Teach/Taught

verb (past and past participle taught /tôt/)

• [with object and infinitive or clause] show or explain to (someone) how to do something
• [with object] give information about or instruction in (a subject or skill)
• [no object] give such instruction professionally
• [with object] encourage someone to accept (something) as a fact or principle
• cause (someone) to learn or understand something by example or experience
• informal make (someone) less inclined to do something

Origin: Old English tǣcan 'show, present, point out', of Germanic origin; related to token, from an Indo-European root shared by Greek deiknunai 'show', and Latin dicere 'say'

http://oxforddictionaries.com/us/definition/american_english/teach?q=teach _____________________________________________________

I'm in two worlds for awhile, waiting for the fever to break. I'm in the one you taught me. The one of not good enoughs and smart enoughs or thin or pretty or loving or daughterly enough. I'm in the one where there wasn't a thing I could do to please you but where you told everyone else how pleasing I was. The one where I found out I'd accomplished something worthy of bragging to someone else about by reading it in the Christmas letter-- a brag book-- that told of you and not me. I'm in that world and this one. This one where I'm trying to keep moving forward and want to cry when the fever, the old sickness, forces out the can'ts and aren'ts and doubts and I feel small and I wait for the middle. Just get me in the middle. In the action I can cope and I can thrive. In the action I come together because that's where I always made you go away and it still works. On the fringes I am terrified. I'm terrified to cry because crying makes noise and noise calls you to me because anything that flags fear or pain or hurt invites the perpetuation of the moment. Kick and hit and insult and hurt and hurt and hurt while I'm unable to fight. It's why my joys are quiet joys...quiet and quiet and quiet. It's why I talk to one at most or to paper or canvas. It's why I talk in images you'll never hear because they are loudest.  The louder I called without making a sound the less you heard. I am the branch falling from the tree in the forest. None of my efforts at notice informed you. I backed down because I was making everything worse...I was making everything loud and the noise the noise the noise of the phone and the talking and the lessons. Each moment became so very loud. I backed down because I was a sickness and still I'm in two worlds, waiting for the fever to break. I don't want to lose the quiet I can manufacture with the hope that natural quiet moves in. It is where I feel safe. It is simple and plain and controlled and there is, within the quiet, enough space to hear what's coming and see what's happening. But I want to be OK with the noise. I want to be OK with distractions. I want to wake up with the fever gone--sweat out of me--because I'm worn down by the spiral.  When I am, like now, dancing within a sadness and a fear of loss, I dream of dead animals and fires and homes claimed by emptiness or cleared for dictators to move in with entire armies of reckless villains. It is the wrong kind of quiet--the fevered quiet--full of scary dreams and night sweats and muscle cramps and tears I refuse because the fever, I believe, will only break with the sweat.