And, so I stopped writing regularly.
And, now I realise the extent to which writing keeps me sane.
And, I laugh because I stopped writing as I commenced workshops focused on writing to heal.
Maybe that choice was just some action research.
I cried all the way to work on Friday. I hadn’t done that since my anxiety days. I felt anxious again too. I have a huge To Do list for work. I didn’t cross a single thing off on Friday, and this has become the norm. For the first time in my whole career, last week I advised a student against teaching as a career unless they were truly passionate and committed to it. The admin work is relentless and soul destroying. Enough on that.
As a result of crying all the way to work, I had an interesting day. My walls were well and truly down, and I was vulnerable, and two of my staff members embraced me in love. I was able to get through Friday, and still accomplish wonderful things.
My Year 7’s had to present speeches. They had to read out a poem and, amongst other things, tell us why they selected it. A usually very confident and cocky boy stood up, read out a beautiful poem with loads of dramatic flair, oozing his usual confident charm, and when he started to express why it was a favourite (because he was bullied relentlessly for being different when he first arrived in Australia) he started to sob. Little boy crying.
Oh, my heart.
Tears came out instantly for me and his pain was so real that I cast my pen away from me and went to push the desk so that I could race to him and just hug him. I don’t think there were too many dry eyes in the classroom. He eased his own tears though, with a crack about him being okay because he is half-American.
I praised and thanked him for his courage. We all did.
And, also on Friday, a newer student to our school has been acting out and was exceptionally rude to one of our casual staff (also one of my friends but that doesn’t impact this) on Thursday. I spent a period with her. The cycle of life and the importance of corporate knowledge.
I had taught one of her uncles almost ten years ago when a family crisis arose. Knowledge of that history became vital.
She has lead a fractured life. How she gets up each morning with the strength to keep living is a testament to the human spirit.
She trusted me. Or started to, felt that she could, or wanted to, or something like that. There was a strong connecting moment. And I know she did because she asked me later in the day if I could read some of her personal writing. Obviously I said yes. She had a very open and genuine smile across her whole face when she asked.
And then she truanted my class.
And then when she was caught, she felt the rush of guilt and everything else.
She wanted to tell me why when I asked. I think she was raw from the morning and the work we are doing is emotionally confronting and it was too much … But the words wouldn’t leave her head even though she tried, and instead the tears came, and she felt vulnerable, and had to flee … With me yelling after her that no damage has been caused repeatedly, like a nutter. I only hope she heard me.
What a day.
And what an important reminder that writing is healing. Writing enables us to feel less alone, and it allows us to give time to our own selves, and it allows us to process the events and trauma of our lives.
And even I needed to be reminded of that. So, I’m back here. Safe in the arms of my blog; the most consistent refuge I have had in my life.