Another Teacher Leaves the Profession

I cleaned out my classroom, turned in my keys, and submitted my letter of resignation. 

I am no longer a teacher.

I have to admit that with the attacks on teachers in the state of Michigan, it is a move I have contemplated for a while. As I have mentioned before, my school is considered a failing school, so who knows how long we could hang on until the privatization pirates had their way with us.  Frankly, I truly believe they have already done a masterful job of throwing the first shovel of dirt.

The "turn-around" partner, IRRE, was heavily endorsed by the now former principal.  What they have brought to us has, in my opinion, been failure.  Teachers now forfeit three hours of their prep period a week for meetings.  Only the most unctuous of kool-aid drinkers believed these meetings are useful.  The consensus seemed to be that these meetings were ways to simply keep us busy.  Several of us believed that these meetings divided the staff (there were four different groups) in a way that destroyed cohesion. People were always rushing around because we lost our planning time. I feel that the loss of time at work really triggered my depression.

Despite these changes, I stayed.  I loved (still do) my students and they energized me.  My rationale to myself was that the kids are the most important aspect to remember.  Sadly, my depression raged until I took my leave.

I grew nervous as the time drew nearer to my return to work.  I needed help and support if I was going to be successful.  In July, I asked for accommodations under the Americans with Disabilities Act. My primary request was to have only two teaching preps in three classes. When I first made this request in writing to administration, the now former principal "misread" my request as a request to reduce my schedule. 

 I re-submitted my request to the new principal. All anyone needed to do was to switch my 4th hour English 10 with another teacher's English 11 and we both would have two preps. Instead, he said that the only option that was available was to take my AP Literature and my English 11 and switch them for two English 9 classes. How that is easier is beyond me, as I had previously informed him that I had already planned out two months of AP. 

Luckily, I received an offer for a labor movement related job.  I took it.

It is sad that so many managers in many different fields have taken to treating their employees like children: to be seen, but not heard.  It is sad that micromanagement is such a prevailing trend.  It is sad that so many employers refuse to acknowledge the basic humanity of their employees.  

I have taken a huge step into a new life and I am excited.  I start tomorrow, while former colleagues suffer through yet another annual video presentation about blood borne pathogens.  I wouldn't trade places with them for anything in the world.

Unexpected Reaction

I haven't written in a quite a bit of time because I don't want to use this as my therapy spot and I wanted to focus on the act of healing and less on the documentation of that healing.  I feel, however, compelled to write after the death of Robin Williams.  I have always enjoyed his work, therefore I expected to feel sad upon hearing of his death.  What I didn't expect was a flood of tears.  It took me a day or two, but I realized that I was crying as much for me as I was for a brilliant comedian who had succumbed to depression.

I have come a long way since I started the descent into the darkest days of my depression.  I can now look back with clarity and shudder a bit.  I can remember feeling that the world would be a better place without me.  I can remember begging a friend to text me one night because I was afraid of my own thoughts.  About two weeks ago, I formally submitted to work a small list of accommodations I was requesting under the American with Disabilities Act.  Not only were three of the four denied, but the most important one was purposely or incompetently misread.  My mood turned immediately dark.  I cried uncontrollably and felt targeted.  At some point, I sat on my couch and mentally cataloged the objects in my house that could inflict damage on my body.  Then, I managed to walk myself back from the edge.  I think pictures of my son helped me. I know that a friend texted with me all day and kept me talking and engaged.

I felt that if returning to rehab and having ample funds for help couldn't stop Robin Williams from killing himself, what would I do when I returned to work in a few weeks?  My mind raced about how I would keep my health, especially if I was unable to convince someone of the absolute necessity of the accommodations I had requested.  I have spent the last year isolating myself from co-workers because that is one of the things that people suffering from deep depression often do and in doing so, found that a only a few people cared enough to reach out.  How will I remain stable in that kind of environment?  I don't know.  I guess I will have to trust that I have developed enough coping skills in the past four months and to push myself to reach out to others when I feel myself sliding.  Maybe I will have to be completely open at work about my struggles, in order to teach others about depression and how to help those who are suffering.

In about two weeks, I will face a great challenge, but as a stronger person than I have been in a long time.  In the meantime, if you know someone who is suffering from either situational or long-term depression, take that person out for coffee or stop by for a short walk.  You have no idea how important that contact could be.