Back in the Saddle Again

Three days. That's all. Just three days. Anyone can deal with anything for three fucking days. That's all I had to get through - and on top of that the long term sub who was covering for me during my 5 week long leave of absence was teaching with me for two of them. I didn't even really have to DO anything on day one. So what the fuck happened? Why the fuck did I come home exhausted? Why did I spend Saturday in bed, alternating among crying and dissociating and vegging out on bad tv?

The kids were really happy to see me. I got many hugs from them. They asked me where I was and I said I was sick but that I was better now and that was good enough for them. It's the adults in the building that fucking piss me off. Most of them smiled tentatively and said "you're back! Hi!" but what I heard was "I don't know how to react to you because you are so crazy you couldn't work for most of the semester." I just want to scream "YES! I'm back from the psych ward! I slept a lot, too, because I'm suicidally depressed, but I'm hoping that's in remission now that I have come to terms with the fact my uncle raped me when I was a toddler." But I don't scream that. In fact, when one of the adults gets real brave and asks me "how is it going?" I don't even give a real answer. I don't think anyone wants to know I've carved up my stomach with a box cutter because I'm so overwhelmed with feelings. I don't think anyone wants to know I am finding a new kind of freedom in letting go of the shame that is the foundation of my multiple personalities. I don't think anyone wants to know I don't think I hate babies anymore. For sure no one wants to hear about how fucking exhausted I am after working a whole three fucking days. I just say "it's going well! Thank you!"

Lies. It's not going well. It sucks. I hate that I came home every night an emotional wreck and went straight to bed. I hate that I spent Saturday all fucked up. Wanna know what I WANTED to do Saturday? I wanted to putz in the yard, soaking up the sunshine. I wanted to vacuum. I wanted to bake cookies. And mostly I wanted to go to my friend's house and have coffee and talk and laugh. Yeah, I wanted to laugh Saturday. But I didn't. I couldn't. I did vacuum, but it was like running a fucking marathon. I did sit on the deck, but only out of a sense of duty I have to take advantage of sunshine, not because I enjoyed myself. And throughout the day, all fucking day long, I heard in my head "I want to die" or "Swallow all the pills in the cabinet" or "Use the box cutter to slice up your neck and face." The most common message was "I want to die."

I am so GOD DAMN MAD that I went back to work, something I was totally looking forward to and thought would be easy-cheesy since I haven't been exhausted for a couple weeks now and after DAY FUCKING ONE I was exhausted and I haven't felt good or laughed since. Fuck this. Fuck this! FUCK THIS. I want to be done with this suicidal bullshit.

Protection....Prowler is protecting me....from what???? I can tell you that teaching and being with children is not the stressor, although it's tiring. The exhaustion comes from having to pretend to be a functioning normal person in society. The exhaustion comes from knowing that the adults around me ask "how is it going?" and though everyone probably gives a false answer to that, everyone probably hides their struggles, probably NO ONE else in that building has a stomach of cuts, a storehouse of funny psych ward stories they want to share but can't, and a voice in their head telling them "I want to die." It pisses me off. It makes me buy into the whole "I want to die" idea.

But I don't want to die. I want to laugh and joke with my best friend and my husband. I want to enjoy sitting in my backyard. It's not fair that I have to spend so much energy refraining from sharing who I truly am with the people I spend most of every day of my life with. I filter and I filter and I have to evaluate every contact I have. It's like I am a hyper-vigilant child again, working overtime to keep on my toes to make sure I behave properly, say the proper things. I can't just share who I am. I am a teacher, responsible for young souls thrown into a classroom instead of out running on the playground or through their yards with their friends. So I can't really let people know I, myself, am a child, gravely wounded and hurting, struggling to find meaning in my days and struggling to find a reason to live. I can't really let them know I am terrified of the voice inside my head saying "I want to die" because that voice is me and I do so very much want to die even though I am dying to live. I can't really tell them I am so very proud of myself for surviving rape and an incest-ish relationship and more rape. I can't really explain that I'm working on all my personalities having more access to each others' feelings and thoughts and then dissociating when that becomes too overwhelming. I can't express how mind blowing it is to have a brain that has become so compartmentalized the different parts of it have different fucking names and it's a struggle to not get sucked into a vortex of disability, dissociation, sickness, self-pity, and whether or not repressed memories are real. No, better to say "it's going ok" because in the long run it's better for me, my husband, and society in general if I can drag my ass to my classroom and tell stories about FDR, Winston Churchill, and Rosie the Riveter. Probably if I was brutally honest I wouldn't be in the classroom for long.

Not that I'm lying. But I am.