"My heart is racing. It won't calm down. My heart is going to explode. This is it. I am going to die. Right here. In my bedroom at my parent's house. With my kids sleeping on the floor. I can't calm down. I should have skipped that last game of cards and actually graded those book reports. Ok, Neill, get it together. You are just fine. Just take some deep breaths. But my heart won't calm down. I really think that something is wrong with me. I just need to calm down. But I can't. This is how my kids will forever remember Christmas - the day their mom's heart wouldn't slow down and quit working. Great. Just great. Why can't I get myself together? This is so stupid. I know what's happening, but I can't calm down. All of this over having to grade stupid book reports. I hate book reports. And my husband, he will never know because he is sleeping on the couch because he snores. So he is going to be the one to find me. After my heart quits working. Ok, now I am being ridiculous. Just calm down. Take a deep breath. This is just a panic attack, I think. Or is it?"
This was the end to my Christmas break in 2015. A panic attack. These were some of the very thoughts that went through my head while I suffered what was my first, and definitely not my last, panic attack. I had never experienced something like this before, and it was terrifying. It was at this point in time that I realized two things: I was not okay, and something had to change.
It has taken me two years to feel as though I could write about this. In February 2016, I called the my doctor. I knew that I needed some help. I wasn't "me". I had read quite a bit about anxiety and depression. I had quite a few of the "symptoms". But how could I be depressed? I loved my job. I loved my family. I just couldn't get myself together. I was angry - overreacting to little things my kids did at home. And I was avoiding things that I knew did not bring me joy - like cleaning my house and grading work that lacked student engagement. I physically could not do these tasks.
Ironically, that same February, I had a staff member ask me how I did it. She was in tears, and she said, "I just don't know how you do it. How do you handle it all? Being a mom, a wife, a teacher?" My response was simple: "I don't, I am not okay, and that is why I am going to the doctor this week. I need help, too." From that point on, I have shared one-on-one with teachers who are struggling. I don't want them to think that they are alone - that they can never do great things if they are overwhelmed or struggling to find themselves. But that's it - we have to be willing to do what it takes to find ourselves. We have to be willing to say that we need help to be the best we can be - our families and students need us to take care of ourselves.
Teaching is heavy. It is hard. We allow our students to enter our hearts. We laugh when they laugh. We mourn when they mourn. And at times, it takes its toll. Most days, I feel like I am totally screwing things up. I have one shot, one chance to get it right. I get one year to impact students. I get one year to give students the opportunity to fall in love with books. I get one year to give them practical writing skills that will make them better. I get one year to make them better speakers, better listeners, better learners. It is heavy. It is hard. It is by far the most worthwhile career I could imagine. If I expect to be able to do this -- if you expect to do this -- and do it well, then we have to take care of ourselves.
I changed two things. First, I sought out medical help. I talked with my doctor. He listened to me. He diagnosed me. He prescribed a low-dose antidepressant medication. He didn't make me feel as though I was weak because I was struggling with this. Actually, he made me feel human. In some weird way, talking to my husband, my colleagues, and my doctor helped me to take control of how I was feeling inside. It didn't take away what I was feeling, but it did put me in the driver's seat.
Second, I became the teacher I was scared to be. I quit assigning work that I thought "good teachers" assigned, and I started learning with my students. I had to find a balance between the kind of thinking and learning that I wanted students to do, the kind of work I had time to grade, and the kind of mom/wife I wanted to be. I dedicated class time to reading. I quit assigning book reports. I vowed to work with kids from bell-to-bell and be fully engaged with them. I stopped creating work so that I could grade work. I knocked down the brick walls of my classroom and made them more transparent by connecting on Twitter and Voxer with colleagues in my building, district, and state. I began blogging consistently. These are all things that I do to stay healthy. These things make me a better teacher, a better mom, and a better wife.
I do not let my anxiety and depression define me, but it is part of who I am. Recognizing where I am at in a situation and how I am reacting to it has made me a better teacher, mom, and wife. May is National Mental Health Month. (Edit: and October 10th is #WorldMentalHealthDay) If you are reading this, and you are thinking to yourself, "I'm not okay," know that you are not alone. Mental health does not look the same for every person; our experiences are all unique. Teaching is heavy. Teaching is hard. We are in this for kids, and we are in this together. Take care of yourself. You are not alone.
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