You're Not Alone, Teacher

Come closer. I want to tell you a secret. Something I don’t share with many people. Something I really only mention casually to a few.

I have depression. Not the pseudo-drama or sadness when people quip, “I’m so depressed.” No, I have clinical depression. An imbalance in my brain.

I know—many people do. Who cares if I do? I think what makes this important is I am a teacher. We are supposed to be superheroes; however, it is imperative we begin talking about our private demons so we can further support each other as a community.

You are not alone.

Yes, that sounds trite, but too many times in my life, I have felt alone in dealing with my depression (or my auto-immune diseases). Logically, I know I’m not: I have family and have learned to trust a few friends with this. However, mental illnesses do not deal in logic.

If you’ve read any of my blogs, you know I enjoy writing. I don’t really journal, but in 2003 I began writing poetry. I have no illusions (delusions?) I’m a “poet,” but sometimes crafting a poem distracts my brain and gives me solace. These are two of the first poems I wrote about my depression:

Drowning

Depression rolls in

like the tide

Pulling me into its grip

I sink down

feeling the water

close over my head

Blocking out the

sights and sounds

of life

Blotting out the

light of the sun

Bringing only

isolation and darkness

to my drowning soul

I don’t fight to rise

but close my eyes

and let the

current carry

me away

I don’t have the

energy to care

if I swim

or drown

I’m too weary to fight

So, with a gulp

I become one with the water

And welcome the peace

of nothingness

Release

Trapped in

the middle of a

vast space

Treading water

Fighting to keep

my head above

the waves

One…

I go under for a moment

but break the surface,

gasping and desperate

for air

Two…

I’m under again

Long enough to

begin assessing the

new world waiting

to welcome me

My eyes search for

friendliness,

something to

keep me from

going back up

My lungs ache and

reality jerks me

to the top

Wheezing and panting

I drag breath deep into

my soul

I remain on the surface

Searching for life,

for something to rescue me

Tired, I doggedly

cling to the bright water

Fighting for every stroke,

every moment

Knowing my demise is nigh,

I hold tenaciously

to the remaining seconds

Three…

The sparkling water

and dancing sun recede

Dark murkiness

covers my head

Shadows pull me

down,

down,

down

Further from salvation

Wrapping me in

forgetfulness

I bid good-bye

to the world I knew,

Release the last

breath trapped

in my lungs,

and rest on

the spongy bottom

I close my eyes,

breath sharply in,

and welcome

the sleep of

forever

I’ve read some of what other people have written about depression. I keep seeing the drowning metaphor. That’s the closest analogy I have found to help someone who’s never found themselves in the grips of the D-word. Well, maybe it’s more like drowning in slime, thick goo. You feel weighted down, achy, unable too move—or even care about moving. Every breath is a truly heroic act. Simple tasks like showering and dressing become monumental. You have spells where would sell your soul to get some sleep. Lying awake while black little ghouls pluck at your brain, planting bizarre thoughts in your painfully awake mind. Sometimes you sleep with a light on just so you feel like someone is there with you. Then, you don’t want to do anything but sleep; and some days you lie in bed, digging into your depths to find one miniscule reason to even get up. Your spouse and child are not enough. On the most hideous days, you tell yourself they would be better off without you as an albatross around their necks. They love you too much to be honest, but you know their lives would be better without you dragging them down.

So, you do contemplate gulping in that water, releasing that last sweet breath, and finally finding some peace.

Yeah, that’s pretty close. It’s easy to capture this because I’ve been fighting it off and on this school year. Personally, my family is dealing with many issues. Professionally, I’m having the hardest year of my career. I’m ripe for the monster to claim me. But wait, “monster” isn’t quite right. It’s not a loud, snarling beast—something I can easily see, hear, and avoid. No, depression is stealthy. Maybe like a movie serial killer: slips in, tortures you mercilessly and gleefully, makes you beg for mercy before you finally succumb to the gentle kiss of his knife.

In hindsight, I’ve had depression most of my life. According to my grandmother, I was born an adult, and I have carried a lot of my family’s burdens on my shoulders. I had to be strong for everyone. Hell, I still feel that way. At an early age I learned to mask my feelings. I am not placing any blame on anyone (truly I feel no anger anymore), but for most of my life I was taught emotions like anger and sadness were from the devil. Things to be prayed away. If you continued to feel those, your faith must not be strong enough. Rather than ask for help or healthily deal with my pain, I learned to push it down or hide it or question what I was doing wrong. It was all my fault. So, I had insomnia and nightmares and couldn’t figure out why the darkness called to me so often. Why that silky siren’s song refused to leave my brain.

As I became a teen, I grappled with faith because what I’d been taught sure as hell was not working. I began finding solace in self-harm. I rarely ever cut myself because I had a nosey mother (thank you, Mom). I refused to add any more issues to my family. So I flirted with harm but rarely broke the skin. Physical pain is so much simpler than mental pain. Causing myself pain helped me focus on something I could control. There was beauty and release as the nerve endings communicated the exquisite sting to my brain. My mind gratefully latched onto that single breathless moment. For those sweet seconds, I was free.

Yes, it sounds incredibly screwed up, doesn’t it? Again, the mind is not logical when a mental illness takes hold. I’ve even written a poem or two about it:

Control

I drag my nails

across my skin

Just to see the

red welts rise

God, the pain feels good

Releasing something dark inside

Feeding some insatiable beast

Lodged in my breast

He looms in my mind

At times quietly watching

At times ravishing my mind

and soul

At times I control him

At times he has full control

My words seem to come from

another mouth

My tears stream down

another face

My silent screams tear through

another brain

My nails rip down

another body

My life seems surreal

I watch another woman

become a terrified child

hunched in a fetal stance

Eyes closed, blocking out the

overwhelming world

Someone else tries to control

the pain inflicted by careless others

by inflicting pain on herself

Good little girl…

Focus on the beauty

of the physical pain

Sweet little girl…

Forget the emotional pain

ravaging your soul

Innocent little girl…

Pretend you have everything

under control

If you’re still reading this, you’re probably wondering if this is a ploy for attention or sympathy. Isn’t that why anyone posts on the Internet? Truly it’s not. When I share about my mental or physical illnesses, I state info matter-of-factly. I even feel bad when people express sympathy. Yes, I appreciate that kindness, but I know so many others are worse than I. Most days I KNOW I am truly blessed.

So, I’m sharing this lengthy post to make connections, especially with teachers.

I want you to know it’s okay to have bad days. It’s okay to not grade papers or write lessons or answer parent emails in the evenings or on weekends. It’s okay to take time for yourself. Go take a bath or read a book or go on a hike or watch a movie or simply take a damn nap. If you are struggling, talk to someone. Go find someone right this minute, look that person in the eye, and say, “I need help,” or “Will you listen.” Talk to that person.

Admitting your limitations is not a sign of weakness. Knowing, accepting, and working with those weaknesses is actually a sign of strength. To be able to look yourself, or someone else, in the eye and say, “I am not perfect. I need to lean on someone right now,” shows astonishing strength.

Teaching can feel amazingly solitary. Sure you work with other people, but once that door closes, it’s you and 30-something students in that room. Each of those students needs you to be your best. You have a moral and ethical obligation to be en pointe and educate as many of them as you humanly (or superhumanly) can. I know. I have the same imperative.

But, that doesn’t mean you can’t be a human, with all your strengths and weakness, with all your beauty and ugliness.

So, when you find yourself in those moments—when you’re floundering or drowning or slogging through or trying to find a reason to get out of bed—I hope you remember you are NOT alone.

It is okay to be you…and not THE teacher.

Everyone will understand—and we’ll still love and support you.