Turning 30

“In the age of him she wished she were 30, and drank coffee every morning in a French Press.”

Today is my 30th birthday. Somehow, it feels both significant and unimportant. I have heard from so many that this next decade will be the best one yet. I have no doubts that mine will be full of change, growth, and so much love. While I could use this post to explore all of the aspects of my life, my maturity, and my earned wisdom, I want to talk about something less expected. I want to share about how this birthday has colored my view of my relationship with Mr. Davis. 

“But afterward she only ate kids’ cereal, and couldn’t sleep unless it was in her mother’s bed.”

At 19, I had no idea how to begin processing the relationship that had occurred between my high school choir director and me. At first, I thought what I was experiencing was lost love. I equated the loss to a typical “breakup.” After all, from my perspective (my youth), that is what it was to me. There was no recognition on my part that wrong had been done to me. I had no access to anger, only grief. Though it had been my decision to end the relationship, I still grieved the fact that our situation made a relationship between equals impossible. 

“Then she dated boys who were her own age. With dart boards on the backs of their doors.”

At 20, I began to feel ashamed. I worried for him. I wondered if I was to blame for seducing him to cross a line he never intended to ignore. I hoped I had not added to the weights I knew he carried, yet I knew deep down that I had. I began to pray that he would not feel ashamed. I knew I would become a secret chapter of his life, so I made him one in mine as well. For his sake, I kept the severity of our relationship to myself and my close friends. I regretted any time I had told someone from high school, worried the rumors would somehow touch him, though he was states away. I felt young and foolish. I never reached out, and I tried to forget that the escalation of our relationship had happened at all. I built a fantasy like a wall. If I could pretend he never confessed feelings, I would have no reason to regret losing him. It would have been simply the nature of life, of growing up. I thought this was how one moved on. 

“She thought about how he said since she was so wise beyond her years, everything had been above board.”

At 23, I went to therapy because, though my waking hours were generally unaffected, my nightmares had been progressing. I now woke from dreams where Mr. Davis ignored me, or worse, hated me. I confessed a bland version of the truth. I left out words like love and protection. I spoke only in facts, and even so, I purposefully hid pieces that made Mr. Davis appear predatory. When she suggested I do an activity with her to “uncover my anger,” I scoffed. I had no reason to be angry with him, I was sure. Under her direction, I wrote him a letter. The tone was filled with sadness that bordered on disappointment. According to my therapist, the disappointment was an improvement. It meant that I was beginning to see wrongdoing. I disagreed. I felt worse. 

“She wasn’t sure.”

At 25, music became a trigger. I performed on stage for the first time in years. At rehearsals, I could hear his voice in my head, reminding me where to breathe and how to stand with my shoulders back. I’d rehearse in my mirror like he had taught me to do and find myself shaping my lips in the ways he had shown me, to make my vowels more agreeable. Each time a memory flashed, it felt like a knife to my side–a sharp pain followed by a dull, persistent ache. I wondered if he would be proud of the woman I became, then felt deep shame for caring at all. I had no idea whether to process him as a mentor or an ex. It was like a fog had settled low to the ground, growing over the years, leaving me blinded to a way out. I wandered in the gray, lost. 

“And the years passed, like scenes of a show. The professor said to write what you know.”

At 26, I accepted a way forward. I began directing myself. I started to grasp the vulnerability of students, especially in a creative space. It was hard to deny that I had once been vulnerable. I shoved the thought of myself aside and made it my mission to do better. If I could not have a safe space anymore, I could at least guarantee my students would always feel safe to remember their time in the arts. It was the path of least resistance and a path of purpose. I accepted a future without Mr. Davis and found comfort in the fact that I would never face him again. After all, he was states away. I believed he would be forever. Then, suddenly, he wasn’t. He moved back to my hometown, returning to his old job. 

“Lookin' backwards might be the only way to move forward.”

At 27, I felt incredibly unsafe. When I went out in public, I scanned the room for him. I worried I would run into him at the grocery store. He was living too close, working even closer. I was directing myself in the town next door. How could I confirm our paths would not cross? Worse, what if they were to cross in front of my students? The fear manifested in my dreams. The truth began to spill from me. I told everyone. I dropped the trauma on them because I felt that if they knew, they could help keep me safe. It wasn’t a fear of physical harm. It was a fear that I would be forced to face him. I knew, deep down, that if I did that, I would have to confront the fact that he was the same man. The man I knew in high school was the man who took advantage of his position in my life. What that made him, I was not ready to accept. 

“Then the actors were hitting their marks, and the slow dance was alight with the sparks.”

At 28, I returned to therapy. I began to write another letter to him, but this time I did not stop. I wrote it all down. I drew a raw, unedited picture. I let myself recall the feelings that I now realized began in high school. When I read the letters back to myself, the image became clear. I accepted the term grooming and began to apply it to my story. I took on the meticulous task of reframing my memories. For the first time, I saw myself for what I was at the time–a child. The story poured from me. I realized I suddenly needed people to know. I started sharing it and saw the way it changed perspectives. I saw the impact my story had on parents, on fellow teachers, on coaches. Others began to say, “I wish every teacher knew how impactful their behaviors were to a young mind.” 

“And the tears fell in synchronicity with the score.”

At 29, I published my story. For the first time ever, I shared publicly what happened. While I changed names and identifying factors, there was a population (my hometown) that immediately knew the truth. If you have read my book, you know it would not have been a leap for most of my peers to connect the dots, regardless of what was or was not shared. In fact, I have learned many already had. Apparently, the rumor of our “date” after high school had spread without me knowing. It was vulnerable and scary, but I knew it was time. While I felt fear, I also felt the relief of putting down a weight I had carried for someone else for 10 years. 

“And at last, she knew what the agony had been for.”

Now, I am 30. This week, as I reflected on what I would write, I found myself drawn to sharing this journey. I want others to understand that age is not just a number. It is a measure. It measures years, yes, but also experience, love shared, life lived, and growth. I stand here at 30 and think, how could this man have seen anything in me other than an opportunity? I remember his 30th birthday, actually. I was 15. I was a student in his class. I remember thinking, I wish I were 30, too. Now, I am the one who is 30. I think of a 15-year-old, and I am appalled that he ever thought of me that way. There is nothing I expect a child to give to me, least of all validation. I recognize my own power, how it has grown over the years. I realize that he must have been the opposite. He must have felt so small. He did need something from me, and so he took it. I am deeply aware of the way that I would never do what he did to someone. I forgive myself for my youth, and I condemn him for preying on it.

“The only thing that's left is the manuscript. One last souvenir from my trip to your shores.”

I recently experienced a powerful moment in my journey to healing. Because that is what it is, a journey. I thought I had recovered so many times before. I know now that I am always growing, always recovering. Just last week, my therapist asked me what I felt when I pictured a confrontation now. My answer was “indifference.” The smile that spread over her face nearly made me cry. I spent so many years wishing to face him, to make him face me. Now, I know that I already have. I am a woman. I have the power now, and I have no desire to wield it like a weapon. I can say “fuck him” for stealing my youth. I will never forgive him for that. I will never forget what he did. But if he chose to apologize to me, my response would be, “I am glad to see you feel remorse, but do not give it to me. Take it and let it make you better.” 

“Now and then I reread the manuscript, but the story isn't mine anymore.”

With Love,

Mary Beth