So much for my triumphant return to the classroom.
I think I have made a monumental mistake, and now I am rooted, not to put too fine a point on it.
What on earth made me think I was ready for a return to teaching? Teaching is not a job for anyone with fragilities. I've always known that – but I thought, after four and a half years since the attack, that I was over my fragilities. Evidently not.
I used to be a good teacher. Now I know that I'm not the teacher I used to be. Today clinched it. Today, a few of my Year 10 boys thought it would be funny if one of them jumped out behind me, shrieking, as I made my way to class.
Yep, hilarious stuff. The consequence? A panic attack (damn, and I thought I was better). To my credit, I held it off and held it off and held it bloody off for about 15 minutes (I'm clearly getting much better at this), and then I just had to leave the classroom because my heart was pounding fit to burst, I couldn't breathe and I couldn't stop the tears from coming. I spent the rest of the day battling episodes of breathlessness and panic.
Can you imagine how embarrassing it is for a 51 year old woman to be in that situation in front of a room full of 15-16 year olds?
Even worse – NOW WHAT??? I'm supposed to go back there tomorrow and fight the good fight, and all I want to do is crawl into a hole somewhere and hide. I'm mortified and I'm so fucking miserable I could die, and I've burned my bridges. I feel as if my back's to the wall, and I really am at a complete loss – what to do next? Clearly I am not fit to be in a classroom - yet? (if ever?)
Shit.
Showing posts with label panic. Show all posts
Showing posts with label panic. Show all posts
Tuesday, 10 August 2010
Monday, 16 February 2009
It could be worse.
I'm sick of these crutches and I'm sick of my stupid broken foot and I'm sick of myself.
It all came to a head on Friday – CT Scan time – the moment of truth. I was so certain that tiny chip of bone would have glued itself back. Violin music – Betty throws away crutches with a cry of joy. Gracefully, like a very graceful gazelle with an extra helping of grace, she bounds away to the bike shed in slo-mo, smiling beatifically.
BZZZT! WRONG!
It doesn't appear to have healed at all! Not one bit! Four weeks of pampering the stupid foot, keeping it wrapped in cotton wool and fibreglass, babying and cossetting it as if it's made of the finest, most precious and fragile crystal has done nothing! NOTHING!
The backslab cast has gone, in its place a gigantic and heavy “moon-boot” that holds my foot at a different angle. I look like a Transformer. No weight-bearing for another 2-3 weeks. All for a tiny stupid chip of bone aboutthe size of my little fingernail.
This awful shattering of my hopes broke my heart and my spirit. I came home from the hospital in a taxi - $46! - and cried. I mentally slapped myself about a bit and “got on with things” - getting the laundry basket to the laundry, for a start.
I don't know what happened – but I went over backwards, like a big miserable sack of poo.
And that was what brought me undone: the reality of several more weeks of this crap, of being dependent on others, of being unable to sit in bed with a nice cup of coffee, and of being unable to ride my bike – being out of control and powerless - not to mention the whopping bruises that appeared after this latest fall.
The conditions were perfect for a big fat panic attack, yet when it hit it still took me by surprise (yes I am a froot-loop), and I was suddenly gasping for air, crying uncontrollably and looking for tissues and my mobile phone. My nose started bleeding, my heart raced at about 200 beats per minute and I knew I was going to die – even though, rationally, I knew I wasn't.
My mate Clem saved me with a well-timed phone call that located my mobile phone and distracted my panic-ridden self from myself. I don't even remember what we talked about, but suddenly I could breathe again. Phew. Thank [insert higher power of choice here] for mates and telephones.
Saturday was shite as my body recovered from the massive adrenalin dump. Wan and washed-out, I slept a lot, and couldn't drum up even the ghost of a smile. Me and my stupid moon-boot retreated under the doona and stayed there.
What I hear from some of my biker mates is “pull yourself together” - and I wish I could, but panic has its own rules. See (and this is very very important) – since I was raped, motorcycling is what has enabled me to pull myself together and give me back a sense of control. Take away my 'medicine' – my ability to get on the bike for a bit of road therapy – and I'm up shit creek without a paddle. When panic hits and I can't ride away from it, it just has to take its course, and no amount of well-meaning advice will help. Yes, it sucks. I'm working on it. I'm lots better than I used to be.
BUT – it's Monday now. I'm well rested and a kind of equilibrium has been restored. I can think of lots of ways that this could all be worse.
I could have two broken arms as well, and an itch at the end of my nose. And be living in the middle of nowhere – somewhere off Woolies' grocery delivery route.
Or this: I could live in a 2-storey house, with only one loo at the top of 20 stairs, at the top of a cliff that's only accessible by scaling a thousand stairs hewn into solid rock and guarded by dozens of psychotic homicidal cats a lot like Oscar bin Laden – and have a head cold and a perpetually snotty nose…or even worse, diarrhoea.
Or – and this one is very very serious, and puts my crappy situation into perspective: I could be one of the hundreds upon hundreds of Victorian bushfire victims who survived the fires but lost absolutely everything and now live in a tent city with absolutely nothing, wondering how the hell to rebuild family, life and community.
I'll stop moaning now.
Red Cross Bushfire Appeal
It all came to a head on Friday – CT Scan time – the moment of truth. I was so certain that tiny chip of bone would have glued itself back. Violin music – Betty throws away crutches with a cry of joy. Gracefully, like a very graceful gazelle with an extra helping of grace, she bounds away to the bike shed in slo-mo, smiling beatifically.
BZZZT! WRONG!
It doesn't appear to have healed at all! Not one bit! Four weeks of pampering the stupid foot, keeping it wrapped in cotton wool and fibreglass, babying and cossetting it as if it's made of the finest, most precious and fragile crystal has done nothing! NOTHING!
The backslab cast has gone, in its place a gigantic and heavy “moon-boot” that holds my foot at a different angle. I look like a Transformer. No weight-bearing for another 2-3 weeks. All for a tiny stupid chip of bone aboutthe size of my little fingernail.
This awful shattering of my hopes broke my heart and my spirit. I came home from the hospital in a taxi - $46! - and cried. I mentally slapped myself about a bit and “got on with things” - getting the laundry basket to the laundry, for a start.
I don't know what happened – but I went over backwards, like a big miserable sack of poo.
And that was what brought me undone: the reality of several more weeks of this crap, of being dependent on others, of being unable to sit in bed with a nice cup of coffee, and of being unable to ride my bike – being out of control and powerless - not to mention the whopping bruises that appeared after this latest fall.
The conditions were perfect for a big fat panic attack, yet when it hit it still took me by surprise (yes I am a froot-loop), and I was suddenly gasping for air, crying uncontrollably and looking for tissues and my mobile phone. My nose started bleeding, my heart raced at about 200 beats per minute and I knew I was going to die – even though, rationally, I knew I wasn't.
My mate Clem saved me with a well-timed phone call that located my mobile phone and distracted my panic-ridden self from myself. I don't even remember what we talked about, but suddenly I could breathe again. Phew. Thank [insert higher power of choice here] for mates and telephones.
Saturday was shite as my body recovered from the massive adrenalin dump. Wan and washed-out, I slept a lot, and couldn't drum up even the ghost of a smile. Me and my stupid moon-boot retreated under the doona and stayed there.
What I hear from some of my biker mates is “pull yourself together” - and I wish I could, but panic has its own rules. See (and this is very very important) – since I was raped, motorcycling is what has enabled me to pull myself together and give me back a sense of control. Take away my 'medicine' – my ability to get on the bike for a bit of road therapy – and I'm up shit creek without a paddle. When panic hits and I can't ride away from it, it just has to take its course, and no amount of well-meaning advice will help. Yes, it sucks. I'm working on it. I'm lots better than I used to be.
BUT – it's Monday now. I'm well rested and a kind of equilibrium has been restored. I can think of lots of ways that this could all be worse.
I could have two broken arms as well, and an itch at the end of my nose. And be living in the middle of nowhere – somewhere off Woolies' grocery delivery route.
Or this: I could live in a 2-storey house, with only one loo at the top of 20 stairs, at the top of a cliff that's only accessible by scaling a thousand stairs hewn into solid rock and guarded by dozens of psychotic homicidal cats a lot like Oscar bin Laden – and have a head cold and a perpetually snotty nose…or even worse, diarrhoea.
Or – and this one is very very serious, and puts my crappy situation into perspective: I could be one of the hundreds upon hundreds of Victorian bushfire victims who survived the fires but lost absolutely everything and now live in a tent city with absolutely nothing, wondering how the hell to rebuild family, life and community.
I'll stop moaning now.
Red Cross Bushfire Appeal
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