Today is my last day before I go to a paid job for the first time since October 2014. Who me? I’m fine. Not worried at all about the germs, having and episode, pissing off the store bitch, failing my nice boss, getting up early at 6.30 (I used to get up at 4.30, but now I can get up around 10), touching all those things with germs, the germs on the money (did I mention the germs?), making the correct change, breaking something, my G-Pa being alone for the day, coming home in time to eat lunch, my colitis comes back; I'm miserable--more miserable than now.
I was a teacher and I hated it. I loved the teaching the kids part—jumping on the desk, using my Transylvanian accent, drawing the death of Grendel’s mom on the board, telling the kids funny anecdotes, talking about literature that breathed air into my body, and maybe making a difference. I hated the rest of it. I taught for 14 years and every single of one those years I faced with dread and fear.
Could I discipline the kids? What if: they don’t listen to me; they are chatty and I can’t make them shut-up; what if I piss off an important parent; I forget the fire drill folder during a fire drill; I tell a kid to go the bathroom rather than writing a pass; I GET SICK FROM ALL THEIR GERMS; I’m not good enough for my principal; the other teachers are so way better than I; I get fired; I couldn’t handle all the grading; I was a fraud or worse the kids realized I was a fraud; have to live with that kind of intestine twisting, physical stress that leaves me wanting to cry?
I viewed teaching as a punishment or a consequence for my lifestyle. If I want to buy Barbies and have a house, then I have to teach—a steady job with benefits. This is the punishment.
When Asshole and I bought the house he was not working. He was having a psychotic break and I would sit in the closet in what is now “The Barbie Fun Room” and cry. I did the dishes by hand because he wouldn’t install the dishwasher and I had to sneak real soap because he made me use that Bonner organic, no foam shit. He screamed, he yelled. I thanked him for letting me live there. In 05, he didn’t have a job. I did. In 06, 07, 08, 09, 10, he didn’t have a job. I did. He was focusing on his art. I was working full time and getting a master’s degree. I sent Barbie dolls to my parents’ house so I wouldn’t get in trouble. When I visited my grandparents I brought my purchases home in hidden suitcases so he wouldn’t yell at me. I digress.
What if he had been a better man and said, “Honey, you hate your job. I will get something to cover us until you can get a job that doesn’t make you physically and emotionally ill?”
Twenty-five to life with no chance of parole. That’s how I viewed teaching. 2039 was my retirement date. I can still feel it—if I let myself—the gut-wrenching, toe-curling, brain-blinding abject fear of going to school every day. The best thing in my life? Cigarettes, Barbies, and my computer—later my cat. Hmmm. She deserves a name. Hope. Hope the cat.
Asshole let me have Hope but he almost didn’t let me pay the grand to save her life. She was a very sick stray with whom I fell in love when I found her at my school. Last night when she laid her head in my open palm—fuck Asshole and T. All I need is her head in my open palm.
Where is this post heading? I was going to rant about ECT (Electro-Convulsive Therapy or good ol’ Electric Shock) because I saw an article in the Washington Post about how the FDA is endorsing it. I hope the endorsers all got a month of ECT before they made that decision.
It all goes back to never being good enough. I don’t feel good enough to do any worthwhile in life. Teaching, for me, was a high-pressure, 50-60 hour a week job with stress 90% of the time. When I’d go shopping, I would envy the salesgirls. Salespeople—Sales Associates—Lipstick on a pig, baby. Now I am going to be a salesgirl.
But I have been safe from the world since I stopped working. And my panic attacks make sure of that. I don’t want to go out there again, but I don’t want to live on disability for the rest of my life. AMBIVALENCE.
I’m scared. The world out there is scary. I thought that if you followed all the rules and did what you were supposed to do, certain things would happen. I was so fucking wrong.
In my mind, the world is a scary and antagonistic place. That’s why I believed T. for so long. Because he was going to take care of me. So was Asshole.
I really do think that God is making me take care of myself to teach me a lesson.
Saint Jude-help me. I cry out for you succor.
So tomorrow I am a salesgirl. I’d rather sit in the fetal position and not leave the house except to smoke. That’s how it all snowballed before. The not wanting to leave the house turned into my wanting to use the Nuclear Option.
Smoke ‘em if ya’ got ‘em. God Bless
In the name of The Father, Son, and Holy Spirit; Mother Mary; Saint Brigid: Saint Jude: Saint Therese Lisieux; Archangel Michael; and my Guardian Angel.
PS: Another worry I remembered...what if I can't sleep tonight?? I could never sleep the night before the first day of school. What if I can't sleep??
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