School to couch pipeline

 

Yesterday, a friend posted that it was National Escape Day and asked where people would go to escape. Escaping from my life used to be a favorite fantasy. One of the first novels I ever wrote centered around a woman who picked up and left her "perfect" life. I didn't think my life was anywhere near perfect, and never seriously would have left my kids, but I have to admit that I longed to be someplace, anyplace, else. Of course, a major component of that was to shed responsibility. There was no reason to escape if I still had to fend for myself, go to a job, cook and clean and be tired all the time. No, my escape fantasy was far more womb-like: I could do what I wanted, meals would magically appear and dishes would disappear afterward. No bills, no money, just life.

The weird thing is, I'm as close to that old fantasy as I will probably get (outside of the nursing home) and I still get stressed out. Maybe the human condition is to always experience desire and/or lack. Or maybe that's just my human condition!

This week marks the second anniversary of my abrupt exit from the rat race of public education and the short, painful spiral into retirement. It was two years ago that I hit a wall so hard that I couldn't seem to recover, not with drugs and therapy and "lifestyle changes" and sleep, lots and lots of sleep. I walked out of school before the kids got there on a Thursday like any other Thursday, and I never walked back in. I couldn't stop crying and twitching, feeling hopeless and like I was down a deep, dark hole. I was basically non-functional. I slept like I would never see a bed again, but had frightening dreams of losing my students, failing my students, being upbraided, fired, reprimanded, jailed, of trying to teach while swimming in honey or molasses, of not being able to hear children's voices, of not remembering what to do next when expectant little people were grouped around me. During those first few weeks, I couldn't focus long enough to read and understand what I read. I wasn't attentive enough to drive safely. I didn't want to die, but I also didn't care if, one morning, I woke up dead. My therapist called it depression. I thought I had known depression before, but nothing like this.

Two years down the line, I've learned a few things. I've learned some warning signs, though I don't always heed them. I've learned to listen when someone I trust, especially my wife Jill, tells me I'm going off the beam. I'm still learning not to shoulder everything alone and try to fix things all by myself. I've learned to slow down, way down, and set aside the self-criticism that has been the hallmark of my life ---- at least part of the  time, anyway.

I'm grateful for that day in January of 2011. Sometimes I miss teaching, I miss the kids, I miss what I loved about teaching. I don't miss the administrative bullshit or the constant tug between how I believe children learn and how I was expected to teach. This week, spurred by our dismal financial situation (retirement has not been a good move, financially!) I started looking for a job in education. That's what I know, what I've done, in one form or another, all my life. I spent two days perusing websites, noting down possibilities, and getting teary and twitchy all over again. Nope --- TIME OUT!  Ain't gonna happen. JIll says so, too.

We mark the phases of our lives by events or changes, often unaware of the significance until much later. I stumbled tearfully out of school that morning fully expecting to be back the next day. I wasn't going to retire for five more years, or maybe two, but I had plans, I was saving money. That is not what happened, and two years later I'm glad it didn't. The past two years have been a remarkable journey, not least because of the opportunity to take care of my mother through the final phase of her life, being available now while she needs me most. I don't have the long view into the future, never did, but that's ok. I'm finally learning to live one day at a time.

As if there were any other way to do it!