Stained Glass Masquerade

Have you ever heard the song "Stained Glass Masquerade" by Casting Crowns? (If not, reference this video that includes lyrics). There are few pieces of artwork that reflect my life as much as this one does (though, as far as music goes, Casting Crowns really has a gift for painting a picture of life struggles I've experienced). For me, the masquerade goes beyond the stained-glass one I wear in any and every community of faith and permeates nearly every aspect of my life, even with the few family members and friends that I once felt I could trust with everything. But I have to admit that the masquerade is longest-running in my communities of faith.
Our society in general has a serious problem. Whenever we have a conversation with someone, we ask "How are you?" when 95% of the time we don't actually care. It's one of my greatest pet peeves. With every person in my life that I actually liked, I used to be completely honest in my answer to this question; as a person who's dealt with social anxiety most of my life which led to depression by the time that I hit high school (neither of which were treated until halfway through my college career), my response was usually negative. The thing about social anxiety is that you feel that every single person you come into contact with sees every little mistake you make 100% of the time and thinks the worst of you for it; the thing about depression is that once you fall down that dark hole, you can't even see a glimmer of light that might lead to a way out. So if I hadn't slept well the night before and felt like crap as a result and you asked me how I was doing, I was going to tell you about how I felt crappy because I didn't sleep well the night before. It may not have been positive, but at least it was truthful. Which leads me to another serious societal problem: We don't want to deal with people who can't manage to be happy all the time. Which I get on some level. But if you open the door by asking someone how they are, you ought to at least have the decency to listen and share some sympathy whether or not you think they have a right to feel that way or not (also, newsflash, everyone has a right to their feelings and emotions whether you agree with them or not). Though amongst our friends and family members we have slightly more patience for people's unhappiness, we still expect them to get over it in the time we think as adequate rather than in whatever time they actually need to work through and heal from the situation. After realizing that all but a handful of my "friends" in college had ditched me due to my highly visible depression, I got to a point where my parents are the only ones I ever reach out when I'm so depressed or anxious that I can't see the light at the end of the tunnel because I know they'll still love me when I can't see the ray of hope at the end of the tunnel, and I know for a fact that I'm not the only person who's felt this way. Okay, end of semi-tangent rant. The point? I think that we've lost a piece of humanity when we stop caring about people who are hurting, whether we're in the mood to deal with it or not.
I say this because, particularly after my own life experiences, when people ask me how I'm doing, I don't tell the truth most of the time anymore. If in the past few years you've asked me how I am and I've told you that I've been crappy and then elaborated why, you can count yourself among the privileged few that I actually trust anymore. I wear a mask daily. Everyone else seems to have their life together, so I try to act like mine is too. I try to act like life is great. Whenever I run into a situation that upsets me, I stuff all my emotions. I can hold it in anywhere from minutes to hours to days to weeks. I wait either until I'm alone or until I can't hold it in anymore; and then I cry for hours, sometimes including a panic attack, other times just tears. And when it's done, I start bottling up my negative emotions all over again. But unless someone happens to walk in on the emotional outburst, I rarely tell anyone about it.
I no longer share much on Facebook because I feel like the stuff that makes me happy others will think is dumb (because who cares about the $30 I saved on groceries when they could be looking at pictures of other people's engagements, weddings, and newborns) and sharing anything negative that has happened in my life just makes people think I'm a horrible person. So I don't share. Except sometimes I do.
A part of social anxiety for me is being afraid that I'll say or do something that will make people think that I'm stupid or annoying or worthless to a point that they won't want me in their lives anymore. Which is the reason that when I have many people who have specifically told me to call them when I'm having extreme bouts of anxiety or depression, I always chicken out for fear of losing them, or at least the type of relationship I have with them. My alternative? I send out red flags via Facebook status or blog post. Particularly these days, if I post something online about how crappy and/or hopeless and/or lonely I feel, it means I'm desperate for a friend and don't know where to turn. And I wait for people to reach out from there. Because I'm much less likely to lose a friend when they've made the choice to reach out to me when I'm hurting.
Most of the time this works the way that I need it too. But, conveniently [sarcasm], it's happened that in some of my deepest depressions, my red flags backfire. People decide that they don't want to deal with the fact that I'm hurting and lash out as a result. The first time I recall happened when I was in college. The second time happened just in the last few days. And, given my intense feelings of worthlessness lately (because I seriously feel like a failure in every aspect of my life from the big things like my career all the way down to the time I forgot to bring a doggie bag with me when walking my dog), for the first time in my life I actually wondered if the world would be better off without me. It was a fleeting moment that finally dropped me to the rock bottom I've been approaching for the last couple of months. I say fleeting because the mere thought of "Stained Glass Masquerade" somehow managed to bounce me back out almost immediately afterwards.
"Stained Glass Masquerade" is significant because, for whatever reason, I think Christians are the worst when it comes to not being willing to put up with people who are hurting. I don't say this as a someone who's standing on a political soapbox talking about the big social justice issues that Christians continually get bashed for these days. I'm talking about the everyday, run-of-the-mill hurt that so many people deal with on a daily basis.
It wasn't being out in the world that taught me I had to wear a mask to be accepted; it was in the church. It was in the times that I felt forced to act like I was okay with the status quo because the opinion of someone as young as me didn't matter. It was in the times I felt forced to act like my faith was as strong as ever, even when it was faltering, because I was a model church-going teen. When I learned to wear my mask of "I'm always happy" in the outside world, I soon learned to wear it at church too, because too many times the people that didn't want to hear about my life struggles outside of church were the ones I saw when I was inside the church. This is where my allusion to the Casting Crowns song breaks down - the song is hopeful that the need for a mask is imagined, but to me, it's always been a reality.
Lately the mask I wear is that my faith is unchanged though I feel like it's falling apart. Because, let me tell you, the church still has a lot to learn in dealing with people with mental illness. And I'm not even in an environment that tells me that mental illness is a demon or a punishment or a result of my faith being too weak or of my lack of diligence in prayer or scripture study or devotion. Because for the hundreds of sites that support people and churches dealing with those things, not one exists that talks about how my depression has become so overwhelming that my faith no longer brings me hope. You see, my faith isn't falling apart because my beliefs have changed. It just brings me more pain than it does comfort. I tried starting each day with a devotional that I got from a family friend, and I wound up running late those mornings because I would burst into tears and not be able to stop crying. I dreaded starting each day of vacation bible school with a devotion with the other leaders because the one time I actually started paying attention, I nearly fell apart, tears flowing down my face and nearly having a panic attack because I couldn't hold it together; the week's theme was about how God helps us "stand strong," but every time I've tried turning to God for nearly a year I fall apart - at least when I handle things on my own I can function when necessary. It all makes me feel like there must be something wrong with me because everyone who ever speaks about or writes about the relationship between their faith and mental illness says that it gives them hope and strength. Lately when I try turning to my own faith it leaves me just as hopeless as I felt before and in so much pain that I fall apart below a level of functioning. But none of these things are the way they're supposed to be. So I join the stained glass masquerade. But I don't have the strength to keep it up anymore. I avoid attending worship services anymore; most of the time merely entering the building on Sunday morning sends me straight into a panic attack. Most places, I'd hide in the bathroom, but hiding doesn't work to well when there are only two stalls and usually a line of people waiting. There's no escape. No escape from the people who expect me to be the church-loving model Christian that I was growing up. No escape from the people who expect me to pretend like my life is perfect and I'm always happy. No escape from the people who try to show they care by way of advice that makes me feel worse than I already do. So I avoid the place entirely. And, though I've considered the possibility of going somewhere where I'm unknown so that I'm at least going to church on a weekly basis, Minnesotans have this way of finding visitors and wanting to make them feel welcome; I don't want any attention - I just want to disappear. There's a reason I can still function at church when I'm able to do my own thing rather than in situations when my appearance and behavior are supposed to live up to particular expectations. I am calmest and happiest when I can take off the mask. It's just that I don't often get the chance to do that anymore.
To anyone who managed to make it through that whole thing, props to you as it was kind of a jumble of thoughts that have all been a long time in coming; it just took hitting crisis mode for me to be able to actually write any of it down. It's hopefully the tail-end of my latest string of red flags. And partially one of my many mental illness related messages. So what do I hope you take out of it? If you're going to ask how someone is doing, be willing to listen to their full answer whether you want to hear it or not. If someone has the courage to tell you that they're hurting and struggling in life, it means they need someone to support them not someone to tell them to get over it because their negativity is raining on your parade. And to all the Christ-followers out there, in an ideal world, I'd like to think we could actually put an end to the stained-glass masquerade.

Would your arms be open
Or would you walk away
Would the love of Jesus
Be enough to make you stay
~Casting Crowns, "Stained Glass Masquerade"

Where do I go from here?

When I took a 1-year long-term sub position, I knew I was taking a risk. But I never thought about how painful it might be. When I first learned that there would be two positions open in my department, I was ecstatic. Until reality set in: the reality that applying for a permanent position rather than a long-term sub position means competing again much more experienced teachers; the reality that I work in a school that has, historically, hired the top candidate, not the familiar one; the reality that the teachers on the interview team aren't the ones who have in recent months expressed great desire for me to return; the reality that one crappy pop-in observation means that an administrator who used to think I was a great teacher now thinks that my classroom management skills aren't any good. (You know what's not a good time for a bad observation? When you're trying to compete for a job.)
On top of it, I'm exhausted. I'm weeks behind on grading. I had to front-load a lot of my final prep because in one course, half of my students are released for the rest of the school year to work on special projects and in my other course, I wanted my students to do a teaching review (meaning I had to get them tons of review materials a week ago to give them time to prepare the review sessions that started today). I have parents, counselors, and special ed teachers to contact about students who are in danger of failing. And because my future at school is uncertain due to my long-term sub status, I'm attempting to squeeze in some time to apply elsewhere, but I'm so focused on trying to get work done for my current job that I can't manage to find time to take care of my own future. And already working in a school where I'm also competing to have a job next year means that I feel like I'm constantly in the spotlight and any misstep could cost me the opportunity to work there again next year. The only reason I'm managing to get even 4 hours of sleep a night is due to me falling asleep while trying to complete work. And on top of it all, I just completed week 5 of my 6-week wait since last seeing my counselor due to circumstances beyond my control in a 5-week time span that I could have used a counseling appointment about once a week. The pressure, stress, workload, lack of sleep, and uncertainty about my future have left me drowning. All I can think about is finding some way to survive.
And I'm starting to wonder if I should actually be a teacher. Up until this year, it was always a question of what type of teacher I should be - math or music. People always ask me all the time which one I like better; quite frankly, my response is entirely dependent on who I'm talking to. To the music people, I always answer "music" without skipping a beat; that's where my greater passion and joy lie. To the math people, I say that I enjoy both for fear of losing the opportunity of actually having a job with the many more music positions than math positions that are available. The truth? I think I'm more cut out to be a math teacher - I fit the mold better. But I love teaching a lot more when I'm teaching music. There are more math jobs out there, and it doesn't always require networking to get one. Music jobs are few, and you have to network to get one. I stink at networking with music people; reason 1: my social anxiety and introversion make it difficult for me to randomly introduce myself to random people at conventions, and I didn't have the advantage that many of my peers did of having a high school music teacher who took me under their wing and introduced me to all sorts of people; reason 2: I kind of rebel against the music mold (though my philosophy of teaching music does tend to align more with the teachers I've worked with than it does my peers, the majority of whom are music snobs who refuse to recognize even Broadway musicals as real music). So I feel like I should just give up on my dream of teaching music and resign myself to teaching math. I still enjoy the teaching aspect, but I forsee burning out. Initially, I thought I'd burn out in 3-5 years. I never thought it would be 1. I just can't take the pressure.
Plenty of people have told me I'm a great teacher. But none of them are the people whose opinions matter at the moment (and I should clarify that by "matter" I mean "determine my future"). I've had plenty of family and adults who are friends tell me that I'm a great teacher, but few of them have ever worked in schools, much less been teachers, themselves. I've had some education major peers tell me that they'd want me to be their kids' teacher (one of the greatest compliments a teacher ever bestows on another teacher), but who are we to know anything as young teachers anyway? In recent weeks I've had some of my most critical students tell me that I'm a great teacher (to the point that one who didn't like me when the year started was trying to convince me to teach the math class that she's taking next year so that she can have me again), but I'm pretty sure that the powers that be aren't taking student opinion into consideration. I've had mentors and supervisors through the teacher training process and even colleagues now who tell me that I'm a fantastic teacher, but none of them have the power to make the final decision now. The people making the decision include an administrator who I think has lost faith in me due to a non-stellar observation last week, a teacher in my department who I barely know, a teacher in my department who is super analytical and critical of everything and everyone, and a teacher who I may have made the mistake of sharing my every weakness with this year because they felt like someone safe to confide in.
On top of it all, I feel isolated. All year, I've reached out to my department for help, but as long as I'm competing for a job, I feel uncomfortable (though I'll feel even more uncomfortable if I don't get re-hired). I don't know how to reach out to my new teacher peers because, even though according to more experience teachers the first year (or few years) of suck, I seem to be the only person I know who's in their first year of teaching and feels that way. And I don't know how to reach out to the teachers that have been mentors to me over the years because I'm so afraid of them finding me to be a bother and a burden. And reaching out to anyone who isn't a teacher doesn't help at all because no one understands what it's like to work in the educational system unless they've been in it themselves.
Here's the deal: I love my kids. I love getting to work with them day in and day out. Even though they sometimes drive me crazy, they are fabulous people, and I love the time that I get to spend with them. Students are what make teaching worthwhile. And if my job consisted of the time I spend with my kids and the work I do planning and grading, I would be fine. But my job requires so much more than that. And as someone with increasingly out-of-control social anxiety, I feel constantly watched and criticized by all of the adults I work with, be they teachers, administrators, support staff, counselors, parents. etc. I feel like everyone around me is watching me and judging me constantly, and that even the tiniest misstep will cost me my livelihood.
All I've wanted to do for the last decade is be a teacher. Before that, I wanted to be a veterinarian; but seeing as I can't handle fictional dogs getting hurt without bawling, I don't think I could handle the emotional toll of working with animals who were sick, injured, or dying. I once considered being a youth director, but my stomach still turns when I think about all of the unethical things that happen behind closed doors at churches; my faith can't withstand working at a church. And I've considered becoming a writer, but I don't think I can take the rejection of publishers and editors any better than I can take the pressure of teaching.
I love my kids. I love working with kids. They're refreshing and hopeful. They bring more joy to my life than I can ever imagine being able to give them in return.
But I'm cracking under pressure. I'm drowning in obligations. I'm in pure survival mode going into the last two weeks of the school year. And when it's all I can do to stay afloat just enough to gasp for breath every once in a while, people are still telling me that I'm not good enough and I need to improve by the end of the school year. And for every person who tells me that I don't have to be a super-teacher, there's another person asking me to do more and do it faster. And some days I just want to scream back that I have no life outside of school, no time to do what I want to do, I'm getting under 4 hours of sleep most nights, what the heck more do you want from me? I'm only human. And on those days, I just want to quit.
But I don't want to be anything else but a teacher. So even when I want to quit, I'm left with the question: Where would I go from here?

On a side note: If you had "Where Do We Go From Here" from "Once More with Feeling" running through your head at any point in this blog post, we should probably become best friends.

Rejection

I don't deal well with rejection, in any situation. I'm not sure when it started, but it's been there as long as I can remember. It's the reason that I'm horrible at fundraising and could never be a salesperson. It's the reason I never ask for help. It's the reason I'd rather sit isolated from a new group than join in before a direct invitation. And I think it's half the reason that the job search process is especially tough for me.
Finding a job is stressful for most anyone. No job means no money means no food/home/anything in our world. But I'm so afraid of being rejected, it's difficult for me to face the whole process. I can mostly handle the application portion - it's the interview and beyond that are harder. The actual rejection conversation is what's most difficult for me - having to face someone who says that I'm not good enough.
It doesn't help that I have such low self-confidence that at least 90% of my self-worth is based entirely on what other people think of me - which is why any negative comment that anyone makes about me tends to send me into a downward spiral for minimally the rest of the day, if not longer. And any rejection sends me the message that I'm not good enough, which in my brain means I'm not worthwhile at all.
My current application/interview process feels worse than any possible rejection I've ever faced before. I'm in the strange position of having worked somewhere for a year and needing to now apply, interview, and compete to have a position again next year. This year I'm a long-term sub, so even though there are two positions open in my department, I have no guarantee of getting one because I'm not currently in a permanent position. The whole possibility of not having a job 3 weeks from now is scary enough. But the level of rejection that would come with that reality is sending my anxiety and depression through the roof.
I've spent the last 8 months working along side the people who will be making the decision about who gets the two open positions. And depending on when a final decision is made, I may still have a couple of weeks working with them before the school year is over. And if I don't get the position, I don't know how I'm going to make it through the rest of the school year. And it's not because I would be super angry or because I feel entitled to the position. It's because I fear the rejection I know I'll feel. I fear the awkwardness of, after a year of others telling me that I'm doing well and that they hope there'll be a place for me next year, it turns out that I'm not good enough, that I'm not wanted. I don't know how I'll face people the rest of the school year. I don't know how I'll trust new people again in my life. (Have I ever mentioned that I already have massive trust issues? Because I definitely do. And I tend to assume the worst of people as a defense mechanism to keep from getting hurt unexpectedly.) And thanks to my badly-wired brain, I can't manage to move past these fears.
It doesn't help that I've faced rejection after a year or two of positive relationships too many times in my life. In elementary school, I wasn't in the same class as my good friends from 2nd through 6th grades. Each of those years I tried to make new friends with people who were in my classes. We would do projects together, have play dates and sleepovers, and by the end of the year it seemed like we were pretty good friends. But when the following school year started, it all disappeared; even when we were in the same class, they would replace me with someone else. Thanks to my junior high years, I was finally able to build a core group of friends who I had some classes with, but in high school I was met with one-year friendships all over again. With the exception of a handful of people, my college friendships were the same way. Even in my three summers working at camp, where I was told I would make deep, lifelong friendships, I'm not even in occasional contact with the people I considered my closest friends during those summers. I've been discarded after a single year so many times - I don't know that I can face it again. I don't know that I can face the rejection.
So now I have a job interview that's less than a week away, and I should be elated that after a year as a long-term sub, I have the opportunity to at least compete to get my position back next year. But I find myself so crippled by the fear of rejection that I just want it to be over. I want to skip to the time when I know whether I get to come back next year. Or if I don't get to come back, I'd like to skip to the end of the school year. I just want to skip to a time when I can start moving past this fear of rejection.

In Honor of National Children's Mental Health Awareness Day

This evening I learned that today is National Children's Health Awareness Day. I didn't even know that such a thing existed - but I'm glad it does. Because there shouldn't have to be any more kids like me.
I'm fairly confident that I've had social anxiety since at least the time I was in 2nd grade. That year I learned that I grew a pit in my stomach every time my teacher reprimanded anyone in the class. That was also the first time I struggled to find friends at school; I mean, I had friends, but none of them were in my class, and for whatever reason I was unable to make new, lasting friendships with my classmates - this issue persisted throughout my time in elementary school. By the end of the year, I would make "friends" - but none of them stuck around if we weren't in the same class the following year. But that particular year, I had a good teacher who I think was probably instrumental in the fact that I wound up spending some time with the school counselor in a "friendship club" with some other girls in my class who happened to be new to the school that year - I never realized that such a thing may have had something to do with my mental health until my new counselor asked me if I had ever been in a group like that.
But beyond that first year, things took a general turn for the worse. My fear of authority figures was solidified in my third grade teacher who had little tolerance for my personality; between her and my rocky neighborhood friendships, I spent many a Monday intentionally giving myself a stomachache by swallowing as much air as possible until I complained of feeling sick enough that my mom would let me stay home. This ended when my parents brought me to the doctor for my persistent stomach aches; I figured I was in trouble, so I stopped using that technique to get out of going to school.
In future years, I had better teachers who at least allowed me to feel safe in school, but school was still an anxiety-causing environment. I loved learning but wanted little to do with my classmates. Each time that I struggled to fit in and find friends, I became more anxious in social situations. And even in elementary school, I remember dropping an extracurricular project because I feared the portion that required me to talk to strangers (people working at stores).
Life got better when I hit junior high - unlike most people, I count junior high as the best three years of my childhood. What made the difference? I was in honors classes surrounded by other smart kids who, because they were like me, didn't ridicule me for my academic excellence or for every time I was anything less than perfect. Additionally, I found my niche in the weekly before-school Bible study that consisted primarily of people who I already counted as friends; we shared our faith with each other, and, unlike my peers at my own church, these people thought it was cool to have strong faiths and be super-involved in church activities.
But when I hit high school, my mental health took a severe turn for the worse. I spent my sophomore year beginning 4 of 5 school days each week in a hostile classroom environment led by a teacher who put down everything that I believed in. I spent at least 2-3 days each week in tears. Junior year had a chance at being better until my choir director committed suicide and, though I wasn't one of the inner circle choir kids, a part of my world fell apart. Except I felt like I didn't have the right to feel so broken about it because I wasn't one of the inner-circle choir kids. At about the same time I discovered the great corruption that lay in the inner workings of my church, and the one stable part of my life fell apart as well. It was around this time that my mom figured out that I had mental health issues, but I was in denial and rejected any help that she tried to bring me. I figured I was just over-sensitive and prone to crying a lot. But the kicker to me is the fact that no one else seemed to notice.
I feel like someone else should have known by this point that my mental health was not okay. I cried through the same classes so many times, shouldn't at least one of my teachers noticed and done something? Not that they would have known how to help, but at the very least couldn't one of them have contacted my counselor about meeting with me. (Given, my counselor canceled every appointment my parents tried to set up for me, so maybe that's where the blame lies...) But no one ever reached out enough to help me. Only twice did teachers ever pull me aside to chat about what was going on (and I'm pretty sure one of those was only because he thought his reprimand was the sole reason I was crying...) I do have confidence that one other teacher may have reached out to me, but by pure chance the only day I ever cried through her class was a day that she happened to be gone.
Yet at the same time, I think that the social anxiety came long before the depression - may have even led to the depression (as my depression symptoms have often been triggered by embarrassment and/or criticism). And, beyond my many intentional sick days in 3rd grade, I internalized the anxiety I was feeling. By the time I hit high school and symptoms of depression began to show, my brain was already greatly set in its ways.

I wish someone had noticed earlier.

We don't think of children as people who would live with mental illness. Mental illness doesn't seem to hit the radar until people hit adolescence or adulthood. But I was 7 years old the first time that I experienced consistent anxiety in social situations. But I don't think anyone thought to look for it - even knew that it could be an issue for me at such a young age.
And as I got older, I was so highly functional that I don't think anyone realized how bad my mental health issues were. I was a quiet, non-disruptive child who didn't need a lot of attention. Academically, I was a top student - excelling through elementary school, earning a single non-A (A-) in junior high, pulling a 3.9 unweighted GPA through high school and a 3.94 through 5 years of college and a double education major that included two semesters of credit overloads. But what I don't think people realized was that schoolwork was my coping mechanism. As long as I had homework to do, I could ignore the rest of my problems - the conflicts with people and fear that anyone might see me as something less than perfect that caused me such great anxiety could be stuffed away as long as I had homework to keep my mind busy. I was rarely absent, and only fell from functional when homework and anxiety-causing situations were too intertwined for me to compartmentalize them. Even my on-campus counselor praised how functional I was. But that didn't make my issues any better. It just pushed them away for me to deal with when I lost my schoolwork coping mechanism.
Hello first year of teaching. Though I still have schoolwork to do every night, I now feel that all eyes are on my every move. My work affects more than just me now, and the possible judgement that could come at any moment from my administrators, colleagues, parents, and even students scares the crap out of me. And my newest coping mechanism is to get lost in the stories of TV shows and movies, which takes away from my work time, causing me to stay up later, get less sleep, and therefore be even more prone to awful bouts of anxiety and depression. A few weeks ago, I made it to school only to leave again because I realized I couldn't be a functional teacher that day. There are some days I don't know how I make it from my van to the school building in the morning. Other days I dash into my office between classes to have a panic attack, a couple of times even needing to have a colleague cover my class until I could settle enough to be a functional teacher.
I'm finally to a point where I'm working through my anxiety and depression with a counselor and am working to retrain my brain to act like a normal person's. But I've spent over 15 years of my life falling into my current habits, and habits of over 15 years are tough to break.

I wish someone had noticed earlier.

I don't want there to be more kids like me. I want to live in a world where we detect and treat mental illness early. Because having to start dealing with mental health issues as an adult after the issues have persisted for the majority of one's life is a steep task - and it's preventable.
I do the best I can on my own. As a teacher, the students that I know struggle with mental health issues are especially close to my heart, and I keep special watch over them. And while I know that I can't expect myself to catch everything, I know that if a kid showed up in my classroom in tears 2-3 days a week, I'd at least contact their counselor. But, unfortunately, I've found that more often than not the people who are working to be aware that other people in their lives might be dealing with mental illness are the ones who are dealing with mental illness themselves. My mom was the one who saw my depression - and she struggles with depression herself. My greatest mentor was the one who worried that my perfectionism, the pressure I put on myself, and my tendency to take on more than I could handle would lead me to have anxiety issues - only after she was diagnosed with anxiety herself. And the people who have most often offered support for me as I work through my anxiety and depression are people who struggle with mental illness themselves. The people who haven't dealt with mental illness haven't always been as supportive. When I finally realized I should be evaluated for depression, one of my friends tried to convince me that I didn't have depression. When I was struggling with anxiety, some of my Christian friends were certain that the anxiety would disappear if I read my Bible and prayed more. And it took even until recent months for me to get my dad to understand how much anxiety I have over seemingly easy everyday tasks like calling to make a doctor's appointment or asking a store employee where I can find something. Even when talking about mental health in my education classes, many of my classmates stated that they wouldn't take much action with a sullen withdrawn student who's not a classroom management issue, even though the student in the scenario seemed to have symptoms of depression. From what I've seen - if you haven't dealt with mental health issues, they're either off your radar or you have to work extremely hard to understand them.
I want the world to be more aware of mental health issues (and to stop judging and stereotyping people with mental health issues, but I'll save that topic for another day). But even more so, I want to world to be aware of children who have mental health issues. Because it's easier to retrain a 7-year-old brain than an almost-24-year-old brain. And I don't want any child to have to go through what I have.

The Most Amazing (But Evil) Job Application Question Ever

While working on job applications today, I came across this question:

If you were to be stranded on a deserted island and could take one book, one CD (music) and one movie (this is an upscale deserted island), what would they be, and briefly explain why? What is the one thing you couldn't live without?

My first reaction: "Do they want the real answer or the teacher answer?" Upon encouragement from my lovely roommate, I decided to give them the real answer. So this was my response:

The one book I would bring with me is my Bible because it is my pathway for life. It also brings me encouragement when I'm down, makes me feel less alone, and reminds me that there is something good out there. These are all things that would be help to keep me positive while I'm stuck on a deserted island.
The one CD I would bring is the soundtrack of "Once More with Feeling," from the musical episode of the television series Buffy the Vampire Slayer, which is my all time favorite television show. As someone who enjoys singing, it is a CD that I have yet to ever grow tired of singing along to at the top of my lungs. In addition, as I am on a deserted island, I feel that I would finally have the time to sit and continue to discover and analyze the musical nuances that bring greater meaning to the story being told.
The one movie that I would bring with me is Homeward Bound. This movie has always been near and dear to my heart as my first dog's name was Shadow, the same as one of the main characters (also a dog). The movie also reminds me of my family of which my dogs have always been an important part because I'm an only child. I feel that the characters, then, could act as my surrogate family while I'm stuck on the deserted island.
The one thing I couldn't live without is my dog, Peter. He is my protector, playmate, and companion. Furthermore, after graduating from college, I vowed never to live without a dog again, and I refuse to let the deserted island get in the way of that.

 I figure, if they really want to know me, I may as well be honest. Also, because of how "seriously" I took the "deserted island" concept, my biggest worry at the moment is that they'll bring me in for an interview and then ask "why aren't you as funny in person as you are on paper?" Because, seriously, I'm not a funny person; I credit this to the weather...

Now an Adult "Encountering Christ" - and Being Pulled Down the Mountain

I was a 9th grader when I first became involved in an amazing ministry called "Teens Encounter Christ," usually abbreviated as TEC (pronounced like "tech"). For anyone unfamiliar, TEC consists of a few weekend retreats each year that serve as an in-depth faith experience packed into a single weekend. First-time youth participants are considered weekenders who "go through" the weekend as they experience everything for the first time. After going through as a weekender (or if participating as an adult), you can work as a part of the team that puts together and serves on the weekend. (If you want further details, feel free to contact me or go to the website for the Minnesota Metro Lutheran TEC that I have participated in - there are different TEC organizations all across the country).
My parents had been involved in the adult version for years, and I knew many older youth who had gone through a TEC weekend, so going through TEC was something I looked forward to for years. Going through as a weekender was one of the most amazing experiences of my life; I still pinpoint that weekend as the cause for my strong faith and great church involvement in my high school years. Through the weekends I worked on team over the years, I not only continued to strengthen my own faith through service and leadership but I gained three of the best friends I've ever had and developed great relationships with adults who have continually supported me through all my ups and downs for nearly a decade.
Almost 9 years after first going through TEC as a 9th grader, I just finished my second weekend working as an official "adult" team member, which has in many ways been very different from being a youth, but still much the same. The structure is essentially the same, many adult faces are the same, and a couple of TEC weekends in again (after my 4.5-year college hiatus), many youth faces are familiar as well. But some things change when you move to an adult role. For one, adults don't question me when I do something to I take care of myself (whereas, at least in my day, youth were generally assumed to be avoiding work); as a result, I am proud to say that this is the first TEC that I haven't had any major depression or anxiety issues either over the weekend or in the 24 hours after leaving. But the most amazing experience of being in an adult role is to watch some of "my" youth go through. For the first time that I'm aware of, two youth from my home church went through the same weekend (only ever one or two at a time before). Two of these are youth that I've gotten to know fairly well in the past year as I've returned from college and been more involved in youth activities at my home church, including being the sole leader of my church's youth group this school year. These two are youth that I care deeply about and who I've hoped to share the TEC experience of "encountering Christ" for a number of years now (in other words, I've been looking forward to having them go through TEC since long before they were ever old enough to go through TEC...) While both were initially hesitant, even upon arrival, they integrated into the experience of the weekend quickly. Furthermore, I was able to watch as they experienced God's love in new and deeper ways over the course of the weekend to a point that it brought me to tears more than once out of happiness for them. For possibly the first time on a TEC weekend, I truly encountered Christ by seeing others encounter Him, and I am still left amazed.
But as an adult, I fall off the mountaintop faster. It's back to work and stress and being pulled a million directions at once. And it's living in a world where all anyone ever seems to want to discuss is politics and how some aspect of religion is going to ruin the world. You see, tonight was the first time I spent a significant amount of time on Facebook since last Wednesday because I was either prepping for TEC, or I was actually at TEC where there is a strict no-technology policy (as there should be). Within a half-hour I had already run across two different groups of people attacking my faith (well, not mine personally, just beliefs that I align myself with). The first came from the secular world attacking anyone who would hold religious beliefs that would disagree with their own. The second came from Christian traditionalists who believe that people who express their beliefs in the way that I usually do will be responsible for tearing down Christianity. And here's the thing: I consider myself to be a faithful person and in my heart will forever stand by a set of beliefs that align with my faith; however, I am neither a liberal Christian nor a traditionalist Christian, leaving me almost no room to fit in, a concept that I have struggled with for the entirety of my young adult life. Being surrounded by extremely liberal peers for my college career, I have rarely been willing to discuss politics or religion with even my closest friends because my experience has been that if I say what I think about such things, I will be deemed among the most horrible people on the planet. If I have learned anything since I began high school, it is that to stand up for what I believe and give my faith as the reason for those beliefs means that I will be endlessly attacked as an ignorant, narrow-minded bigot who doesn't deserve to live. One, almost no one actually enjoys willing to walk into that situation. Two, my social anxiety dictates that to walk into that situation is to have a panic attack or two, and my depression dictates that for the following days and/or weeks I will feel super depressed because in my head I have no friends and will never fit in anywhere. So I am silent; somewhere along the line I lost my voice.
And suddenly I want nothing more than to once again be that 9th grade girl after experiencing her own TEC weekend. Back when I didn't care what anyone thought and my faith was readily apparent in all that I did. The day after my TEC weekend I showed up wearing all of my TEC stuff (including something no longer used called a "warm fuzzy" that was basically a bunch of yarn that you wore around your neck). And I didn't care. All I wanted to do was share my experience with others. You see, I had a strange junior high experience; those were probably the best 3 consecutive years of my educational career, and they were highlighted by high self-esteem, high self-confidence, and a complete lack of care about what absolutely anyone thought about me. I had a solid group of friends, and we agreed on all of the important stuff, and that was all the acceptance I needed in life. I was a full-blown "Jesus Freak" and it was apparent in every aspect of my life (Seriously, I think I found a way to weave my faith into nearly every English writing assignment I had in junior high...) And I want nothing more to be that girl again.
These days, particularly as an adult, it's not socially acceptable to identify as Christian. It becomes even harder working in the extremely secular world of teaching where even mentioning my involvement in church to students is frowned upon. (Side note: I love what I do; working with high school students is a blast. But working on this last TEC weekend brought me more meaning and fulfillment than my job does. But don't tell me that I should go work in a church - I learned a while back that being in the midst of the inner workings of a church does serious damage to my own faith, and I'm not willing to make that sacrifice.) I spent half of this last TEC weekend thinking about students I have who I know are very involved in their own churches and who would absolutely LOVE TEC, but I'm not even allowed to tell them that it exists (which is the most depressing thing ever). Because of societal restrictions, both official and unofficial, combined with my own social anxiety, I have drifted to a place where I have lost part of my identity. And I want it back.
This weekend was the first time I realized that second part: I want it back. Becoming an adult has been a balancing act of learning how to live in the world and not of the world, and young adult me has come to accept things that 9th grade me would be appalled at, and some of those things are okay. Others I think I'm ready to shed as a part of being "Jesus with skin on," as some say. I've avoided labeling myself as "just a Christian" because of the negative responses people have to that. But suddenly I'm coming to realize: isn't it our purpose in life to be seen as just that, or even more so, for people to look and see just Christ? And I'm beginning to realize: that's who I want to be. It's going to take some work on my end, particularly through the social anxiety challenges that I already face. But I've finally found a good counselor again, and now that I don't have to be in crisis-management mode like I was with my college counselor, I'm slowly but surely making good progress and finding new, more constructive, coping mechanisms that I think will be helpful in the long run.
So as the world around me keeps trying to pull me off the mountaintop of my weekend, I'm using every ounce of strength to cling to the mountain, not as a means of staying up there and avoiding the real world, but as a means of holding onto the strength that it gave me so that when I'm in the real world I can be the person who I want to be and was made to be when the world tries to pull me in the opposite direction.

Anxieties

I've talked about dealing with anxiety issues for 3-4 years now - first ever panic attack was somewhere around this time of year during my junior year of college. But looking back, it's been an underlying issue for years. It's really about anxiety in social situations. I can't handle people seeing me as anything less than perfect. And by people, I mean anyone who is my peer or above. (This is why teaching is great for me - the people I spend most of my day with are younger than me; therefore, their opinions, for whatever reason, feel much less threatening.) Any little thing that I do wrong leaves me feeling incredibly embarrassed. And this isn't just mild blushing and sheepishness. My head burns, I get intensely nauseous, I feel worthless, and these feelings all haunt me for hours, days, weeks, months, and years after the incident. (As in memories of a time that I got embarrassed for getting in trouble for something little when I was 3 years old can still tie my stomach in tight knots, burn my face with embarrassment, and take away my appetite for the rest of the day)

And the worst part? I'm well aware that most of my anxiety is entirely irrational. There's no way that everyone in earshot is staring at me and thinking that my shoes are dumb as they squeak when I walk down the hall. But that's what I feel like (and is the reason I'm glad that I finally found new tennis shoes after 3 years of squeaky ones that made me feel incredibly self-conscious). There are myriads of things that normal people do all the time that I avoid or can hardly bear due to feeling anxious and self-conscious:

• I struggle to walk into a room full of strangers and/or acquaintances by myself. On our last professional development day when student council was holding a pancake breakfast for all of the teachers, I tried to walk into the cafeteria on my own. I tensed up so much and was breathing so shallowly that I chose to turn around and walk right back out. I skipped breakfast altogether that day and felt more comfortable awkwardly sitting in the empty room where we were meeting later because at least there I could blend into the furniture unseen rather than be the one walking around where everyone could see me and know that I didn't really belong anywhere.
• At stores, I use the self checkout because I feel so uncomfortable talking with cashiers. And I'd rather keep something broken or spoiled or that I don't want/need rather than dealing with returning it; I fear any possible conflict that might arise and cause the person at the store to think I'm stupid.
• I feel claustrophobic in crowds of people. Being in the middle of a crowd makes me physically tense up.
• I can never say what I think. Sometimes not even with my closest friends and family. To share my opinion risks having the other person think I'm wrong and therefore stupid, prejudicial, old-fashioned, etc. With friends this becomes even harder because in my head I am convinced that if I disagree with someone, they will no longer want to be friends with me
• I can't take constructive criticism. At all. To the point that I now burst into tears as soon as the person is not around. Because it means that they know that I'm a failure (which I'm already self-critical enough to know - but it's mortifying for other people to know what feels like my deepest, darkest secret - that I'm not perfect) I can't even take random minor criticism - like the time it was mentioned in passing in an email that I had made a minor mistake on something at school and proceeded to have to have a teacher on prep have to take my class for 20-30 minutes while I worked through a panic attack.
• I can't make phone calls. Like really can't. I'd rather do things the hard way than get help via a phone help line. Calling people makes me feel nauseous. I use electronic communication whenever possible. Because in writing I can edit and edit and edit what I'm saying and I can avoid getting an immediate response (and therefore pretend for a while that the communication doesn't exist). I love automated phone services. I pray to get the machine whenever I make a phone call - and will call people at times I know that no one will answer in order to avoid having to have a conversation with a human being. As I've struggled with depression and anxiety issues over the last 4 years, plenty of people have given me their number and told me to call them if I need someone to talk to - but I've never called them for fear of being a nuisance, of my perceived need seeming dumb, or of losing a trusted friend or mentor when they realize that I'm something less than perfect. (P.S. When it came to finally scheduling appointments with a new counselor and a new doctor, making phone calls made me so anxious that I avoided it for months until my mom decided to make the appointments for me.)
• I fear authority figures. Because they have power over me. And when they realize that I'm not perfect, they have the power to make decisions that could negatively affect the major areas of my life (e.x. grades, job, etc.) I generally avoid any contact with people who can make decisions about my life that I feel powerless over.
• I can't take the time to take care of myself. As in, I will sacrifice my own well-being to do basically anything that other people think I should do. This ends in things like staying 2 hours after school with students and then averaging 3-4 hours of sleep a night during the week so that I can be the perfect super-teacher that I feel everyone expects me to be (they say that they don't, but let's be serious - a super-teacher is what they really expect). I also fear that if I take any time to take care of myself, I will be labeled as selfish and then be judged as such.
• I can't be around other people when I'm not emotionally put together. That one has brought on many a panic attack. I used to not care who saw me cry. Then I lost nearly all of my "friends" during the portions of college where my depression was worst and at some point in my head I credited it to the fact that no one wants to be around a person who can't at least fake being happy 100% of the time. So now I'm down to fewer 10 people that I won't literally run away from if crying or having a panic attack (seriously - I once locked myself in a bathroom at a family reunion because I couldn't handle being around anyone there when I started having a panic attack).
• I can't break rules. Not even the little ones that everyone breaks. Because I might get in trouble. And then have to deal with an authority figure (who, by definition, is a scary person) who will clearly think I'm stupid and then make some sort of decision that could seriously affect the rest of my life.
• I fear any little thing that might call attention to me and make me seem like a nuisance. Like my old squeaky tennis shoes. Or sneezing (it took me until the last year or two to not hold in a sneeze - and I still try to hold it in during meetings or at performances for fear that I might bother someone else by sneezing)
• Did I mention that all of these things are entirely irrational? Because I'm well aware of that. Which makes me feel even more stupid and imperfect. Which only heightens my need to hide these truths from the world because I fear that the world might find out that I'm stupid and imperfect.

Avoidance is my coping mechanism. I avoid social gatherings and meetings whenever possible; when I have to go, I spend most of my time trying to be invisible - because if no one realizes I'm there, they can't judge me for all of my imperfections. I avoid conflict at all costs. I avoid having any communication with strangers. I avoid authority figures. I avoid being the center of attention. I avoid speaking up in most any conversation. I avoid being seen, heard, or noticed. Because being invisible is better than being seen for all of the imperfections that I am.
And in some ways, being a teacher only makes it harder. Society holds teachers to a higher level of standards than it does most people. So anything I do that might bring judgement down upon a normal person will bring at least twice the amount of judgement upon me - because I'm supposed to be better than most people.
And for the record, there's still stigma about mental illness. I think that it's getting to be more acceptable to be a high school or college student who has mental health issues. But I feel that as an adult, particularly an adult who works with kids, I'm supposed to have a handle on everything, particularly my mental health. It feels like somehow if people know that I have mental health issues, they'll determine that it makes me unfit to be a teachers and to work with teens. It took me a month to tell anyone at school about my anxiety. Two months after that to tell anyone in my department - and that was only because they witnessed me having a panic attack in my office before school one morning. And many in my department still don't know. Quite frankly, if I had never had a panic attack at school, the only person there who would know about my anxiety would be the one who's known me since before I worked there and worried about my mental health years before I ever did. And of the people who have found out more recently, there's only one that I actually feel comfortable talking to about it. And the fact that there's still stigma in mental illness doesn't make things any easier for someone whose brain has already got her convinced that the entire world is already judging her for the rest of her imperfections.
I am finally seeing a new counselor. And I'm going to be working through some things. But something in me wanted to find a way to share with the world what it's like to live a life less than normal. To understand the fact that things that most people take for granted as being easy every day are things that are ridiculously difficult for me to do. And you can't see the difficulty - it's all inside my head, for one; plus I'm getting better and better at hiding it. But here's the thing - I know I've got a long and difficult path ahead of me while I'm working through this. And I want people to know that it's not easy. And I'm not always going to be okay as I'm working through things. But I am working through things - and I'd like to think that that's the part that matters.