Weak

Being here has shown me how weak I really am. I thought I was strong. I thought I could be organized. I thought I could manage my time. I thought I could control myself. I thought I was becoming good at saying no. I have realized that I need to be incredibly careful in many aspects of my life so that I am not taken advantage of. I don’t feel like a pushover of a teacher, but I am softer and less structured than Krista and Jessica, and I really envy them. A lady that I recently met was telling us how incredibly important it is to not be manipulated or taken advantage of in any way shape or form. She said that her daughter was raped and was saying that there are certain tendencies in the women who get taken advantage of. Would I want to help a man who needed my jumper cables? Oh, of course. I feel like I am very aware of situations. I know all of the problems that have occurred, are occurring, and could possibly occur in the future (near or distant), but for some reason my logic does not impact my feelings the way I wish it would. I am so weak, and I am not to be trusted with my own life. I have fallen time and time again, and I continue to fall on a daily basis. I cannot be trusted. God help me. I need an escape. Help me to want to escape because I know I should want to but I don’t. Help my logic to outweigh my feelings.

I am using a new laptop (Shukran giddan, ya parental units!), and I hardly have any music on this computer so far. It is night, and I am in a very contemplative and rather melancholy state, and I don’t want to listen to anything other than Christian music. My options are Ray Boltz 400 or I can intersperse that with the 16 second “Give Me Words to Speak” introduction by Aaron Shust. But in all honesty, how can I listen to sappy love songs or bitter I-used-to-be-in-love songs when there are so many more important things in life. I should go back to clean our apartment. Beth, a new SM and recently graduated nurse from SAU, is coming to live with us tomorrow. She has been planning to come for a few months now, and I’m really happy for Krista because she and Krista have been college roommates.

I read part of the love chapter (1 Corinthians 13) at the beginning of my classes today, and some students wrote down where to find it. I absolutely love that. I don’t really think that it makes a big difference to them, but when I say that we’re only going to pray at the beginning of class, some beg for a verse or worship thought. It is possible that they are treating me like we treated Mr. Gammon in high school. Any way to get him off on a tangent about how he met his wife or how he fixed something would take up some of the class period. We were always so proud of ourselves. (Sorry, Mr. Gammon.) There are some students who always write down where to find the text that I have read, and I feel so encouraged by this. I would do anything to get them into their Bibles.

I have so much to do. I have to go.

Oh, by the way, some classes have switched for this second semester. I am still teaching two periods of English for tenth grade, but I am also teaching vocabulary and reading (1 period) to 9B, grammar to 9B, and a vocabulary and study class to 9A. The study part of that class teaches them how to take notes and figure out meanings of words from the context. I think that it will be good for them. I feel a lot better about my classes this semester. I feel more competent and am grateful for more structure in my classes, yet I have this haunting anticipation of feeling overwhelmed. It’s like I see a very distant tidal wave, and I am awaiting my death—wow, I am so dramatic right now. Haha. But I feel it. Ah.

The SMs took a group picture this weekend when we were at an American lady’s house (this meant that we could put our arms around each other… which is always something to feel rebellious about), and Alec laughed and said, “I have you trapped in my armpit!” and wouldn’t let me go. I will never be the same. I asked God to never let me be the same before I came here, but
that’s not what I meant.

I will never be the same.

Shidif sharuk shid, itaany gai bilhed. I don’t know how to spell this in English, and I can barely say it in Arabic, but I learned it when we were watching Egypt’s soccer team play Ghana for the African cup on Sunday night. It means something to the effect of pulling your hair (I don’t know if it’s me pulling it or you pulling your own hair—I think the latter) and the next goal will be at your head. Whatever floats your boat.

I am really weirded out right now, and I can't concentrate.