Heavy Words

Just this past week, a former student contacted me via email. She is one of my kids whom I talked about not too long ago. We've been in touch off and on since I left the high school where she was my student for two years, and she's told me tales of her college life. Her email seemed like an ordinary update until she wrote there was a lot to tell me and she didn't know where to begin. Things like Is she dropping out? or Is she getting married? or Is she pregnant? crossed my mind only because I've received those updates. While I support my students no matter what, my hope is that those things happen after college or trade school are complete and careers are underway. But as I read further, I only became more alarmed. I audibly gasped and had to reread her words to make sure I was really seeing what I thought I saw. My confirmation gave way to a feeling of shock then heaviness, and I sat there, staring at her email.

My former student wrote to tell me she is taking a leave of absence from school because she was diagnosed this past December with a rare form of cancer. She is getting chemotherapy and only on her 3rd of 14 rounds. She's lost her hair, eyelashes, most of her eyebrows, energy, and sometimes, her hope. Her words provided me a small window into her world as it is right now--a world where nothing feels permanent and nothing is taken for granted.

I feel jolted, in a way. While my complaints are legitimate, my quitting attitude is not. I have a choice--I have lots of choices--and all my 20 year-old student can choose is the way in which she fights this potentially fatal disease.

Depression

It's been ten days since my last post. Ten long days. Spring break is about a month away, and it can't come soon enough. Juggling three different grade levels and curriculum on an accelerated schedule is unmanageable. This past week I've stood before my students totally unprepared and "winging it." While in the past I've done that--scrapped a lesson plan and let the students' interest guide the day's discussion or the topic of study--this is not like before. This is "I'm going on four or five hours of sleep and I'm trying to read three novels simultaneously and develop lesson plans and grade essays and homework and I'm too exhausted to do it all so something has to give."

On top of my day-to-day work struggles, I have another battle I'm fighting. I'm going to go out on a limb here and be more honest with you than I've probably ever been before. I've fought depression since my adolescence, but since my early twenties, my mood and outlook have been steady and optimistic. Two years ago, when I lost my job, that all changed, and today, as I stand against waves of uncertainty in my professional life, my personal life is taking a beating. My depression is back and in full force in a way it hasn't been in a long, long time.

There were many situations when I was a child that rendered me powerless. My teachers were my protectors; my education was my escape. Becoming a teacher was a not-so-obvious next step for me, but once my career started, it all made sense to me--my classroom was a place of empowerment for me. I wrapped up my identity in who I was to my students, so when I lost my job and the "teacher" was stripped from me, I didn't know who I was. I didn't know where to find that empowerment.

Now that I am back in the classroom, a place of betrayal, in a sense, there is part of me that feels like a powerless child. My work environment mimics a place and pattern I know all too well--instability, chaos, hurt--in other words, the need to protect and flee. Only I'm the adult, and there are 30 or so children depending on me.

Since December, I've been back on anti-depressant and anti-anxiety medication. While both are helping me keep my head above water, I know they are only a band-aid to the larger issue. There's a lot of healing and rebuilding to be done, and at times I don't know where to start. While I need to find another job, I question if I can continue a profession that requires so much of me personally.

Hi. It's Me. I'm Still Alive.

Sort of. Between reading three novels simultaneously, grading, and having at least a vague sense of what I'm doing each day, I barely have time for things like sleeping . . . eating. You know, having a personal life outside the classroom. Laundry occurs when I'm out of underwear. Mail piles up unopened. Calls go unreturned. Dishes? I'll just rinse out yesterday's coffee mug.

My once well-thought-out lesson plans have dwindled down to two to three bullet points in a 1960s-ish lesson plan book. Four bullet points if I'm feeling fancy. And I'm barely keeping my head above water.

Most days feel like doing the dog paddle in the middle of the ocean. I'm trying to get off Gilligan's Island, but I'm pretty exhausted. A ship or helicopter could save me, or I could save myself. Or, I could die trying to find the mainland.

Maybe I should just stay on Gilligan's Island. At least it's entertaining and No Child Left Behind doesn't exist.