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I have an apology to make. It’s to all of those people who have ever mentioned the word ‘anxiety’ or ‘depression’ around me. To me, those words were something I scoffed at. I didn’t understand and thought, in my total ignorance, that anxiety was a word that was used as an excuse. At the time, I was living in the same area I’d always lived. It was home; my family were just 20 minutes away; yes, I had a stressful job but I was successful. I’d never had any experience of ‘depression’ or ‘anxiety’ and I’m ashamed to say, would look down at those who did and saw it as a kind of weakness.
My God. How wrong and ignorant I was, and lucky that nothing in life had ever sparked a deterioration in my own mental health. It’s that classic thing of ‘well I’ve never experienced it so, therefore, it doesn’t exist.’ Then, everything changed. I moved my home, my job and my entire life 200 miles away. It isn’t that far in the grand scheme of it all, in fact, I can be back where I consider ‘home’ in around 3 hours. So, in the world of life moves, this is small fry.
But I didn’t cope with it well.
I hate change; I have always hated change. It doesn’t matter what it is; it could be the most wonderful job, house, life and I will hate it because it’s different. I knew this about myself before we left, but, as I explained in a previous post, our finances weren’t working out for us and this was the logical option – move somewhere cheaper, and get paid more. I wanted to make this move.
8 weeks of absolutely wracking anxiety, morning, noon and night. It completely took over. I was nervous all of the time. I was jumpy, my nerves were frayed, I couldn’t cope with small changes or information. Everything to me was huge, unbearable and I felt like I was falling apart at the seems. I hid it all.
I told people I was nervous – I’d started a brand new job, of course I was. People would think it was only natural that meeting all new classes, pupils, staff and in an area I didn’t know at all would cause a bit of nerves. The bit I didn’t say was the stark reality: I wasn’t sleeping at night, I struggled to eat, I lost almost a stone and (a bit grim but true), I suffered horrendous diarrhoea, all day, every day. I was pushing through every day with this forced smile on my face, pretending I was coping whilst swallowing rising feelings of panic, desperately trying to slow my breathing in the middle of meetings where I felt overwhelmed to the point of wanting to pass out.
On week 8 I decided I wanted to go home. I was homesick and needed a break. At this point, though, I was exhausted – I was purple under the eyes, thinking of work and classes all day, every day, even at weekends and I just didn’t realise the impact this had had on me. My hiding it from others I was also hiding it from myself. I didn’t want to admit that I had a problem. I was the girl who’d never struggled with her mental health before, I’d always had ‘my ducks in a row’ as my Dad would say. I was organised, confident, in charge of everything. So I got in the car and I began to drive.
About an hour into my journey I realised my hands were numb, within seconds my face was numb, my heart was racing and I realised that I was going to pass out. I pulled off at the exit to the motorway that (luckily) I was just passing and veered onto a grass verge with my hazard lights on. It was 10pm. It was dark. I was completely alone. And I was having a panic attack and a breakdown.
I rang my family, who drove over an hour to come and collect me and drive me home. I cried all weekend. I was embarrassed and mortified to even admit to my family that I wasn’t well. I couldn’t feel anything. No happiness, excitement, enjoyment. Nothing at all. I cried and cried without really knowing why. I just felt the blackness swallowing me up and the crippling swirl of anxiety in my stomach that had become the norm.
It took all weekend to even talk about it. And luckily, for me, I made a very quick recovery. I’d lost my confidence and spent hours with my Mum talking about who I was. I’d forgotten. I am a great teacher. I lead classes with passion and strength. But I couldn’t during those 8 weeks. I took everything the kids said to heart. They laughed at me and I believed I was the joke. There is no way any of that would have bothered me before. She spoke my confidence back into me and made me realise that I was taking everything too personally. I was allowing myself to feel bullied by teenagers and forgetting that kids are kids and, actually, it wasn’t personal. I was just new and an easy target.
3 weeks after that date and I feel better. I’m still always teetering on the edge of that anxiety, but I’m making steps everyday to keep things in perspective. I had a week off. I recharged and listened to my body. I started exercising again and took a walk, focusing only on what I could see in front of me. I paid attention to everything in the moment. I noticed the beauty that I was ‘too busy’ to see before. Now, I’m back at work and I feel more confident. I’m focusing on each hour at a time and although I’m still having to plan in advance, as that’s the nature of the job, I’m also being less hard on myself. My mental health hit rock bottom and I know I’m going to have good and bad days but I feel confident about the future and that I can make the changes to get back to where I was before. Most importantly, I’ve learnt that suffering with ‘anxiety’ doesn’t make you weak. It’s made me stronger.
Musings of a High School English Teacher 