I always felt guilty telling Stacy Rebel no. She would walk from her neighborhood to mine – maybe a total of ten minutes – and ring the doorbell. She wanted to play. Crippled with fear, I hid behind my mom’s legs as she fibbed for me: “Sarah isn’t feeling well…we have to run to the store…she already has plans.” It wasn’t that I didn’t want to have a play date. Instead, at six years old, thoughts raced through my mind. What would we do? What if she tired of me? What if I did something to anger her?
That same year, as I started first grade, I had a painful awareness of time. As soon as we were dismissed for lunch, I had a nagging feeling: shouldn’t I be going home? Kindergarten was only half day. Why did every other grade have to be double? So, I hysterically cried and did so for ten days straight until Mrs. P, Mrs. Faber’s aide, yelled at me to Knock It Off! I never cried again. I didn’t like to be in trouble.
These are my first memories of my anxiety. But, in the ’80’s, we didn’t openly talk about mental health, nor would a family admit that a six year old was suffering. I can just imagine my Polish grandfather hearing about my illness: “What the hell does a six year old have to be anxious about? She doesn’t have to pay the bills!”
Anxiety pairs well with depression, and, while I don’t remember much, I do remember wanting to kill myself at age ten. I knew my dad had rifles for hunting, but they were locked away and hidden. One afternoon, I sobbed in the kitchen and told my mom I wanted to shoot myself. I had not seen any television shows or movies glamorizing suicide. How did I even know it was possible to take one’s life? I had this sadness deep inside me and felt her sit at the bottom of my soul. In fact, she still resides there.
Not until I turned 26 was I ready to face these issues. After my grandmother’s death and the demise of a toxic romantic relationship, I put myself in therapy and started Lexapro. I wasn’t cured, but I was helped. I still have bad bouts of depression. The pandemic doesn’t help. Neither does a ludicrous oligarch as president (off topic but true, nonetheless)
The longer I teach, though, the more I see my own students struggle with mental illness. I used to think that the increase in 504’s resulted from the normalization of mental healthcare. We talk about it. We see it in the media. We have more remedies to help. But, I don’t think that’s the case. When I reflect on all my students have to cope with in 2020, of course they are struggling. Right now, their lives are book-ended by tragedy: 9/11 and the pandemic. In between sits expedited climate change, senseless murders of the black community by the justice system, separation and detainment of immigrant families. You know that this is only a small part of the list. Part of the problem is that our kids are constantly informed. When I was six years old, my parents could shield me from Tom Brokaw or Peter Jennings by turning off the television. But, now, my students have all the information in the palms of their hands. I’m not arguing against the smart phone. I’m simply observing that this is a difficult time to be alive – a difficult time to understand yourself and the world you live in when there is so much sadness and destruction.
The only thing I can do is be there. I listen when my students are having a shitty day. I offer advice. I make myself accessible. I think more times than not we all need someone to tell us that it’s going to be okay.
I still resemble that six year old who used to hide behind her mom’s legs. I often back out of plans with friends. This comes across as me being flaky or unreliable. It’s not. Sometimes, I just can’t leave the house, and that’s okay. Some days, I feel uncontrollably sad, and that’s okay. For me, though, I keep going because I know one of my students will need me next week, and that’s okay too.
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