I have been complaining of my lack of motivation for awhile now.
Honestly, I have felt pretty flat-lined–like I am just surviving my days. Not feeling too low, but never feeling too high, either. And, when I do feel, I tend to swing to depressed.
Last night, I went to my friend’s house to visit. I did not go over until about 7pm, and I really had to talk myself into doing it.
I AM ALWAYS TIRED.
Trauma is a funny thing.
As I have worked my way through the many, many layers of my own story, I have learned many interesting facts about childhood trauma and discovered many of the reasons why I behave the way I do.
Yet, I still find myself feeling surprised when the sub-conscious takes over and I revert back to those past, safe coping mechanisms.
I have been unmotivated for quite awhile.
I still do all of my usual things. I drag myself to the gym. I go to work. I cook and clean. I hang with the kids.
But, most of the time, I have so little desire for any of it.
Tonight, I am a mess.
A struggling, emotional, scared mess.
As a teacher, I recently had a few weeks off for the holidays. Days were busy–a combination of Christmas, traveling, and getting back on track with workouts. (Because, you know, I have somehow gained more weight than I want to admit). Somehow, in the chaos of it all, I began to forget to take my antidepressant.
Last Monday, I woke up and had to go back to work. As I went through my usual morning routine, I suddenly realized that it had been at least a week or a week and a half since I last swallowed that little pill.
I am a thirty something woman.
My whole life, I have struggled to please others–especially the bosses or influential people around me.
I crave their approval. I want their validation. I want to know I am good enough. Continue reading
It’s that time of year.
It is dark when I wake up. Dark when I get home.
Cold. Dry. Windy.
It sounds silly to say, but I realized today…I am actually afraid of this time of year and what it will bring. Continue reading
I teach little people every day. Seven and eight year olds, to be precise. This year, I have one friend who can be particularly challenging. He is a boy on the spectrum, not in control of his emotions and easily overwhelmed by sensory stimuli and frustrations.
He feels best right next to me. Getting one on one attention. Holding my hand. Hugging me. Being up in my bubble. Each day, I do these things for him because he is also a child of poverty and neglect and it is my job to love and take care of him while I have him.
The other day, we were walking together. He had been having a rough day, and his signal is yelling, “I hate (whatever is bothering him).” Often, it is me, or a friend, or school, or his mother. My response is typical–“I’m so sorry you are feeling that way right now.”
After having numerous breakdowns that day, he held my hand and calmed down as I led him on a walk. He squeezed my hand hard and asked me, “Do you like me or do you hate me?”
I looked this sweet boy in the eyes. He held my gaze for a second, and looked elsewhere, uncomfortable with direct eye contact, as I said to him, “I don’t hate you at all. I love you.” He took a deep breath and relaxed, ready to go back into the classroom. Continue reading