Trauma

Today was traumatic. To my students. To me. I'm learning to recognize trauma. (Oh, what I've learned this year.) I feel the need to document it, so I needed to carve out time to write about it. Today the trauma of teaching in a pandemic (let's compound this with the others) showed up like this:

• Wanting to cry on my way to school.
• Wanting to cry before homeroom.
• Two people with a six-foot long white stick/pvc pipe heading into class saying, "Don't mind me."
• Students' worry and whispers and blurt outs about who is it? Who's going home? Who sits here next period? What if I go home? Who else will go? What if all my friends are here and I'm home? I have to tell them, "You've just witnessed part of what they call 'contact tracing,'" and that "It's part of what it means to live during a pandemic."

I wrote while the measurements were taking place - I wrote alongside my students and shared with each class.

    The principal and the nurse.

    They walked in with a pole.

    THE pole.

    Six feet long.

    I want to cry.

        This means more students at home.

        This means group work for those students in all their classes - is out the window.

        This means more isolation.

        This means more worry.

        This means back to double-masking for some.

        This means it's still out there.

        This means... oh crap.

    I'm tired of all of this.

    I'm tired of getting hopeful, and then getting punched in the gut once again.

    I'm sick of the sickness... and the deaths... and the violence... and the racism... and my own feelings from day to day.

        I'm working on myself.

        I'm aware this is temporary,

            even if we're in our second year of a pandemic.

        I'm aware that I've felt this way before, and I'll feel this way again.

    Maybe this afternoon will be better.

    Every minute is a fresh start.

    I'm going to put on my good attitude now. This minute.

        Are you with me?

    Let's stay socially distanced as much as possible,

        let's not cluster together at home or in the classroom,

        let's keep our masks over our mouth and nose, and

        let's stay positive 

            about trying to stay negative 

            for COVID.

• A colleague with their head in their hands before eating lunch.
• After lunch, eight of my students are at home with their cameras off - instead of two.
• A phone call during class - three more students are going home.
• Red faces, cries of "Why me?!" and then collection of belongings.
• "What? Aw, man!"
• Me saying, "It's a pandemic. You are resilient," then needing to explain "resilient," using a rubber band that BROKE when I stretched it a bit! Oh, the eyes above their masks showing their shock... Great job, Joy.
• Me, also saying, "You'll be fine. You've done this before, you can do it again. We'll get through this. You'll be home. You're good." Part of me thinking, "This is what we get for being three feet apart. Back to hybrid."
• The rest of us walk around the school. We growl and scream. We come back in the building, and I show them where, on my Bitmoji classroom, our "stress reducers" are. I hadn't needed to show them until today. Students chose - look at the sand, the seeds growing, and the breathing videos. We practiced relaxing for ten minutes.
• I then did a check in with my students, using the mood meter we use every Monday. Many students at home said, "annoyed," and I validated everyone's feelings.
• One of my students started sharing, someone interrupted, I finally got back to her, and then she said, "No, I'm done sharing. May I go take a break?" I was heartbroken.
• I got the rest of the class reading (it's ELA, you know), letting them know that reading is also a stress-reducer, should you have a good book. 
• I waited by the door for her to come back. I waited a long time. When she got back, I had her sit on the floor in the hallway next to me. She started crying. She feels alone in most of her classes since her schedule change (months ago), she feels as if she doesn't know what anyone's talking about (I was able to understand that!), and she says she feels ignored. I listened as good as I ever have. When she stopped talking, she stopped crying. I finally said, "I see you. I hear you. You matter. And I know that the others are louder than you are. They get more of my attention. But when YOU speak, I get so excited, and I really want to hear what you say." I don't remember much else, except that she said, "I feel better now," (Bless her!!), and I told her we could sit in the hall ANY day.

Today was one more piece of trauma from this school year like no other.

Educators are taking care of the children. Like we always do. 

The lessons learned aren't all academic in nature. Like always. 

Our students are learning resilience, patience, time management, love, and that actions = consequences... I'm learning how to teach two classes at the same time, survive over a year in a pandemic, pick myself up (again and again), support colleagues better, recognize inequities, consider others' perspectives, and ride the waves of stress. It's just so difficult. I'm not comparing it to others; I'm simply sharing this one day in my career.

I'm thankful for all I still have. I'm thankful for those small, precious quality moments with my students. I'll write about those another day.

Is This Trauma?

I wrote these thoughts as new thoughts emerged over the week. I've now gone through it and am ready to click "publish."

The day of the incident:
I cried at lunch.
I cried on my way home.
I cried to my husband.
I played dodgeball - ran around like a nut, threw with all my might like a wimp, saw stars at one point, had a hissy fit on the floor of the gym, yelled, screamed, played my heart out, and slept deeply when I hit the pillow.

"Day after" morning:
Woke with thoughts of the incident.
Cried in the shower.
Figured I should talk, so shared it with Hubby.
Cried a bit more through the morning.
Thoughts throughout the day, trying to figure it out:

I used to be prepared to handle students when they acted out in this fashion. I used to say, "You can't show fear. You have to show them who's in control." I had a first grader who would bite and kick. When I was starting out teaching in my 20s, I was prepared as to how to handle it. Now that I'm not a "special ed." teacher anymore (Aren't I, though?), I'm not trained in the new approaches. I'm more vulnerable. I wanted to protect the other teacher in the room. I didn't know how. I acted as if I was not scared. I had to act that way. I was scared. This realization came today. For some reason, I wanted others to know what I'd witnessed. I wanted them to know the power and the strength I witnessed. I wanted others to know what some teachers go through. Some - on a daily basis even.

More thoughts on this day:

I have been protected for a long time. I'm spoiled. I've got a very comfortable life. Am I now a total wuss because I haven't been exposed to violence or aggression? If I am exposed to it more often, will that make me a hard-ass? Will it make my heart harder? I signed up for this - when I was 22 years old. My role changed in 2002 when I was 29 and started working in "regular ed." I'm not cut out for a profession that includes violence or aggression. I've known that from the start. I'm worried that when I go back to school I will SHOW my fear. I will act like I'm not scared, no less. I'll hold it together. Other teachers see behaviors like this on a daily basis. Many are "used to" it. I can do this, too. I could. I have in the past. Now - I don't want to.

I figured out this must be what people call "trauma."

Second "day after" morning:
Woke with thoughts of it again. I decided I needed to write. Sat down to write this after I cried in the shower.
Cried writing this.
Thoughts this morning:

Thought of Mom coming over (we're going Christmas shopping). Thought of how I'll break down again when I hug her hello. Thought of my coworkers that support one another. Thought of how I don't want to "dump" this on them - for various reasons - one being that they're empathetic. Glad the one that was with me will not be in school Monday. She's had so much to deal with this school year already. Thought of talking with one of our social workers, yet she, too, has so much on her plate and has had a difficult start to the school year. 

Who do I turn to? I tell people they need to ask for help. My husband is helping. He's letting me cry and letting me talk it all out. I felt that writing this may help me process my thoughts more. As of 9am, my head says people will say, "You can't let it get to you like this." My thoughts back to myself say, "I can. I WON'T, though. I don't want to wake up like this each morning."

Third "day after" morning:
Today I look at this title and I cringe. It looks so dramatic! I think I must doing better.
I only cried twice today - once when the team kept talking about it, and again when I was coming home and "Joy to the World" came on the radio. I realized that my alone times conjure up visions of the incident. I need to stay occupied with other thoughts. My coworkers checked up on me. I felt supported and strong. I was ready to press the button and ask for the C-Team if needed. The first time I cried, I was on high alert already because we had two substitute teachers that would be working with this student. I was worried. I'd said, "Good morning" to the student and received no response. So I repeated myself quieter then turned and walked away. I was more frustrated at this point than scared. I had hoped this child would say something along the lines of "sorry." During class, I was followed around by the student, due the student not having access to technology. I consider this the "sorry" I was looking for.

Now, in the evening, I am relaxed. I'm not devoting tons of my energy to the situation. I'm getting distracted. Even as I told myself, "Live in the moment. What is going on in THIS moment NOW?" I would devote my thinking to it. Not right now. I'm going to listen to my book while I get some Christmas wrapping finished.

Fourth "day after" morning:
I turned to prayer today. I prayed for the student, for the teachers that work at our school, and for the parents. I wondered what home is like. I wondered what they've seen and how they've reacted and recovered. Praying for other people - instead of thinking of me - helped.

Fifth "day after" morning:
I worked one-on-one with this student at the end of class, and all was good. We were both calm and working on the plan for class while other students worked independently. I was at ease.

Sixth "day after" morning:
As the student was becoming agitated today, my co-teacher told me, "Your whole affect just changed." I was feeling the need to take every student out of the room quietly, even though I know this one student has not had a history of hurting anyone. My blood was rushing a bit, so I removed myself from one part of the room and sat down to work with other students, talking about their projects.

Eighth "day after" morning:
Our friend died of pancreatic cancer yesterday while we had our last day of school for 2019. It was expected, yet of course it's still terribly sad. So I'm back to crying again at the drop of a hat. A sad song, a happy song, a Christmas song... all set me off, especially when I'm alone. It has nothing to do with the incident. This time I was thinking of our friend's husband.

What I've learned:
I witnessed an event that was traumatic to me. It's been awhile since this has happened, and I didn't know how to deal with it.
I've learned that witnessing something traumatic takes a toll on a person's mental strength.
I've learned to find someone and talk to that person about it.
I've learned (again) writing helps me process my thoughts.
I've learned to be around other people.
I've learned to stay busy.
I've learned that it takes time.
I've learned that when thoughts of the incident come to mind, I need to notice it and then switch my thinking to something else. It needs to be a conscious act. It's not always easy, but it IS doable.

I still have so much of this life to try to figure out. It's such a puzzle - home, work, children, adults, relationships... One day at a time. One piece at a time. It's living. I'm so grateful for the support of friends, family, and coworkers.