Creating Space

Job queries slowed,  and my anxiety seeped into my home life. If I wasn’t talking about school, then I wasn't talking. My wife noticed the changes and told me I should see a psychiatrist. I always believed the psychiatrists were not for me. I could solve my own problems. But I was approaching a place I had never been. I had no space in my day when I wasn’t thinking about why Ryden was screaming or why Laila couldn’t read or why Ms. Price had stopped talking to me (she was the other 2nd grade teacher). Each night I slumped at the dining table with my babbling daughter and supportive wife, and I put my head in my hands, wishing that everything could go back to the way it was. I wanted to enjoy the dinner. I wanted to ask my wife about her day. I wanted to tickle my daughter in the neck and laugh at her when she pursed her lips to avoid eating her vegetables.  I couldn't think about work anymore; it was eating away at me. I started to fantasize about escape; if I couldn’t find another job, what else could I do?

Riding your bike in DC is always nerve wracking. On this particular morning, I wondered what would happen if I was hit by car. It would obviously hurt a lot, but only temporarily. If it was really bad, I might be in the hospital for the rest of the year, eat microwaveable dinners, and watch soap operas all day. It was the small slice of heaven I needed. But then, there are also the other risks of getting hit by a car. I could become paralyzed or I might live my  life in a coma. What if I died? As soon as I had the thought, I tried to silence it because I knew where it would go. I could fantasize about microwaveable dinners, but I could not let myself fantasize about death.

But it didn't work. The next night, I put my head in my hands again —instead of imagining a new life free from Daley, I started wishing for an end. I needed to see a psychiatrist. I tried to make an appointment, but all the local clinics were booked so I made an appointment that was two months away in a clinic requiring a 40 minute commute. Options were running out, and I needed a solution, today. My wife mentioned journaling.

I had already written what elementary grad students called teacher reflections about what was and wasn’t working in the classroom, but it had been years since I wrote about how I was feeling. Once I started, I didn’t want to stop writing. Everything that had been filling my head, I started to put on paper. After writing an entry, it seemed I had created a little space, just enough space to breathe again.