dispatches from crazyville

November of my first year of teaching. I was cutting myself again. I started cutting when I was fourteen, and, if you read the first post, you know I was never treated. At that point, I was in my mid-twenties.

I would come home from work despondent. My students’ lives were a hot mess–poverty, sexual abuse, addictions, legal trouble–and I couldn’t fix it. They didn’t do homework. They didn’t do class work. They didn’t read. They wouldn’t write. They were failing by the roomful and didn’t seem (to me) to care. Or even to understand the correlation between turning in assignments and their grades. A student once asked me, “Could I get an A?” And when I said, “No, you haven’t done any work,” she asked, “Well could I at least get a D?”

I couldn’t talk about my day. No day. I hated my imperfection. I was terrified to expose what a failure I was as a teacher. I didn’t inspire them. I gave them things irrelevant things to read. My assignments were meaningless. I talked too much. I talked over their heads. I couldn’t keep doing this job; I couldn’t quit. There were no other meaningful jobs I could do. The drive home had the potential, every day, to be my out. The concrete overpass supports, so big and still, waiting indifferently for me to make up my fucking mind and either wreck into them or not. I couldn’t make up my fucking mind. And if I did decide to drive real fast and wreck my car into the overpass, what if I didn’t die? What was I so fucking upset about anyway when I was practically wallowing in privilege compared to many students? What kind of asshole was I?

Then, somehow, I would be home. I would look at one of my thirty page to do lists and feel trapped. I couldn’t do it all. I couldn’t do any of it. There wasn’t enough time. There wasn’t enough me. The items on the list would march into my chest and spiral like electrons, humming the tune of what wasn’t getting done so loud I couldn’t focus on getting them done. I got sucked into the center of their spiral until the edges of me seemed so far away from the hole I was in I thought I’d never be able to surface and, say, have a conversation with someone. And I would hate myself for my impotence. Why couldn’t I do one goddamned thing? Why was I so fucking shitty?

I stood in the spare bedroom I used as an office (and spare it was) shaking, my skin getting tighter and tighter as the list grew and grew. I kept sharp things on my desk. A serrated knife. A pair of scissors. An exacto knife. And I cut myself. To interrupt the noise. To let in some light. To loosen the skin. To relieve the pressure of the unreasonable expectations I was drowning myself in. To prevent myself from doing something much more final.

My arms bled. Finally, quiet. I could breathe. I rolled down my sleeves and moved on.

I didn’t tell anyone.

Then, one night, my partner N and our friends X & Y, another lesbian couple, were hanging out. I was usually very careful not to expose my arms, but their house was warm. I pulled off my long sleeve shirt. As I was folding it, X grabbed my wrist.

What’s this? She pointed at three parallel slashes on my forearm.

Busted.

I shrugged. I don’t know.

She dropped my arm.

I didn’t expect an answer. I’m letting you know I noticed.

We have to leave, said N.

We left. N was hysterical. I felt like the lowest, most disappointing asshole fuck-up. I had been harboring a secret for over ten years. Now everybody knew the truth about me. I don’t remember what was said, but the conversations that followed that night tended to be like, Why didn’t you tell me, Why would you do this, How long have you been doing this, Why aren’t you talking to me?

Why didn’t I tell you?

Because I am ashamed. Because I am in my mid-twenties, and should be beyond this. Should should should be able to cope. Should be able to do the job I was trained to do. How can I tell you how I am failing? The state has issued me a professional license and entrusted me with the responsibility to teach the children to read; I’m making them stupider.

Why would I do this?

It feels like I am saving my life. If I don’t, all I imagine is a thousand ways to die. I can’t breathe. I am paralyzed, I can’t possibly finish all the work I have to do, I can’t give a fraction of what my students need. All the time, it feels like they are stabbing me when they talk to me, like they are taking something away from me, draining me of something I need to survive.

How long have I been doing this?

Since I was fourteen.

Why am I not talking to you?

Because if I talk, if this comes out of me, it will obliterate me. It will swallow me. I will disappear. There will be nothing left.

We went to bed.

Fuck. On top of not being able to do my job, all the people close to me now hate me. How can I get them to like me again? If only I could die.

I spent the night awake, as I did most nights, obsessing over the last part of the evening. I took my shirt off. Why did I take my shirt off? X held my arm. Three red lines. If only I could die. I took my shirt off. Three red lines. I took my shirt off. What’s this? I took my shirt off. We have to leave. If only I could die. On a loop. All night. If only I could die.

X emailed she wanted to help in any way she could. Would I see a therapist?

No. No professional help. It’s not that big a deal.