You are Art

My favorite actress is Sandra Bullock and of all her movies, 28 Days is my favorite! If you haven't seen it, it's about a journalist named Gwen who is an alcoholic. After a series of drunken mistakes, she is court ordered to a 28-day stay in rehab. Is it her best movie? Probably not, and I know it isn't her funniest. But it's my favorite because of how relatable it is for me.

I am not an alcoholic but I have been in rehab, oddly enough around the same time the movie was released in 2000. My treatment was mostly outpatient but after a suicide attempt between morning sessions at therapy, one that stopped my heart and landed me in the hospital, I was admitted to inpatient treatment.

While I appreciate irony, attempting suicide while in rehab for previously attempting suicide is one of the worst examples you can find. If you've seen the movie, you'll know Gwen's roommate Andrea attempted suicide more than once while they were there. Andrea was the youngest patient in the facility at the time and the same was true for me. Everyone "adopted" me as their daughter or little sister. She also watched soap operas - GUILTY!

When I overdosed and collapsed, the young woman who found me was another patient - the one whose drugs I combined with my own. She was on crutches at the time because of a broken leg. When Andrea is found passed out from an overdose, Gwen is wearing a boot on her leg because she jumped out the window to fetch the pills she'd previously dumped.

All of this is not a great endorsement for the movie - or rehab - but there is something beautiful about it. In the movie, each person is given a sign to wear that says "confront me if...." followed by whatever they need to resolve. Gwen is to be confronted if she doesn't ask for help. When someone completes their stay, they're given a send-off that includes everyone singing "Lean On Me." Andrea thinks this is ridiculous, and when it's her time to leave, Gwen has something special planned for her. She rallies a group of patients to act out a soap opera scene instead of the traditional sing-off! Then they each give her a sign that has something inspirational written on it. The sign Gwen makes says "Don't ever be someone's slogan because you are poetry." This is one of my favorite quotes of all time and a great reminder that someone, somewhere, sees beauty in us even if we can't see it ourselves.

I posted a picture recently of a temporary workspace I set up in my garage for a virtual writing workshop. Someone astutely observed that we have wall hangings in our garage. I never thought much about it, and anything in there is something we have no place for inside but still want to keep.

On one wall, we have calendars my dad drew when he worked for Bob and Tom at Q95 Indianapolis decades ago, all or mostly from the '80s. On another wall we have an Indiana Pacers flag, an Indianapolis Colts picture, and something my mother-in-law knitted or crocheted or something (I really don't know). The last thing is a stained glass piece my dad put together. I think it's older than me and it's heavy and very fragile. Some of the pieces are cracked and they shift a bit if you move it. It's not hanging inside because I don't have a good window on the east or west side of my house to catch good sunlight.

If you dissect a stained glass window, you'll find pieces of broken glass, rough and bumpy around the edges, that on their own aren't much to look at. If you found one single piece of glass lying on the ground, you might even throw it away. But when you pick up the broken pieces and put them together, something beautiful is created.

Set off-center and to the right is a mirror. It kind of looks like a mitten. Like the rest of the pieces, it is broken and rough around the edges. This is the only part you can't see through. The part that makes you look back at yourself. The part of a beautiful mosaic where you are the final piece.

I have a difficult time every single day wondering where I fit into this world. I am able to find beauty and goodness and worth in everyone I'm surrounded by - no matter how broken they are, and all of us are. But if we take a minute to see how all of our broken pieces fit together, we might be able to find something beautiful.

Remember - to someone, you are poetry or the final piece of a mosaic. YOU ARE ART!

Capable

Something I have struggled with for most of my life is believing in myself. I don't take advantage of opportunities offered to me or step outside of my comfort zone unless it's necessary because I am constantly convinced I'm going to fail. 

 

The first time I wrote a book review, I spent the better part of a day worrying about it. When I sent what I'd written to the author, her response was "you should do this for a living." I was blown away by the compliment, and maybe one day I'll do just that. But even with such high praise, I wasn't confident I could do it. The five or six subsequent reviews I wrote I asked her to read before I published them. It took this many times of being told I could do it before I believed I could do it. I've made it to a place where I don't ask her to review them anymore.

 

The last couple of years I've been trying to put more focus on being kinder to myself because I am surrounded by people who DO believe in me. They would never say the things to me that I say to myself. And I'd never say those things to them. I've been trying to do things for myself that inspire me and simply bring me joy, such as writing. When I find myself in situations that are new, whether personal or professional, I seek the same kind of reassurance that I did when I started writing book reviews. 

 

I have found that if I give myself a little bit of grace and kindness, I am very capable of doing things. It often just takes a moment to pause, breathe and quiet the noise. The noise that I've created. The noise that is just that - noise. If I can get through that, I can hear the words others say to me, and listening to those words instead of the ones I tell myself gives me the kick in the ass to go try something. I love words and think they hold a great power, whether said internally, read or heard from someone else.

My phone background is a screenshot of kind words from a friend that I can read anytime. Maybe that sounds ridiculous but it's one small thing I can turn to - and see many times daily - when I need a little reassurance. To complement my background, I recently purchased a bracelet from MyIntent.org. These are not mass produced and you can get any word - YES ANY WORD - you choose pounded into the charm. I learned about this company months ago from a life coach and wanted one immediately, but I didn't want to choose just ANY word. I wanted a word that was meaningful to me but not one that was too easy. I was looking for a word that would be challenging but not intimidating. And with the bazillions of words there are, it seemed daunting to find ONE. 

 

After some contemplation, I chose the word CAPABLE. This is a word that is a reminder of a lot of things - that I can succeed, that I need to be kind to myself and try, that I am surrounded by other people who believe in me. But most of all, it reminds me that I AM CAPABLE. And so are you!!

Karaoke and Writing

While dancing around in my kitchen and singing to Pandora, I had an epiphany about how to best describe my feelings about where I am as a writer. It happened somewhere between Debbie Gibson's Out of the Blue and Cupid's Cupid Shuffle.

The first memory I have of doing karaoke in public is when I was 17. It was 1996 and I drove my car across the city to a mall to see my crush - a radio DJ named Rob Blair. He was doing a live broadcast/fundraiser for Jerry's Kids to help the Muscular Dystrophy Association. Part of the event was karaoke, and Rob and I sang When I Fall in Love by Celine Dion and Clive Griffin. I don't know why we chose that. Rob was not in love with me and what I felt for him was nothing more than infatuation. He knew I was fond of him though and he kind of enjoyed it. But, that's the song we picked and it was awful and now I have a nice memory!

I'm 40 now and can't think of a year since then I haven't done karaoke. For 23 years, I've gone out more times than I can count with different groups of friends and sang my heart out. I have a few go-to songs that I perform - Honey, I'm Home by Shania Twain, I'm Movin' On by Rascal Flatts, And Then He Kissed Me by the Crystals. When I have my best friends with me, we do Build Me Up Buttercup by The Foundations. I've done Sir Mix-a-Lot, Madonna and Divinyls. I haven't done Celine Dion since I was 17 and that's better for everyone.

While I may have learned a few karaoke "rules," one thing I haven't done is gotten much better at it. I cannot carry a tune and I know it. I continue to do it because I love it. Music is one of my most favorite things in the world, and karaoke is a time to get out and have a few laughs with friends. I'm not the worst singer sometimes, but I know I'll never be the best. It's easy to sit in a chair and sing along with your friends. I know the lyrics to the song I choose. I know the melody. And I've usually got some liquid courage in me. But when I grab the microphone and the focus is on me, my level of confidence takes a dive.

My history as a writer goes back even further than 1996 but, for me, the two are similar. The first piece of writing I remember sharing with anyone was very simple - demographic information. It was the late '80s. I sat in my bedroom and, in my best penmanship, wrote my name, address and phone number. I wrote my mom's name, my dad's name and my sister's name. That doesn't sound like something to be remembered, and sounds even less like something anyone would want to read. But the next part was about a man who soon after became my stepdad. I wasn't sure at an age of less than 10 what to call a man we lived with that wasn't yet married to my mom. I knew he wasn't my dad but I thought the terms boyfriend and girlfriend were reserved for teenagers :)

I pondered and wrote, finishing the piece, and ran into their bedroom to show them. They read aloud softly and quickly and stopped when they reached the bottom of the page. They looked up at me and then continued to read slowly "My doo doo butt's name is Dennis Burke." I don't know why I wrote that, and don't remember knowing then why I wrote it. We all got a good laugh out of it and a nice memory, and I think my stepdad kept it until he died.

I remember, in the moment, being so proud of what I'd written and being able to share it. I'm happy to say I've written more interesting things (I think) since the late '80s. In 5th grade, I was in a small group of kids of divorced parents and wrote a short story. It was called The New Kid on the Block - no, it wasn't about boy bands. It was about a boy who recently moved away with his mother and he was struggling to find friends in his new neighborhood and school. I think it was 6 or 8 pages long. I don't have it anymore but know that I wrote a sequel too!

In 6th grade, I wrote a paper about getting stuck in a highchair in a pizza joint after a trip to a haunted house. My teacher wrote 'amateur' across the top and I still have no idea how it was meant to be interpreted. I wrote poetry throughout middle and high school, and I have a stack that's poorly written and mostly dark. I started keeping a journal in college and took an etymology class because I love words. Several years ago, I wrote a children's book called Colors of the World that I self-published. I sold a few dozen copies, mostly to family, and I have a copy of it on my children's bookshelf. The story is mediocre at best and the art is just plain awful.

In 2018, I wrote my first book review, and last year, I finished the first draft of a novel. Looking back over my writing timeline, I've certainly come a long way from demographic information and "doo doo butt." I don't doubt my ability to write - that's the part I know I can do. I am reasonably intelligent. I can spell well and I've always gotten an A in grammar. But it's the "grab the microphone" moment and my confidence is tanking. I need to do more than write if I want to become an author. I need to tell a story, and that's the part I can't do.

My novel, for now, is put on hold and while I hope to one day pick it back up and get it published, I don't know that I ever will. Maybe I'm not meant to be an author any more than I'm meant to be a singer. I'm trying but struggling to accept that fact, and maybe it isn't true. But instead of focusing on the "what if I never..." part of it, I'm going to put my energy into the parts of writing I know I can do. Simply because, just like music, I enjoy it and I'm not ready for the journey to end.

My Squad

It's become sort of a fad recently for everyone to have #goals of any kind - couple, fitness, squad, etc. You name it - everyone's got an ultimate version of something they're seeking, or maybe they're fortunate enough to already have it. I like to march to the beat of my own drum and the few times I follow the crowd, it's more like lagging way behind. I'm never doing what's in style, cool or hip.

But if I had to pick one #goal I'm proud of, it is my squad.  A ton of people are quick to say "I'm here any time," or "you can call me day or night." The number of people who truly mean it though, at least in my life, is a lot less than a ton. Probably so much less that I can count them on one hand.

I have three great women in my life - my sister Debbie, my cousin Becky, my cousin Amanda - who truly are my best friends, and I really can call them any time. Day or night. Crying or laughing. Mourning or celebrating. Offering help or seeking advice. I can guarantee we are not #squadgoals for the rest of the world. I can also guarantee we don't care. We love us and I wouldn't change it a bit.

As kids, I remember us putting on our best dresses with matching hats at Easter and hunting eggs around our Aunt Ellen's yard; playing rock school on the steps in front of our grandparents' house; making music videos in Becky's garage; fighting over who got to butter toast in the morning after a sleepover at our grandparents' house - it's my turn; decorating bikes and strollers for the 4th of July parade; fearing Uncle Bob for no real reason; reserving movies at the video store under the name Billie Jean King and being accused of lying - we weren't; asking Uncle Den to sing "If I Only Had a Brain" one more time; and I could go on and on.

Year after year, we'd gather at our grandparents' house on Christmas Eve. The adults would sit around the living room as we performed the Christmas story. I think Debbie or Amanda always read the book and the rest of us played various roles. After that, we'd put on our Christmas clothes and walk to St. Mary's for midnight mass. My most vivid memory of the church was the huge cross hanging on the wall. I'm not lying. It's enormous! And I think the figure of Jesus might be bigger than he actually was. 😂 Why is it so big? I remember sitting in the pew near the front and just staring at him.

Our times together have transitioned from playing with dolls and tossing rocks in the crick to weddings and having babies. We're all grown up now, according to our birth certificates, and our bond has grown as much as we have. I still get made fun of for not being able to correctly pronounce "meow" when I read the Three Little Kittens aloud. They all still get teased for stuff too, but they don't know I'm writing this so I'll let them share at their discretion!

We have daily text messages full of sarcasm, wit, and F-bombs. We have stories of stupid things we did when we were drunk. We have parenting and relationship questions. We perform Build Me Up Buttercup by the Temptations at karaoke like no one you've ever heard.

I love these women and all the special memories we've made together. I can't wait to see what the next 40 years hold for all of us.

Hang on to Your Stupid

I've watched Days of Our Lives for a large portion of my life, probably close to 20 years. Is it stupid? Probably. Could I live without watching it? Of course! But because we all have guilty pleasures, we all know that beyond these superficial, seemingly meaningless things lies something special for us, even if it makes no sense to anyone else.

Because it airs in the middle of the day, it often gets interrupted with breaking news, usually political. When this happens, I wait about five minutes and if it continues, I shut off the TV. Last year, it was interrupted for the sentencing of Larry Nassar and I almost turned it off, but I didn't. If you don't know who he is, Google him. He's not worth my time/blog space.

The reason I didn't turn it off is because of the presiding judge. She had an attitude and a charisma that I immediately envied. I knew at that minute, I wanted her in my life. I wanted to be her friend. She is Judge Rosemarie Aquilina and she is a BAD ASS!!!

I wasn't sure how I'd go about starting what I hoped would turn into a friendship and honestly, I didn't know how to even say her name yet. 😂 But that's the magic of the internet - you can find just about anything you want. So I looked her up and found her on Twitter. I learned that she wrote a book called Triple Cross Killer. I bought it and started reading it immediately. I hadn't read a book in about five years and it only took me a couple of weeks to get through.

During the course of reading it, I exchanged a few messages with her about the plot - I thought she was trying to make Santa bad! But he's not 😉

When I finished reading it, she asked me to write a book review. I had never done this and wasn't sure where to even start. I asked her multiple times if she was serious and she was. So I did it...after I read several websites on what it is, how to do it, what it needs, etc. After I wrapped my head around the fact I was even communicating with her. After I spent way too much time overthinking it. And after I had convinced myself I couldn't do it and she assured me I could do anything.

I sent it to her and she approved and commented I should write more book reviews, maybe even for a living. Since then I've written probably a dozen, and I started down a path I never expected myself to find myself on. Last week, I typed "THE END" on the first draft of my very first novel. I've always enjoyed writing and for a long time, dreamed of writing my own book. Now I've done it. It might be trash. It might not sell. But I did it. And I honestly could not have done it without her.

Her faith in me has never wavered. She's never told me I couldn't do something. She's always encouraged me and has given me advice about writing and about life. From the first message I sent her, she's been kind, funny, honest and humble. She is a true gem and is someone I am more than happy to call a friend and mentor.

About a month ago, I purchased a ticket to a book talk she was doing in Detroit. I reserved my Airbnb in Windsor, Ontario, Canada and that's where I'm sitting now. I chose Windsor because it was cheaper than anything I could find in Detroit and I wasn't going to drive the four hours home at night alone. I've never been to Canada and the house I'm staying in is only 15 mins away (in theory) from where the event took place. Oh and the next time I'm at the customs station, I want to flip the script and ask them the questions.

Anyways - I got to meet her!! I got to hear her talk about her passion for writing. I got to listen as she told about where her inspiration for her stories comes from. I got to learn a little about her writing process. I got to sit in a room with her. I got to ask her a question. I got to hug her. This magnificent bad ass woman who interrupted my soap opera last year. A woman who I quickly admired and who has now become a friend.

Maybe watching soap operas is stupid. Maybe sending a tweet or message to a complete stranger is stupid. Maybe driving four hours to meet someone and have them sign a book that you have three copies of is stupid. Maybe having three copies of the same book is stupid. It's not the only book I have three copies of, by the way. Maybe I'm stupid.

But I'm also happy. So I'm going to hang on to the stupid as long as it makes me happy.

Take the Time. Ask the Questions. Have the discussion.

DISCLAIMER:
This blog contains some sensitive and intimate information. The part about my past reveals a lot. The part of the story about my friend is not detailed and is being written with her permission. If you are in my circle of friends and know her, do not publicly name her. If you don't know who it is, don't ask. I'm not telling.

***

Almost daily, stories are coming out about sexual assault. Assaults on babies, young children, teens, adults and seniors. Some with a single victim, some with hundreds. We can share the horror, the disgust. We can feel frustration, rage and sadness. We can comment with "why didn't s/he tell," "why didn't they report sooner," "how did no one know." We can wonder how a predator can prey on so many before anyone finds out. I say the same things. I ask the same questions. I share the same feelings. It's sick. It's sad. It needs to end.

Pointing a finger at one person and and making them responsible for the act itself is easy to do. In a movie, the main character gets the awards, the spotlight, and the publicity. But there are a lot of people behind the scenes who've contributed to the film's success. And in cases of sexual assault, especially where the number of victims bleeds into the hundreds, the behind the scenes crew holds a small percentage of responsibility.

In the highly-publicized Larry Nassar case, allegations first surfaced in the 1990s. No one investigated. No one believed. No one listened. And by the time someone finally did listen, 20+ years later, the number of victims was well over 100. But even with the publicity, and the documentaries and the countless Google search results about this case, if you are someone who has never been affected, either as a victim or as the friend or family member of a victim, it is easy to dismiss the amount of trauma that can be experienced from an assault. It's difficult to understand how anything at any time, even years later, can be a trigger. There is no way for someone who is not a victim to completely understand but when we take time to listen, we can get a little bit closer.

My knowledge of the amount of damage that can come from a traumatic experience is limited. While I know people who have been sexually assaulted, I never have been. But I have been shoved off of a bed for refusing sex. I have been sexually harassed. And while neither of these experiences caused me any real trauma, they have taught me to be empathetic and have shaped my attitude about sex and relationships. I believed after the first incident if I refused sex, I'd lose a friend. I thought if I refused sex, people would walk away from me. I believed if I refused sex, I would be in danger. And after the harassment, which was not a one time incident, but one that continued for two years, I believed no matter how kind or persistent I was, it didn't matter. I believed I was doing something wrong by telling someone I didn't want to be with them intimately. I believed at some point I would have to submit. No one should feel like this. No one deserves to feel like this.

Up to the point of entering college, almost having sex was as far as I'd gone with anyone. My quest continued to find where I fit in the world and college only made it more complicated. All of those thoughts about sex circulated through my brain day after day. It was then that I decided, at age 20, to have sex for the first time. My partner was gentle, patient and put no pressure on me. But it hurt. Badly. It wasn't what I'd imagined sex to be at all. After the first time, it became less painful and I almost started to enjoy it. I say almost because at the forefront of my mind was the thought that if I stopped having sex with him, the relationship would be over. I believed this was the only reason he cared about me and paid any attention to me. I believed this to be the only reason anyone would pay attention to me, and that was all that I wanted. Attention. Because sex wasn't something I really enjoyed, I'd drink myself into a complete haze beforehand. I started down a lengthy path of drunken one night stands. I am not proud of this. But I am also not ashamed of it. I got lucky that all of my partners were clean. I got lucky that no one ever assaulted me. I got lucky that it taught me something.



But I have a friend who is not as lucky. She was in an abusive marriage once. Physical abuse. Sexual abuse. Emotional abuse. Financial abuse. And while she's able now to tell her story without shame, her pain is not gone and she is not done healing.

We were out with a group of friends last month. After dinner, shooting pool and a few drinks, we all went back to one couple's house to play games. Everyone was up for just about anything and a few of us suggested Poker. My friend halted the idea almost immediately. It wasn't because we weren't playing for real money. It wasn't because she didn't know how. It was because it was a trigger.

She explained that in her previous marriage, her then in-laws played Poker frequently. And while those nights may have been filled with laughter and good times, that game makes her mind travel back to a place in her life when she was taken advantage of. A time when she was hurt intentionally. A time when she was controlled and scared. A time when she was a victim.

A friend of ours responded by saying we could start playing and if she felt triggered, we could just stop. That seems like a reasonable thing to do, and there is nothing wrong with this suggestion. But it's not that simple. She and I tried together to explain that sometimes when someone gets to the point of being triggered, it's already too late. In this situation, a potential trigger was something she could avoid. Admittedly, the conversation was much too short, and while neither of us are sure he still completely understands where she was coming from, the few minutes we spent discussing it opened the door for future dialogue.


Fixing this epidemic is going to take a lot of time, a lot of open and difficult discussion and a lot of listening. Everyone needs to be willing to participate in the conversation. People who don't understand cannot be afraid to ask questions. Those who do understand need to be willing to answer the questions. No one can force anyone to share their story before they're ready. No simple, quick conversation will give anyone a complete picture of what the post-trauma from these experiences looks like. But if all of us can start listening, be patient and be willing, then we're moving in the right direction.

I Appreciate You!

Teacher Appreciation Week is almost here, and being the youngest of four kids, I had a hard time getting any teacher who didn't refer to me as "so and so's little sister." Any time I got a teacher who'd had one of my siblings, I felt like they'd already decided what kind of student I was going to be. Sometimes this gave me an advantage and other times, it put me under more scrutiny. Either way, I had some really great teachers who I'll never forget.



Mr. Ferguson - 5th grade social studies.
He was the teacher every girl had a crush on. He was tall, slender, and tan with brown hair  He had  dark brown eyes. Every girl wanted to be in his class, and I did enjoy social studies a little more that year!

Ms. Dorsett - 6th grade English.
I don't remember the exact assignment but it was to write a paper. Mine detailed a recent visit to a haunted house with my parents and a group of their friends. It was called Necropolis, and at that time, a guide led you through different rooms one by one and various Halloween shenanigans took place in each. The last room had 6 doors. Only one let you out and the others looped back in. Ultimately, you went through the doors until you chose the right one. I DO NOT LIKE HAUNTED HOUSES and having been in there for what seemed like forever, I just needed to get the hell out! With me trembling and in tears, my mom begged an employee to tell us which door would let us out. After giving us a hard time for a few minutes, he finally obliged. We left Necropolis and went to a pizza place to eat. Our party was one person too large for the table. Instead of doing what normal people do and asking for another chair, someone grabbed a high chair and I sat in that. I was 11 years old. In a high chair. It was okay until I tried to get out. This is the only time in my life I remember my legs being too long for anything. I couldn't maneuver myself into the seat in a way where my knees would bend above the lap bar to allow me to get out. Someone in our group had tools in his car and he removed the bar. Why didn't we just ask for a chair?? 🙄 Well, I wrote of this evening and when I got the paper back, there was only one word in red ink across the top - AMATEUR. I still have no idea how to interpret that.

Mrs. Carmichael - middle school gym. 
She was all business during class time, but afterwards, she always had carrots. Tiny, ice cold carrots. They were delicious, and I don't know that I've had a carrot since then that was as good as the ones she gave us.

Mr. Schneider - middle school English. 
He was old and knew my mother. I remember one day he called on me but said "Mary Ellen." This is not my name. Mary is my mom's first name and Ellen is my middle name. I have no idea why he called me that and I'm even more unsure of why I responded. 

These teachers gave me a few fond memories. But there are three teachers who really had an impact on me, and I'm fortunate enough to still be in contact with them today.

Mrs. Mary McCormack - 5th grade. 
I remember her being a patient teacher. She didn't put up with poor attitudes and behavior, but she was always fair. She was kind and was the first teacher who really made me feel special. She asked me and another classmate to stay after a few times a week just to help her with the classroom. We weren't being punished for anything and we hadn't done anything to win the privilege. She just chose us. I never asked why. But being given that opportunity gave me a sense of purpose. She was the first person who made me feel like I really mattered. Mary is still a teacher at the same elementary school.

Mr. Paul Mendenhall - high school radio/TV. 
He was a phenomenal teacher, and my junior year of high school, I finally found something I was good at. Within the first week of his class, he'd memorized all of our names, faces and voices. He didn't hesitate to tell me that I had a great radio voice and he was kind enough to never tell me I had the perfect face for it too! 😄 He encouraged us on every assignment and always provided constructive criticism. He gave us advice on how to do better and showed us ways to improve. He never told any of us we couldn't do something. I know he rolled his eyes at the stupid show promos we recorded, but he helped us be the best of the stupid. I hosted the Friday morning show for my high school station during my senior year as Jane E. When I got to college, my radio career aspirations halted due to lack of support from professors. I wish I could have taken Mr. Mendenhall with me. Paul no longer teaches at the high school, but you can catch him every weekday morning on 92.3 WTTS in Indianapolis.

Dr. Laura O'Hara - intercultural communications prof at BSU.
I cannot say enough about this lady. The first time I visited Ball State, I sat in an auditorium full of college hopefuls. She introduced herself and told us about the communications department. She was upbeat, funny and engaging. I remember at one point she was walking through the aisles and said "I feel like Jenny Jones." I knew immediately I wanted to take her class. And when I did, I sat in the front - stone faced and quiet. I hardly ever participated and she told me on more than one occasion that she wasn't sure I was even paying attention. I promise I was! Beyond the classroom, she was much more than a teacher. She was a mentor to me in both academics and personal matters. She was never condescending or judgmental but she was always honest. She listened. She advised. She cared. I enjoyed college a lot of the time but the years I was there were the hardest of my life. I suffered from extreme depression and a very VERY low self-esteem. I cannot count how many nights I would call Laura after hours and talk to her on the phone. Some nights I'd end up in her office, spilling emotions and shedding tears. She took me back to my dorm one night and Everybody Hurts by R.E.M. was on the radio. It was probably the most fitting and the most ironic way the evening could have ended. She has seen me at my absolute worst and has never abandoned me. Our professor/student relationship ended, but she's remained a mentor and has become one of my dearest friends. She holds a very special place in my heart. She's still a professor at BSU.

If you are a teacher, a coach, or a mentor, you've got one of the toughest jobs in the world. Please believe me when I say that you are making a difference to someone, even if it goes unsaid forever. THANK YOU!

A recent article by Indianapolis Star Journalist Gregg Doyel inspired me to write this post. His story can be found here:
https://www.indystar.com/story/sports/columnists/gregg-doyel/2019/05/02/doyel-dont-do-what-did-take-time-thank-teacher-week-teacher-appreciation-week/3549380002/