couldn't.

But I can.

And I can say that now. I did overcome this. After many sessions, I was more accurately diagnosed with Acute Stress Disorder, which is a subset of PTSD. Mainly, it's all the same symptoms, with greater emphasis on dissociative states.

I remember describing the dissociative state to the psychologist  like I wasn't in control of myself. I knew what was going on around me, and I was responding to those things around me, but it was like the walls were closing in. I would get incredibly dizzy, I couldn't focus on things and God only knows how I was actually able to hold it together in front of those who had absolutely no idea what was happening. I was able to hold conversations, do daily tasks and generally lead a normal life. But while holding those conversations, I could barely hear the person who was talking at me, and I couldn't make eye contact. I would shake, have to grab ahold of something that would keep me upright, and generally, get a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach.

My brain was waging war on the world around me as a way to protect itself from the dangers that I had been enduring for the last three years.

A dissociative state happens directly after being stimulated by a dangerous reminder of what I was battling. That dangerous reminder was the classroom. The school. The thing that I had to walk into every. single. day. The thing that I had had such a passion, energy and drive to get into. I wanted to get out.

So I dissociated. Frequently, I couldn't remember exactly what had happened while I was dissociating. I remembered who I had talked to, but I didn't always remember what was talked about. I remembered trying to make my mind focus on what was happening around me, having to concentrate on my breathing, trying to hide the fact that not just my hands, but my body was shaking.

It was like a really bad panic attack. Almost every day. Add in sleepless nights, a diet that consisted of Oreo Cookies and water, and I was on the precipice of a dangerous downward spiral.

It took several months and love and support from my closest friends, family and amazing husband to trip through the realization of what had, and was, happening to me. There were early morning and late night phone calls, several nights where I really wanted to give up, and self-realization that I was truly in one of the darkest places I had ever been.

So I left teaching. Although partway through that last year, I began to get back to myself as a human being, and by March, I saw brief glimmers of my confidence, my sense of humor and most importantly, my happiness. When I walked out of those school doors in June, it was a huge sense of relief. I had no job, I had no idea what I was going to do. I would be paid through August and I didn't have a care in the world until then. I was going to concentrate on me.

That was the most transforming decision I have ever made. I found a job with a non-profit, working a desk job, still working with students and students with disabilities, but very distantly, and by August, I felt strong again. I appreciated my life again. So Eric and I decided to have a family.

But in the healing depths of my mind, I missed music. I missed teaching every day. I loved going to work at my non-profit organization, screwing around with my boss, going out to lunch every day, being paid a below-mediocre salary to answer phones, scour the internet and generally, focus on my pregnancy.

In reality, I am so thankful I was pregnant nearly the entire year I worked for this non-profit, because it allowed me to focus on that, rather than what I was missing most. I never had weekend commitments. I was able to spend an entire week at home with my family over Christmas. I was able to decorate the nursery on weeknights instead of being so completely exhausted that I could hardly stand upright.

I needed to give myself, and my brain, time to heal from my ordeal. And I did. It was a year of rest and relaxation. There was going to be another year of rest and relaxation with my non-profit job, and my new baby boy, but God had other plans.

Long story short, insurance for my non-profit job was not bad. We only had to pay $250 out of pocket to have James. That's it. A $15 co-pay on prescriptions and doctor appointments. But once we had James, prices sky-rocketed. We looked into private insurance, but that too was going to be astronomical.

Eric and I had a blow-out one night about the cost of this insurance, and he dropped the "if you were still teaching" bomb. Oh no, he didn't. *snap snap snap*

So to spite him, I looked on the internet. I remember a couple years prior, I had mentioned to a friend that maybe I would be good in a smaller school. If the small 2A/3A school just north of us had an opening, maybe I would try for it. And as I scoured the internet that night, I tripped across that opening. There were only 72 hours left before the job closed. I called a few friends, crying as I asked them what they thought. I scrambled the next day to gather references and letters of recommendation. I was still on maternity leave, and with James being so young and sleeping all the time, I was able to scrounge everything together.

And then I got an interview. And then I got the job.

When I said I would take it, I was terrified. I felt ok. But was I really ok? This was the doubt that would creep into my mind daily when I was in the clutches of PTSD. And it was creeping it's way back. Could I really come back from this? Was I truly ready?

I felt ok as I went into the main office to get my keys at the end of July. I felt ok getting my classrooms ready for my students. I felt ok getting my offices together, and picking out music, and rearranging the rooms. Maybe I was ok.

Eric is the most supportive person I have ever met, and I remember on my first day of school he said, "Good luck, you'll be great."

And I was.

That first day of school was exciting because I met my new students. My students had fun in my classes. I joked with them, I got to know a few of them, and here I was, with a smile on my face while walking out of the building that afternoon.

It wasn't the "it's going to be ok" moment I was hoping for. It was the "I am ok" moment I never thought would come. I am ok. I am a survivor, in one of the greatest senses of the word.

Someday, I'll be ready to share, fully, the ordeal that put me where I was two and a half years ago. I have never actually written it down. I have boxes upon boxes, copies upon copies, reminding me of what exactly happened. But I have never written it down beginning to end. There are details that only Eric knows. Part of me is still scared of the other shoe dropping, as it had so many times before. But other parts of me knows that it won't, because it can't. So many things happened, there is nothing more left.  

So many days I felt like things were falling apart. But maybe, just maybe, things were actually falling into place...