When people start to worry about me because of what I say or what I write here, I always tell them that they shouldn’t worry unless I’m NOT talking or writing. That’s when you know it’s bad. That’s when you know I’ve gotten out of control. I couldn’t write last night. There was too much in me, bubbling up to the top. I couldn’t process any of it, and that’s what this blog is at the moment…it’s the place I process all the thinking and feeling into something I can handle. I was also too tired, but there was just too much emotion rolling around. I couldn’t talk when all of this first happened, back in July. It took me a few days to be able to write. I couldn’t communicate. Even now, it’s hard to talk to people sometimes. I can’t talk without getting emotional, and there’s only so many places that’s appropriate. The counselor even brought that up yesterday when I was talking about it…she said, but you cry here all the time! But that’s your JOB…I can handle doing that here, in this enclosed space, because you’re not judging me (well, maybe you are, but I don’t care) or deciding if I’m fit to work here or if I’m someone you can’t talk to any more because I’m such a mess. I can cry here safely. (It’s OK. She knew that. She was giving me shit…she likes to challenge my assumptions.)

Thursday. Thursday was bad because I gave a test. Normally at school, my brain is so full of trying to deal with teaching and lesson plans and kid behavior that it doesn’t have time to wander off and get into trouble…and this week, it’s had lots to think about that is getting it into trouble. When I’m giving a test, it’s actually a quiet day. I’m not doing much. I was logging assignments into the gradebook and paroling the classroom for cheaters (yup, got some of them, but minor offenses), but my brain by the end of the day had dug itself a giant hole and was wallowing in it, because it had free time and that’s how it wastes free time. My gut was tied up in knots. I went to the gym to try to work some of it out, but some of the stuff that happened in the evening honestly made it even worse. I was too tired to even meditate. Even though the storytelling was good, it reminded me of what was not good and how far I have to go to get to good again.

Friday was even worse, not because I didn’t have to manage a lesson…I did. And the first class was awesome…I was excited that they were progressing so well. And then the second class hit. The wall. Of nonwork. Of just not working because? Oh hey, welcome to middle school. Welcome to the brain not realizing consequences for actions (or nonaction in this case). I went upstairs at lunch to check with my team and it was everyone. Every class. A giant pile of not-work. So I made it through the rest of the day fighting this nonwork, but it was incredibly frustrating, and my real problem at this stage of my slow recovery is that I have no buffer…I have no mental resources for dealing with anger, sadness, frustration. I just get more depressed. So as the last kid is walking out of 8th period, I’m thinking, “close the damn door…I appreciate your putting all the chairs up, sweetie, but I’m about to lose it.” And I did. I stood there and cried (unacceptable).

I can’t ignore the damn hormones in all this. PMS is getting worse and more often and longer (thank you, perimenopause), and it doesn’t help on days like that. But I don’t cry at school. I make it to the parking lot (semi-acceptable). I got most of it under control, because I had to go lock the computer cart up. I did that. I managed a brief verbal interaction. I went back to my room and made it to the car, where I lost it (acceptable). I wiped my face enough so that I could drive out of the lot, because my students are walking past the driveway, waving at me. Waving back. Trying to smile. Trying not to leak salt water (unacceptable). Made it to the counselor and cried in the waiting room (semi-acceptable, more so in a therapists’ waiting room or even like oncology or radiology). Cried through counseling (acceptable). Cried out the door, into the car, in the driveway (all acceptable; no one was in the waiting room when I went through).

I wish I could say the day was a done deal at that point, that I could have gone home and put on my pajamas and eaten dinner with the kids and watched some TV show with them, but the girlchild and I finally had an appointment to deal with hair (I couldn’t get the brush through the last 3 inches of mine at the time). The problem for me is that the person who cuts our hair has a connection to the cause of all my grief, and I was hoping she would be a mature person and handle it all appropriately, but it could go badly. I had an exit plan, but I’m such an emotional mess at the moment that it might not matter.

We get there. My brain’s a mess. I had decided against taking grading with me (I have waiting time while girlchild is getting her hair cut…I like to use waiting time for grading so I don’t have to use other personal time for that). School-related stuff has been part of the problem…it makes me think, “So this is your life?” and get upset about it. So I leave all the grading and take my sketchbook. I draw.

Really. I drew. I know. Of course I drew. My art brain is much better at taking care of me than any other part of me. And I realized that as I was listening to her talk to the girlchild that she was being kind. She was being respectful. She was avoiding the bad bad, but still saying good and nice things about depression and stuff related to being a woman going through shit, and she spoke carefully. And at some point, when she got to my hair, she realized I wasn’t in a place to decide anything about it, and she just did what she thought would be good, using her years of experience (which is why we like her), and she kept saying how this would be better. And she gifted me some product (not a full container, but sweet nonetheless) and we left…and as we walked out, I told the girlchild, “She was nice to me. She was kind.” and started to cry. Because I didn’t know if she would be. Some people are just good people. Some people are nasty selfish bitches, but she made me feel OK for a bit. And my hair does look much better. She’s always going to be right about that.

The rest of the issues are still plaguing me. I didn’t write last night because I was still mired in sad (still am today as well, but I’ve had a decent amount of sleep at this point). I exercised, I watched TV with the kids, I meditated. I read. I didn’t make art…I was too damn tired, more than tired, it was emotional exhaustion. I have so much to get done this weekend that I have to start focusing on it soon, or things will fall apart (they won’t really…but it will feel worse if I don’t get some of these things done). I’m feeling all those “should’s” in my gut right this moment. I’ll be better if I can get some of them done and move on to the stuff that makes me feel almost human: drawing. Wonder Under. fabric. I don’t know what else today brings. I haven’t planned beyond about 2 PM. That could be a problem, but it’s certainly an indicator that I’m having issues this week. I do the stuff I have to do, but my brain then shorts out and freaks out and I start crying again.

I’m crying right now. I get tired of it. I get tired of feeling this bad. I get tired of thinking about it. I get tired of being sad and angry and feeling like I’ve done everything wrong. Or trying to persuade myself that I haven’t, that it wasn’t me, that I couldn’t have predicted this or fixed this. This is the maelstrom my brain wanders in at the moment. Think of it as a blinding sandstorm. Hopefully I will find a way out of it this weekend…somehow.

I appreciate her kindness. It doesn’t fix anything, but it made a small difference for a short period of time. And at least I know I can get my hair cut without trauma.