#year17

This self-portrait is titled “#teachertired”… 😂 I had to do a self-portrait for my photography class. It was late and I was so tired, I didn’t care how I looked…but I am really proud of the lighting and editing on it! 😂 This #teachertired face will disappear for a bit, though, because #year17 is officially over! #ohheyvacay #icannowfeelexcitedaboutyou https://www.instagram.com/p/CeXTSb0pzlV/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=

Last day with students today. A few weeks ago, one of my students emailed me a picture of a shirt like this and said it reminded her of me…so I had to buy it to wear today. ❤️ #year17 https://www.instagram.com/p/CeU3snkr-OW/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=

#11/26 #year17 #total18+ #fin #theend #thesewords #iwishyouallthebest https://www.instagram.com/p/B5Zc-b4nYoOV0cDbQS3yxDJMg-garUUiq7eEPE0/?igshid=xyb2lsskgst

First day of the 2019-2020 school year! #year17 #kindaready #facultymeeting #necessaryevil (at James Earl Rudder High School) https://www.instagram.com/p/B05--16HlNDX23cnxrBKm_Pahu2X-6u1XvKarc0/?igshid=v16o38zw2wgv

First Day of School for me❤️ complete with chalk on the driveway😃 #backtotheclassroom #year17 #teach #montessori #feelingthelove

It's 6:18am. As I'm falling asleep, I am pretty sure I'm the luckiest girl in the world.

I'm trying to find some color in my closet, but there isn't any except for yellow panties and turquoise socks. I should be wearing more than panties and socks. I'm going through my mother's closet. I hate the patterns, the cuts, the fabrics. I hate everything. I hate myself. I'm listening to your last voice mail over and over again. I finally decide on dark blue jeans and a grey hoodie. Underneath I'm wearing yellow panties and turquoise socks. I find a bottle of brownish liquor under my bed. I take a sip. And another. And another. It doesn't numb anything. "Ash! You win! I'm on my way to your place. See you in a bit." Your voice echoes through every fibre of my being. I shiver. And take another sip. When Alex and Ben finally arrive to pick me up, I'm drunk. Alex asks if I was able to recall the last time I ate. I shake my head. Eating doesn't seem like a thing I'm supposed to do anymore. As we drive I empty the bottle of liquor. It still hurts. I look at my hand. The last part of me you physically touched. Your mother is wearing a bright red dress and is barely holding herself together. She squeezes my hand. I try to smile, but fail terribly. Your dad has aged since I last saw him two weeks ago. I walk over to your brother who's standing next to your mother's car. We share a cigarette in silence. People keep on staring at me. I'm sure it's because they think it's my fault. I think it's my fault. "It's not your fault." Your brother sounds rather convinced, but I don't believe him. As we enter the funeral home, we are greeted by what seems like a million people. Your uncle Vernon is here. He still looks like a pervert. Your aunt Helene is still the most beautiful human being I've ever seen. Speeches are being held. Songs are being sung. Tears are being cried. It's my turn. I have four sheets of paper filled with smeared letters in my pocket. I start to read. I can not cry. I want to tell the truth. You were on your way to my place. You tried to avoid the other car. You lost control over your car. Your car started to skid. Your car overturned. Your car hit a tree. You died. It was my fault.