Stress Hangover: I WANT MY LIFE BACK

The class I just taught was a disaster. I'm sitting here at my desk, counting the minutes until I can leave for the day and escape to the sweet oblivion of my bed. 39 minutes until crisp sheets, PJ pants, lemon seltzer and Ice-T's sarcastic quips about the latest murder-rapist to terrorize the streets of New York City. 38 minutes until fuzzy socks, cool air, the evening stretched lazily in front of me in that special way that only Thursday evenings before Friday holidays can (Sidenote: Thursday evening is more glorious when there's no work Friday. Fact). 38 minutes until I start my usual weekend dance of trying to shove the stress of the work week out of my head for long enough to enjoy the 2 days off. 37 minutes until I can shut my eyes and try to sleep and probably fail because there's too much in my mind but somehow trying unsuccessfully to sleep beats purposely being awake.

When I started student teaching and grad school, my mom stopped incessantly yelling about my terrible sleep schedule. At first I didn't know how to respond. No one yelled at me to get up at a reasonable hour on Saturday. No one cared if I slept until 4, which I routinely did. No one screamed at me when I was going to be late for teaching. Instead, I woke up to hot coffee being poured into my mouth and a warm "Morning honey!" When I finally confronted her, she said, "Honey, you're working extremely hard. I can't imagine taking on that courseload while teaching all day. If you need to sleep 20 hours a night, by all means do it. In high school, you were just lazy. Now, you deserve those 20 hours." 

I took this to heart and I'm glad I did. It's so easy to feel guilty for the time it takes to recover from teaching, especially in a tough school system with many troubled students. Even the greatest teachers -- you know, the annoying ones who seem to have perfect systems in place for discipline and instruction that promote student accountability, consistency, inquiry, and growth -- come home and sit on the couch for awhile to decompress. Trust me. I've asked them. I'm not saying I'm thrilled about it. I would love to be able to leave work and DO things for the several hours until I go to sleep. I would love to teach summer school if I weren't so destroyed from the school year. I would love to have real hobbies that require regular time commitments and friends I see more than once every other month when I don't bail because I'm too tired or upset. I would love it. But I've come to terms with it. I no longer apologize for my SVU binges, or clicking DECLINE on 99% of the weeknight facebook event invitations that come my way. I'm not happy about it, but I spend enough time feeling guilty about the fact that I could have done this or that better at my job. I'm not going to feel guilty for how I recover from that job. 

But this year has not been typical. Nothing about it has made sense. And somewhere in the last few months I began to wonder if things are getting worse. Somewhere in the last few months I began to think maybe I should replace "well-adjusted" with "in denial" when describing how I deal with all this stress. 

Did I always take things so personally? Did I always get this destroyed? It's hard to remember. This year has been terrible, worse than other years by far, but my reactions have been astronomically more severe. My first year was pretty bad. I taught 7 different classes at one point (non-teachers: I mean I had to prepare 7 different lessons each day). My second year (or was it the third?) I had those 8th graders in the morning that gave me HELL, and then there was the year I had to plan different lessons for each 7th grade class because they were each dysfunctional in completely different ways. Last year was awful, the worst I thought I'd ever deal with, until this year happened. I was upset frequently. I slept a lot. But I wasn't this unhappy this often for this long. Lately it seems like every little thing sets me off, and the panic and anger and pain that set in last for longer.

I used to go weeks without going out on the weekends. I used to sleep 20 hours a day. But somehow I remember it being a choice I made, which implies that I could have made a different one. Last weekend, for the first time in 2 months, I went out on Saturday night. I karaoked with my friends and for awhile, it was actually fun. I didn't drink, because I can't control my emotions sober let alone drunk, but I love being with my friends so I still enjoyed myself. Sort of. Mostly. For awhile. I thought if I looked the part, dressed the part and acted the part, it would be enough. As it turns out, pretending to be okay isn't the same thing as being okay, so I ran out of Hong Kong in Faneuil Hall crying.

There you have it. There's no set of circumstances that could allow me to go out and for ONE NIGHT not fall apart. I can't be normal. It's not an option for me anymore. I'm at home alone every weekend night watching TV and reading because I HAVE NO OTHER CHOICE, unless I want to make crying while sober in crowded bars a habit. 

Remember when you realized you couldn't drink like you used to? It happens to all of us at different times. I was about 25. Losing 30 pounds and being 3 years out of college combined was what did it for me. Suddenly, I could count the times I HADN'T gotten wasted, instead of the times I had. Suddenly, I was hungover until 7 o'clock at night. I started losing Saturdays and Sundays. Eventually I realized why: My tolerance had gone down. My body chemistry had changed. My outlook was the only thing that hadn't shifted. 

That's how work feels. The stress from one tough class leaks into another. The stress from one terrible day is still there the next morning. I run and sleep and box and watch SVU and I still can't get away from it. The stress is like a hangover that never ends. You can reevaluate the way your body handles alcohol, and change your habits accordingly. You can drink more water, drink less beer, get more sleep, and be hungover less frequently. But what can you do if your job is what's making you sick? What do you do if your life is one neverending migraine headache,  your mornings are spent bent over the toilet, you've been sick with one thing or another since October, and your doctors tell you the stress is causing your body's systems to malfunction? What do you do when you panic the second things seem calm because it's so unfamiliar that you're unprepared? What do you do when your body rejects the place you have chosen to do the job you love more than anyone has any right to love a given job? What do you tell the ER doctors when you're throwing up blood for no reason? What do you do when what's wrong with you doesn't show up on blood tests, and there's no medicine to make you better?

MCAS is a sinking ship of fail.

I hate MCAS. 

We know this. It’s not a secret. I complain quite frequently about it. MCAS is a soul-sucking, creativity-killing, beaurocracy-driven, logistically despicable waste of valuable learning time. I understand why tests need to happen. I don’t understand why we can’t figure out a faster way to revise the testing process to make it more accurate and meaningful. 

Thirteen years ago, the sophomores sat down to take 10^th grade MCAS for the first time (officially, anyway, because previous years served as guinea pigs). Thirteen years later, we finally have a new set of learning standards, but we’re scrambling to create a better test to assess these new standards. Thirteen years of stupidly-worded questions, boring, repetitive analysis, and hours of missed learning time later, we’re TRYING to make a new test. 

THIRTEEN YEARS. Why can’t it happen faster? What’s with the slow turnaround? While we were wasting time on a dumb test that doesn’t measure anything worth knowing, THIRTEEN YEARS worth of kids grew up and graduated or didn’t but it doesn’t really matter because we can’t help them now. Thirteen years worth of students think open response is a genre and multiple choice is a way of life. Thirteen years worth of students missed God knows how many hours of learning time that was spent prepping for or taking a dumb test. 

What took so damn long? When a ship is sinking, you jump ship and try to swim to shore. You escape in a lifeboat. You shoot off flares. You do anything, really, as long as you’re doing SOMETHING. You don’t stay on the sinking ship until it hits the ocean floor, just to make sure it’s really sinking, just to make sure there’s no hope. 

So here’s a radical idea: What do you say we try not to drown from now on?

Bubble sheets make me want to hurl.

Bubble sheets make me want to hurl.

I’m a smart, flexible thinker. I’m creative, well-read and articulate. When I take the time to research and plan, I am capable of exceptional study skills.

I spent my childhood reading. I was shuttled to every extracurricular and enrichment activity I asked to take part in. My mother corrected my grammar in first grade. I was the second grader who could explain subjunctive tense.

I have all the makings of a good test taker. Usually, I am. But despite all that, bubble sheets make me want to hurl.

You might think a fifth-year teacher in an urban school system would have gained some perspective by now. You might think five years of No Child Left Behind would have calmed me down, lowered my blood pressure, and taught me not to freak out because tests aren’t the most important thing. You might think that five years of confronting the real problems that cause our students’ sub-par standardized test scores -- poverty, violence and apathy – I would know better than to dread tests that I’m not even taking. 

You’d be wrong. Bubble sheets still make the bile rise in my throat.

Every year my seventh graders go through multiple days of standardized tests. Tomorrow, they start the first of three days of ELA testing. My stomach is churning, right on schedule. My seventh graders, on the other hand, could care less. They’re nervous that they don’t know the writing prompt, and about being able to work for so long, but beyond that, they’re fine. As I write this, they’re emailing me to ask if spray-on deodorant is better than roll-on deodorant because I gave them a speech today about how important it is to smell good when you’re going to be sitting in one room with 28 other people for 4 hours.

He's thrilled to try out his new deodorant AND take MCAS!
*Results not typical*

So why aren’t they nauseous like me? I’m not even taking the test.

Seventh graders are a curious species. They are self-conscious to a fault while determined to hide this fact and pretend like they don’t care what other people think of them. They’re moody and volatile; everything is the Best Thing Ever or the Worst Thing in the World, and the tiniest sideways glance can make or break their day. They try on different personality traits as they form their identities, yet still spend a large portion of their time calling each other fake for doing just that. Seventh graders are developmental wild cards – clay malleable and soap scum stubborn. It’s why I love teaching them. Seventh grade is the year when you learn to pick yourself back up on your own, not depending on your parents or friends to do it for you. Seventh grade is both lonely and empowering at the same time, the best and worst and everything in between. Seventh grade is where people are made.

Seventh grade is also awful. Going through it once was enough, and if you’d asked me at the time, I probably would have told you half a school year was more than adequate. But at times like these, I almost miss it, because seventh graders have no idea what they’re up against. 

IRRELEVANT PERSONAL CONNECTION:
In seventh grade, they took us to the New England Aquarium where the woman who was the voice of the Little Mermaid sang for us. She had red hair and was dressed like a total slut. At the time, I was conflicted. Looking back... Ariel was kind of questionable to begin with, so I forgive the woman for her outfit choice. 

They don’t know the role background knowledge plays in any kind of literacy-based test, and how much they’re already missing. They don’t know how much time we spend crunching numbers in meetings, analyzing why five of them got the wrong answer on question 7 but not question 9 which is strange because both questions target the same learning standard (In all likelihood, those five probably got the question wrong because they were upset about something involving Justin Bieber). They don’t know how quickly test scores and grade point averages add up to paint a picture that determines in part what chances they have in life. They don’t know how one rough year can create a knowledge gap that could throw them off for years to come. They don’t know that each day of learning helps them, providing them with skills and strengths that will come in handy.  They don’t know any of it. They’re completely unaware.

I would love to not know any of that sometimes. I would love to not care for a change. I would love to look at all those bubble sheets and feel healthy apprehension instead of stomach-curling nausea. I would love to stop worrying about the sixth grade class that does no homework. I would love to not think about tomorrow before it happens, and do something today without considering how it will affect my tomorrow. I would love to spend an hour doodling INSTEAD of doing what I’m supposed to be doing and not worry about what I’m missing.

Insert some ridiculous jingle sung by Peter Griffin about throwing up in toilets, a jingle that goes on for 90 seconds too long.  

What if that was my life? What if I blew off a professional commitment, and in lieu of discipline, my principal or vice principal CALLED MY MOTHER, then she yelled at me and made me stay in my room until I did what I was supposed to do?

When did this happen? When did I change? I remember making excuses and forging notes in high school. I remember lying to my teachers, my parents, and myself. I remember putting things off until the last minute and then deciding not to do them at all. Then some xylophone music comes on, the picture gets blurry and I’m 10 years in the future with a salary, a lease, a car I paid for, a master’s degree, three teaching licenses, and two sets of good china. I blinked and now I’m a grown-up who does things and cares about things and owns things and thinks about things before doing them and it’s really complicated and hard and sometimes all I want is to be screamed at by my mother and told what’s right.

One time, roughly 2 years ago, I had a panic attack. I was behind on work stuff, I gained 4 pounds overnight, a guy blew me off, there was a dead mouse in the kitchen, I was broke, and on top of that my room was a WRECK. Hysterical, I called my mom. She told me to stop everything and clean my room, because it would help me think straight. I told her I was tired, and she YELLED AT ME. My mother YELLED at me, circa high school/2001 YELLED at me to clean my room. It worked. I calmed down immediately and cleaned my room until I could think straight. It was so nice to relinquish control. It was oddly liberating to be told exactly what to do.

I wish I could take a break from caring and doing and making decisions all the time, but I can’t turn it off. I do my best to compartmentalize, and push it to the back of my brain, but I can’t un-know the things I know. Even in my most mellow moments a part of my brain contemplates whether or not the Incubus song playing in this bar would be an effective way to teach metaphor (ANSWER: It is).

Teaching is not a job I leave at work. It will always come home with me, whether I’m grading papers or not. It will always be on my mind, whether I’m in front of a class or in the ocean or out for a run or watching Law&Order SVU. Learning is a big deal. Supporting seventh graders as they grow into the people they will become is a big deal. Standardized tests, however flawed they may be, are a big deal. What we do in schools –the frustration, the magic, the journey -- IS A BIG DEAL.

I guess that’s why bubble sheets make me sick to my stomach. Standardized tests are a part of something bigger that means everything to me. Teaching means everything to me. My students’ futures mean everything to me. Any test that even attempts to measure that – regardless of its efficacy – is bound to twist my stomach into knots. In my experience, if it matters to me, I feel it in my stomach, whether it’s nausea, anticipation, anxiety, shock, adrenaline, perseverance, pain, or fear. I’ll deal with it, so my students don’t have to. They have enough to deal with just trying to become people. I can only hope they grow up and fill their lives with things they care about so much it twists their stomachs up in knots.

So bring on the bubble sheets, Department of Education. I’ve got my Pepto. Do your worst.

And try to enjoy it, seventh graders. Pretty soon you’ll be real live grown-ups, without the luxury of a mom to ground you, a teacher to discipline you, and a 30-minute detention to repent for your 12-year-old sins. So work hard, but don’t rush to be a grown-up. Spend a good long time picking out the sweatpants you’ll wear for MCAS day (since I told you to dress comfortably), because soon you’ll be real, live people, limited to the 2 pairs of pants you haven’t stress-eaten your way out of fitting into. Pass notes in overly stylized handwriting. Set detailed goals for yourselves that all involve getting to new levels in the latest video games.

Enjoy it. I’ll be over here, holding my stomach.