Hazel

 Growing up, I always thought my eyes were brown because other people said they looked brown. I felt like there wasn’t anything wrong with brown eyes, I wished they were more special but overall I didn’t have any complaints. My mom has brown eyes, my sister has brown eyes, my brother has brown eyes. 

But here’s the thing. 

I have hazel eyes. 

In the light, they look emerald green rimmed with honey, fading into chocolate at the pupil. They have freckles of brown and flecks of gold. 

I spent my whole life thinking my eyes were brown because people told me they looked brown. 

Why did it take so long for me to realize my own eye color??

Nowadays, even I fill out my drivers license info, I still have a moment of self doubt as I fill out the details: what if I got pulled over and the cop decided my eyes look more brown and I must have lied?

What if people hear me say that my eyes are hazel and assume I’m just trying to be edgy, extra, quirky, memorable?

My eyes have always been hazel, even when I thought they were brown. My eyes have always been hazel, even when people told me they looked brown brown so they must be. 

Anyways, my pronouns are she/they. I like to think of myself as a woman*. The asterisk is the important part because I didn’t have dysphoria growing up or even now, but the label “woman” alone isn’t entirely true on its own.

Just because my eyes have brown in them doesn’t mean they are brown. 

Just because I do feel like a she doesn’t mean I’m not also a they. 

Document That Shit!

 Okay, so, here's the thing: I have ALWAYS sucked at writing in a journal. I become so quickly overwhelmed at the concept of catching my journal up with the thousands of things that have happened to me since I last wrote. 

But in these times, it's so important to document: I refuse to allow history to be written about me by people who don't know me at all.

It is currently Monday, February 3rd, 2025. I am sitting in my living room, watching an illegal recording of Les Miserables on Youtube for the fiftieth time this week while I write this and wait for the washing machine to finish up so I can switch my clothes to the dryer. I am more burnt out than I can even express, because being a teacher in America (specifically in a red state) sucks ASS. The government doesn't give a flying fuck about me, about student success, or about the arts. Tonald Drump and Melon Eusk have just been sworn in as president (okay, maybe just the cheeto, but his buddy has been acting all kinds of "in charge" and it's BAFFLING that he is allowed to hold a position of power after throwing *azi salutes around.) Pardon my Tumblr-ization, I just don't want to get hunted down/thrown in prison for writing what I know on a public forum.

But yeah. Things REEEEALLY suck right now. To be fair, I entered this year already burnt out because I was the sole breadwinner for my family last year, as Nathan was laid off in January (fuck Chris Krohn and everything he stands for) and had a really hard time finding a job. That time really weighed on me because I think I have always known that I don't have the constitution to teach forever, because I care WAY too much to just half-ass it. But unfortunately, the only way to be a teacher and not go crazy at this point is to half-ass it.

This year alone, I had my wedding ring stolen by a student (don't worry, she didn't face any consequences because her dad brought it back), students joking about taking pictures of my feet to sell online, and the absolute nastiest email from a parent because I couldn't let his daughter miss all of tech week and be in the musical. All this, plus my ovaries and uterus constantly causing pain (Hopefully surgery in March will help-- it was a miracle to find a male doctor that also cried the day Roe V Wade went down).

I am expected to be a physical shield if/when a gunman comes into the classroom. I am expected to just laugh it off when a dad follows me to my second place of employment, and still make polite conversation with him. I am supposed to be completely unfazed when a student physically threatens, even squares up with me over my not letting her use her phone backstage after multiple reminders. I am expected to plan for 8 class periods every other day, write and carry out my entire curriculum alone, write objectives on the board, diversify my approach to engage diverse learners (but also legally expected to allow ICE to come take and deport my diverse learners and students just because Mr CheeseBall said so?), communicate consistently with parents and other students, make sure all emails get responses within 24 hours and all grades updated for my hundreds of students on a weekly basis, maintain and utilize sound and lighting equipment for assemblies and concerts, at this point I could keep going but now I am starting to sound like my resume. There is too much. My job demands too much of me and it is slowly, though gathering speed, chipping away at who I am.

I've been put on two new medications, and upped my dosage on the one I've been on since high school, just to manage my anxiety. How in the hell am I expected to deal with the pressures of teaching when teachers are vilified on a national level? How the fuck am I expected to help these kids feel hopeful and empowered when I feel so powerless?

I don't know if we are officially entering a war, I don't know if the stock market will crash tomorrow, I don't know if the Department of Education will still be around a few months from now, I don't know if I will be able to have my endometriosis surgery or be able to get a new IUD in March. All of these sound very tinfoil-hat-esque but the thing is, all of these and so many more have been on the table in the past 3 weeks since inauguration day. I feel like I'm writing a damn teen dystopian novel.

I miss the times when I was just the reader, curled up on my couch, feeling safe because I knew for a fact that the leaders of my nation would never pit us against each other, knew for a fact I wouldn't have to live through a world war.

I miss being a teen dystopian novel reader.

My dearest Tiffany—

 You know all those assignments they are making you do, where you write about what you will be doing or where you’ll be in 10 years? Well, there are a couple of things I’m afraid to tell you.

You’ll be pleased (probably) to learn that you did survive to see 2025! It was touch and go at a few moments here and there, but you pushed through and arose to the challenge every time. 

You graduated from college in 2022, taking 6 years total to finish it up. I’m proud of you for sticking with it: graduating in 4 years is a ridiculous expectation anyways. You accomplished a lot during that time, and made lots of friends. I wouldn’t say you made enemies per se, but be on the lookout: trust your gut and protect your heart. You graduated cum laude, which basically means that your {sorry for this} obsession with good grades stayed strong till the end.

You did technically graduate single, but trust me, it’s better that way: you quickly reconnected and fell in love with the most amazing man and you get to marry him, followed by hosting the world’s BEST dance party at the reception. 

I’m not going to tell you his name, because when you first met, he was not the love of your life: you actually weren’t a very good match for each other at all. You both had growing to do. Trust me when I say that he is worth the wait.

He gets you. like, GETS you. You have such similar backgrounds, interests, and passions for life. You are not exactly the same, because that would be recipe for disaster. But he loves you, more deeply and more truly than you can even conceive of right now. He brings out the most courageous and confident version of yourself. He is also hot as hell and makes you feel the same.

Oh yeah, the swearing. You swear now. Frequently. Your first time swearing was in an acting class at BYU and it was terrifying and exhilarating: your language was finally your own and the responsibility of everyone else’s salvation was no longer on the line every time you opened your mouth.

I guess I should break the news you were always most afraid of hearing: Tiffany, you are no longer a member of the church. 

Please do not hear this news and use it as an opportunity to become even more devout and obsessive about your discipleship: you did EVERYTHING you possibly could have. You went through the temple on December 27th, 2017. It was lovely. Don’t listen to the people who make jokes about it being creepy: it is simply a sacred ritual. I do miss the temple. But not enough to go back. You didn’t leave the church: The church left you. I know how scared this news must make you feel because I remember how terrified I was about becoming a moral-less heathen. The thing is… I left the church BECAUSE of my morals. I left BECAUSE the organization no longer reflected what I believe is right, and I owed you the opportunity to live with integrity. 

Leaving was the most brave thing I have ever done in my life. Please remember that as you interact with friends who have left— it’s not the ‘easy way out’, it is the hardest decision a person can make. I’m not here to tell you to leave now, although a lot of therapy money could be saved if you did; I’m here to ask you to be curious. Why did you feel the need to prove to everyone that you were the MOST faithful person alive? Why did you even bear your testimony in your journal each night, knowing that you were the only person to read it? 

Living authentically doesn’t require convincing everyone including yourself that you are a certain way, it just requires living that way.

Speaking of authenticity, please for the love of god stop being so horrible toward every gay person in your life! You say you’re being kind, but you’re just being homophobic. My friend, the call is coming from inside the house. Don’t be fooled by the fact you are going to marry a man: there’s a reason you got butterflies whenever your best friends played with your hair, and there’s a reason you were convinced that going on dates with popular guys would “fix” you. We both know that girls are just objectively hotter than guys… but I have news for you, friend: straight girls don’t say that. My advice to you: start kissing girls! It’s super fun! And far safer than kissing men, generally speaking.

I can almost see your face reading this: you are horrified. How could your life have possibly gone so far off the rails? How could you abandon every part of yourself that you hold dear? I’m going to let you in on a secret: not everything in life is so black or white. There is grey in between all these things and grey does not = bad. 

The life ahead of you is pretty scary, I won’t lie to you. It is also so lovely and worthwhile. I won’t tell you not to be afraid: keep moving forward even when you do feel afraid. Take care of your body. Please feed yourself: starving and skinny is not worth your mental and physical health. Be open to new stories. Give yourself some grace. 

And don’t go off your anxiety meds in January of 2020. Just trust me on this one. 

A shell of a person

It was sexual assault.

This happened months and months ago and already consumed two blog posts (both of which were rather long). 

It was sexual assault.

It took me a therapist telling me that the lasting flashbacks and panic weren't me overreacting, and it wasn't my fault, and you had NO RIGHT to do that to me.

It took medications. It took counseling. It took months to realize.

It was sexual assault.

Unwelcome or force-able sexual advances of ANY KIND count.

The emotional abuse that followed counted.

The fact that the hardest part of finals week is having to be in a class with you, presenting in the front of the classroom and being able to see you from where I'm standing, knowing you'll be looking either at your phone or me. That counts.

It was sexual assault. 

The scars on my leg caused by me count.

The fact I am so hesitant to press publish because what if you find this, read about yourself, that counts.

I'm afraid of you. I don't feel safe. I have to make sure to walk to my classes a certain way, check both sides of the street before I cross it to make sure I don't have to see you. That counts.

The fact that I better hurry up and finish this post before my breathing gets too much faster-- it's still so triggering to think about. That counts.

It all counts. It was sexual assault.

I am a survivor of sexual assault, but that does not define me. I count.

Get where I'm coming from?

“She is messy, but she’s kind; she is lonely most of the time. She is all of this mixed up and baked in a beautiful pie… She is gone, but she used to be mine” -Sarah Bareilles, She Used to Be Mine

            I live in a small town called Conformity, which is the capital of Happy. I am everything you’d expect me to be outwardly: modest, successful, resilient, happy. Stressed in all the right ways, focused, driven, spiritual, friendly, imperfect, supportive daughter/sister/RA/friend/whatever-you-need-me-to-be. Content to be single and first pick for the friend-zone team.

            They say this is where I’m from. But they don’t know I forged my birth certificate.

            I can’t tell people my true origins.

            I can’t disappoint people like that. I have learned I must be selfless, so I’ll listen while you talk and never weigh you down with my own baggage. I’ll be there for you through everything and we’ll thrive together in Conformity, Happy for the rest of our days.

            “Is this home? Is this where I should learn to be happy? Never dreamed that a home could be dark and cold. I was told every day in my childhood, even when we grow old: Home will be where the heart is, never were words so true. My heart’s far, far away- home is too.” -Home, Beauty and the Beast the Musical

            I try not to remember Hidden. I try not to remember Brainwashed. I try not to remember Used. I try not to remember Broken. Those places often star in my dreams, taunt me when I zone out or lose focus or when my strength starts to wane. I always think I’m past those horrible places, but somehow they keep coming back.

            Hidden. A place where regardless of my efforts, regardless of my achievements, regardless of my progress, I am largely unrecognized and shunted to the background. A place where my best friend is always superior and a place where I should be content, but for some reason I’m just not. Because I’ve spent SO MUCH TIME HERE. I am from Hidden. And I don’t want to be.

            Brainwashed. A place where a ten-year-old can be told she needs to lose weight because she’s bigger than the rest of the girls on her gymnastics team. A place where pain doesn’t matter until it’s a matter of life or death. A place where I spent eight years of my life, wondering why I felt like there was something missing until I finally looked at it from the outside. A place where other friends don’t tend to invite you to anything because you train 7 hours a day, five days a week. I am from Brainwashed. And I wish I’d realized where I was before it became too late.

            Used. Such an ugly place. I thought I had been through so much in this life; I had no idea that something so painful could come in such an appealing package. A place where promises in moments of heated emotion have no intention to be kept. A place where the word ‘no’ loses its meaning. A place where visible fear is taken to mean ‘more please.’ A place where I feel unsafe and suffocated and dirty and helpless and… A place where he didn’t even think twice. A place where he still says hi to me as if nothing happened, as if he doesn’t know the panic his proximity causes me. A place that has forced me to learn how to trust again- I’m still working on it. I am from Used. And I’m still trying to figure out how to leave for good.

            Broken. A place where it is so easy to look whole. A place where literal and metaphorical ideas are both completely accurate. A place where a spine cracks due to years of misuse, a place where ten doctors had differing opinions on how to fix it (though they all were pretty much unhelpful and frankly rude). A place where the one who was finally willing to help changed my life for one easy installment of thousands of dollars, a full year of recovery, two titanium rods, and four screws. A place where depression and anxiety are rampant simply because they know you will wait to do anything about them until it’s nearly too late. I am from Broken. And all the king’s horses and all the king’s men might need a little more help.

            But.

            Before Broken, before Used, before Brainwashed, before Hidden, before Conformity-

I am from Heaven.

            “I am a child of God, and He has sent me here. Has given me an earthly home with parents kind and dear. Lead me, guide me, walk beside me, help me find the way- teach me all that I must do to live with Him someday.”

            Heaven. A place where I knew all of these things would happen to me, but I still decided it was worth it. A place that is beautiful, peaceful, pure. A place where I knew my worth, my strengths, my weaknesses. A place where the fact that I’m ‘too innocent’ is actually a good thing. A place where I knew without a shadow of a doubt I would return to soon. A place where I knew my Heavenly Father, spoke to my Savior. A place I can’t wait to get back to. A place that I visit in times of hardship and pain. A place I will stop at nothing to return to. A place I don’t remember, but I know is real. A place that never ends.

            I am from Heaven.

            And nothing can change that.

Dear Santa:

I know I haven't written you in years.
I'm so sorry. I guess I have gotten caught up in my life and everything has been so crazy and I know all these are excuses and I'm sorry
I'm sorry for being naughty sometimes
I'm sorry for being ungrateful sometimes
I'm sorry for not believing in you.

I guess I should probably tell you what I want for Christmas, just like old times
I'd like to pass my finals please
I wouldn't mind a new pair of shoes
I'd say yes to money to pay for next semester
I want a puppy to cuddle with
And, if you don't mind,
I'd kinda like a person to cuddle with too

Dear Santa, I just want to be loved
I know that's not everything and
I know my time is coming and I'll meet him someday and
I know it'll happen eventually...
but I want someone to look at me the same way Jim looks at Pam
I want someone to care about me the same way Parker cares for Mallory
I know it's probably too much to ask but
I've been friend-zoned, cast off, ignored, manipulated, even assaulted
can I please
be loved?

I love you, Santa
I believe in you

-Tiffany

That took a turn

In continuing from the last post....

Dear Taylor:
You don't kiss a girl and ignore her for 3 weeks.
I get it, there are things you don't have control over. I may not know exactly how you feel but I can certainly empathize. But at the same time, you are mad that I assumed the worst but how in the heck was I supposed to know the weight of the world is on your shoulders? All I know is that I liked you, you kissed me, and you stood me up when we were supposed to talk about it. And you've been been completely hostile since.
You said you felt that I was putting all the blame on you. Sorry. But why, WHY did I walk out of that conversation with all of it on my back? You would know this by now if you cared to look, but I'm not very good with words in person. I get flustered when I don't feel safe. I felt so attacked, Taylor. You were looking at me with such hatred and throwing out bullets so fast I couldn't get one word out.
And you made me care about you again. I spent the weekend alone, anxious and plain numb because of what you did to me. But you skipped right back, made me feel horrible about myself, and then made me feel bad for you. I let you hug me. The worst part is that I didn't want you to let go. How twisted is that.
I'm spiraling, Taylor. I've gone deep before but never this deep. I haven't gone a day in a full two weeks without crying. I can't even take a nap without thinking about all the things I should have said. I literally had a panic attack in class today just because you were there and I'm am idiot because I still feel like I need to impress you. I get it, I'm only 18 and I have so much time to find the one. But that's not what third is about. I just want to feel sufficient. I just want to feel loved.
Now before you run off, let me explain that you're not all that special. It's not all about you. It's about how not one guy has ever treated me well. Yes, my dad has, but you know what I man. Every time I tell myself 'he would never hurt me like that' and "This time he's different' but somehow I'm the easiest to manipulate, to use. And I want to know why.
You used me. You manipulated me. You ignored me (yes, I know, I get it. Your circumstances. But stop for just a second and try to think of mine.) But guy#1 did all those things too. Same goes for #2, #3, all of them. After following the trend, the only logical thing is that something about me is completely repellant.
So I get it. I'm sorry. I get that you don't have complete control over what's stopping you from reaching out.
But I don't have complete control over what's literally crushing me either.
Maybe one day we'll be friends. Maybe I won't panic when I see you anymore. Maybe you'll learn how to treat women and maybe, someday, I'll be treated like I matter.
I hope the kiss was all you had hoped for. I hope it was worth it to you.
Because so far that kiss has completely unhinged me.
-Tiff