You Could Write a Book!

“You could write a book!” is something I have heard numerous times.  I have heard it said between fits of laughter and I have heard it said with tears slipping softly from someone’s eyes.  I certainly have enough stories to fill the pages of many books, and many of the stories are ones that I love to share.

One story in particular comes to mind right now.  It was the late 1990s and I was teaching first grade.  My students were working on a project that involved cutting out something.  I can’t remember exactly what.  (Young teachers out there, take heed- Over time you forget curriculum, but you always remember the relationships.)  My ever-vigilant class reporter arose from her workstation and padded her way to my desk.  You see, in the 1990s, teachers had time to sit at their desks.  It was a grand time.  Anyway, the class reporter had a tidbit of information that she needed to pass along to me.  This particular year’s class reporter was a really good one.  I barely had to look up from my desk.  She had the class under her thumb within days.  But today we had a real issue.  Today someone was grossly misuing a school supply.  Today someone had crossed the line in a way that made even this little reporter’s voice shake as as she spoke the words.  “Bob (not his real name) cut his hair with his scissors!”

Now, Bob and I were close.  We spent quite a bit of time together.  Recess time, that is. Bob was not a real fan of rules and guidelines when he entered first grade, so we spent some quality time together trying to work that out.  I appreciated Bob’s zest for autonomy, yet it did not always mesh well with my efforts to build a classroom culture of collaboration and team-building.  Bob’s mother and I were also close.  We actually became so close that she asked me to stop calling her.  I believe her exact reason was something along the lines of she couldn’t handle him at home, so how could she possibly handle what he did at school?

Keeping this all in mind, I walked over to Bob’s desk (followed by the watchful eyes of the class reporter, who always made sure I took care of business promptly on her watch).  Bob had beautiful white blond hair.  It was cut into what I can best describe as a bowl cut.  It sounds odd now, but it was popular at the time.  Today, Bob’s bowl had a BIG chip in it, right in the middle of his forehead.  On Bob’s desk was a pile of  blond hair.  And Bob’s jet black tee shirt now looked like a fur jacket.  Bob played it cool- this was not his first rodeo.  I kneeled down beside his desk.  This is important for two reasons.  One, it’s crucial to give children dignity and not call them out in front of their peers.  Two, cutting hair is a favorite pastime of six year-olds.  If they even sense that someone near them is doing it, they will immediately follow-suit and start whacking away.

Me: Bob, it appears that you cut your hair.

Bob: No, I didn’t.

Me: There is hair all over your desk and shirt and the hair on your head is shorter, Bob.

Bob: It’s not my hair.

Me: Whose hair is it?

Bob: I don’t know.

Me: deep breaths deep breaths

Me: Bob, I know that you cut your hair.

Bob: I didn’t cut it.  It just fell out.

Me: Why would your hair fall out?

Bob: I have a disease that makes my hair fall out.

Me: deep breaths  knowing that Bob has NO diseases  he has never missed a day of school in his whole life

Me: Bob, that’s very alarming. I need to call your mom and find out more about this disease.

Bob: No, don’t call my mom.  She doesn’t know about the disease.

Ahhhh.  Just one of my many Bob stories.  I wonder where Bob is?  I know where that particular class reporter is.  She’s a teacher herself now.  I have hundreds of student stories.  And the only thing funnier than first graders are the adults who teach them!  I have tons of teacher stories, too.  I could easily write a book about my classroom experiences and my experiences with teachers over the years.

My family stories are pretty funny, too, and I have been told that I could sell tickets to just sit in my house and watch the show.  I could probably write a book about the crazy antics that go on around here.

On a sadder note, I could write a book about watching my mother go through a long, grueling cancer treatment that came back to cause her additional trauma many years later.  I could write about the hospital stays and the nursing homes and the ventilators and the feeding tubes and the hospice nurses and saying goodbye to her on Christmas Eve.

I could also write a book about having a daughter who suffered and recovered from severe anorexia and suicidal ideation.  I could write about removing her from a treatment center where they told us that taking her home was the same as writing her death certificate.  I could write about her telling me to just let her die.

Or, I could write a book about being diagnosed with anxiety, depression, and complex-PTSD and the age of 49. I could write about therapy sesssions that were so painful that they changed who I know myself to be as a person.  I could tell about the flashbacks that made my past and my present so entwined that I could barely separate the two.

Perhaps I could write a book about how I am overcoming the trauma and finding myself again.  I could write about how I found (through therapy) ways to stay present and deal with shame and guilt and find peace with who I am.

These are all possibilities.  And I have considered each one.  But to choose one would be to say that it was the choice that outranked the others.  It was the one that had the biggest impact on me as the person I have become.  And that would not be true.  None of these events has made me who I am.  They ALL have.  So I will tell you bits and pieces about all of them, if you care to read.  Some will be funny, and some will be sad.  But I traveled through it all to get to where I am now.  And I’m okay.  And that’s something to write about!     -Shannon

P.S.

I am dedicating my first post to my therapist, Dr. DK.  Thank you for digging through all the trauma to find me again.  And thank you for thinking I was worth all the hard work to pull out, even when I was quite certain I was not.  I am not sure where I would be right now without you.  Thank you.