Overwhelmed

I am overwhelmed.

I knew I would be overwhelmed before the school year even began. As a tenth grade Honors World Literature teacher who is trained as a journalist, cultural critic and researcher, I knew I wasn’t meant to be teaching. And I knew it would be overwhelming to be in a classroom where I am constantly floundering. Don’t mistake me. Teaching is a honorable profession. Being able to reach children through literature can be fulfilling — just not for me. Teaching also requires immense dedication and passion. I am dedicated. I am passionate. I am not dedicated or passionate about the minutia attached to teaching — the planning, the gathering of data, the grading of papers, the using of those grades to determine mastery, the re-teaching of skills, the teaching of skills to pass specific tests, the ins-and-outs of education are so tiring. And I am tired.

I am passionate and dedicated to writing, which was the reason I was spending hours I should have been grading searching for jobs, sending pitches, tweeting article links, attempting to connect with a village and planning an exit.

Yet, I spent such a long time attempting to escape teaching that I didn’t recognize when I began feeling overwhelmed. It started with frequent trips to the staff bathroom to bawl, especially after I received another “You are such a qualified applicant, but we’ve decided to go with another candidate. Best of luck, and feel free to pitch us!” email. It evolved into crying the entire drive home, sometimes having to pull over to let it out.

I felt and feel like such an awful teacher. I’m not robotic as we’re often required to be. I use too many words when I’m delivering instruction. I don’t return work fast enough. Nobody mastered the assessment I offered. Common Core is foreign. Who gives a fuck about standards when I have a student in the 10th grade who’s reading on the 3rd grade level? All of those feelings of inadequacy and sadness and feeling off-purpose erupted last week in an uncontrollable crying fit. You know the ones where snot is running solidly out of your nose and the creases of your eyes begin to burn and you still can’t stop. Yeah, I was crying like that. And I attempted to push through it.

I’ve been so accustomed to pushing through it. I pushed through graduate school. I pushed through ain’t shit relationships. I pushed through stuff I didn’t like in hopes of blazing a trail toward shit I would love. But I couldn’t push through this. The tears refused to yield, even as my boyfriend, my parents and my closest friend attempted to comfort me with soothing words of nothingness about everything being alright and getting through it. I couldn’t get through it. After taking a day off of from work, i decided to attempt to go in the next day. I sat in the parking lot of my job and cried for more than 40 minutes. I, literally, could not coax myself out of the car. My principal had to retrieve me from the hallway I eventually broke down in, and encouraged me to take time off.

This is that time off. I haven’t done much. I’ve slept well for the first time in a long time. I’ve watched some television. I’ve read. I’ve soaked in bubble baths. I’ve gone to counseling. I’ve decided I can’t return to the classroom. My therapist diagnosed me with situational depression that is triggered by the pressures and stresses of teaching. So, what comes next? I don’t know. I’d like to think I have it all mapped out. My counselor’s advice was to freelance write until something more fulfilling comes along. Hmm… that seems tempting, except I have so many bills. I’m drowning in debt. It would be irresponsible to quit my job, especially when the freelancing world is so in flux. Controlling who I write for and what I write about is great, but others being in control of when my checks are cut isn’t at all appealing. There’s always finding a staff writer and weekend writer position. Sounds great. I’ve applied. No bites yet.

So, what becomes a writer who isn’t writing but isn’t teaching but needs to pay bills? This blog is what becomes of her.

I am keeping this blog, black girl free, as a means of a public journal and account of what working through a quarter-life crisis looks like. It is for me, but it is also for all the black girls who know they’re talented and want self-validation but also need external validations as well. It is, as Ernest Hemingway so eloquently writes, my attempt to bleed on the page. It will be witty (I’m so ready to break away from fucking academic writing. ECK!) and real and raw and all about what happens next. I may update every day or once a week or several times a week. Who knows? All I know is by the time I’m done, I’d like to be a black girl whose free from being overwhelmed.