The teaching dreams. They haunt me. In them I have no control, no power. Students laugh at me, ignore me, and challenge me. There is a cacophonous symphony on every side. Chaotic chords in the minor key. My heart pounds in my chest. My face is flushed. My mind goes everywhere and nowhere. I can feel everything slipping away. Every last bit of control.
Five years later the dreams still flare up when I am anxious, uncertain, or afraid of something in my life. I wake up feeling sick to my stomach, and my head knows I don’t have to walk into the classroom that day. But the classroom is still in me. Class is in session. In my dreams I am frozen in time.
The story of my son’s birth was mysteriously erased from my computer. Centimeters of dilation lost, timeline lost, contraction history lost, direct quotes from my doctor lost. The medical story, the story of facts and numbers, vanished. 
As a married woman, I have eaten alone with male friends many times. I have exchanged emails containing personal writings about my life and past. I have gone on long walks with a male friend. I have drunk beer alone in an apartment with one. I have stayed up talking to a male friend on our own couch after Lloyd has gone to bed and left us in the living room. We have texted and talked on the phone. Men who are not my husband have been confidantes. Sometimes we’ve hung out as a group with my husband, but I’ve had a distinct friendship with men apart from their friendship with my husband. 
When the world around me is quiet and I am alone, this is where my words begin. 
