The Shunning

So, the past 6 months have been what I think of as a shunning for me.  I know it was unintentional.  I know my colleagues were all buried under a ridiculous workload designed to keep them from having a chance to even stop and think "Hey, these tasks and meetings seem pretty stupid and pointless."  I know people had no idea of what happened and were therefore unsure of what to say to me.  

And ultimately, the lack of contact with colleagues protected them from having to answer any awkward questions they may have been asked about my absence. As far as Mrs. Frills knew, only two people knew the whole truth of what happened to Goldie. 

Also, all the time I was not at work, I was not having a luxurious vacation from life.  I was going to appointments with doctors therapists and attorneys.  I was tracking down information to do what I needed to do to protect my family's best interests, since no one seemed to know anything about what I should do in this situation. I had very few days to indulge my own need for rest and escape.  So don't be thinking it has been a picnic!

Which brings me to an important point I need to make:  I am not telling my story to harm Mrs. Frills.  I am simply telling the truth of what happened. No other protection is available to my reputation to demonstrate that I have not committed some horrendous act, forcing me to leave.  

Therefore, I will tell the truth so that I can move on.  Mrs. Frills probably wishes I would keep my mouth shut and go away, but I can't do that.  If I did that, Mrs. Frills would be totally free to continue to harm others in a similar fashion.  

The good thing about this unintentional shunning, was I rediscovered some old friends, had opportunities to reconnect with some great people, and have begun to make some new friends as well.  I miss my work friends, but I know it can never be the same.  I also know that no one wants to be the next "target" by associating with me.

I understand, and it's ok.  

Aftermath and the stunning conclusion

Fast forward to the next morning, Friday, January 18, 2013.  Mrs. Frills called me, with feigned concern, of course, and told me that she had sent to my email a copy of the letter she was sending to my doctor. Great.  

The letter basically painted a picture of half-truths about me and my job performance, then went on to state that I was considered a threat to myself and others.  In addition, Mrs. Frills demanded my complete medical history, blah, blah, blah.  

So these demands led to over $10,000 in medical tests and doctor, psychiatrist and counseling visits. All over a 6-month period.  Which is where the diabetes diagnosis came in, which all of my care providers concur were likely a major factor in my anxiety. 

But now we have a new problem:  Post-traumatic stress disorder. Caused by the incident?  I say yes.  Is there anything I can do about it?  Pretty much not. Thanks, Mrs. Frills. You are freaking awesome!  

And, that, my dear readers, is how I am retired.  

. . . . well! The plot thickens.

Less than 2 minutes after the mysterious verbal flogging of my students by Mrs. Frills, a paraprofessional appeared in my classroom as if by magic.  She sympathetically told me to go take a break.  But not so fast - Mrs. Frills reappeared in my classroom and said loudly in front of everyone present "you need to go home or get yourself together or something, this is ridiculous !"

Well, I may have been in the middle of a panic attack, but somehow I still managed to feel an evil presence as these words were said.  And in the same split second, despite being upset, something told me to run like hell.  I didn't need to be told twice. As I stepped over the imaginary threshold that every classroom seems to have, I knew I would never teach again.  And I was surprisingly relieved.  But still hysterical.  

A few moments later, Mrs. Frills left my classroom, and walked past me, obviously pretending I was not there.  

I made my way to the women's staff restroom where a few minutes later, another second grade teacher, who also happens to be a good friend, but incidentally is also a guy, and also happens to be the union president, showed up to talk to me.  Of course, he had no idea that I was not nearly such a mess until my students and I were verbally attacked.  So he naturally gets the idea that I really have gone off the deep end.  

I urge him to go back to his classroom, not knowing who is supervising his room. He assures me it is ok, Mrs. Frills graciously offered to cover his class so that he could come talk to me.  

Ah, now it made sense.  Mrs. Frills could relieve him to clean up the secret mess she made of me, but could not be bothered to concern herself with whatever had really happened to me before the evil set in.  Ok. I get it. This good friend was specially selected so that the union would be well aware of what a nutcase I apparently was. For the record, it is claimed that Mrs. Frills did not know I was in the women's restroom.  But seriously, where do the hysterical women teachers usually end up??

My friend advises me to go to Mrs. Frills' office to debrief or whatever. I do that and am interrogated about my medical history, medications, as well as being verbally chastised repetitively.  Mrs. Frills told me to go home and not come back for a week and to bring medical documentation back with me.  She reassured me that since parent-teacher conferences were scheduled for that evening that someone would call my parents to cancel mine. 

So I went to my classroom, packed up as much as I could carry and was out the door in 10 minutes. . . . 

(To be continued again)

Well, well, well . . .

It's taken many, many years, but I think I've finally found the focus of my writing.  Turns out this little disorganized blog was not nearly as random as I first believed in the beginning.  Tidbits of truth. The word "truth" being the emphasis. The truth of what I have experienced and what I think about it. Genius! It was so obvious, I just couldn't even pick it out. If it had been a snake, it woulda bit me.  I hate snakes.

So, now that I am unexpectedly semi-officially "retired," I am hoping I may eventually have a little time to kill.   People who know my identity may be thinking "WHAT??? You're only 42. You can't just retire.  How so??"

Here is "how so":  I had the job I had always dreamed about, even as a little naive kid:  teaching other little naive kids.  It was a blast.  So much so, that I did it for 21 years.  Half of my life.  Never thought about doing anything else.  I don't really know how to do anything else.

Then, things started changing.  More and more job duties were being added.  As a teacher, I was kept busier and busier with all sorts of ridiculous new tasks that never seemed to involve actual teaching.  At the same time, my 42-year old body developed diabetes, except I did not know that.  I just kept working and working, trying to keep up with the insane marathon pace set by my employer.

I began having trouble with normal mental tasks, like thinking of words and even difficulty putting sentences together at times.  Anxiety began to set in, although mostly outside of my job and in crowded places.  I had no idea what was going on. I don't know about other people, but my body is not equipped with any sort of "check engine" sensor.

Anywhoo, I struggled through.  My doctor thought I was ADD for awhile.  Finally, in early January of 2013, I knew there was more.  Figured I was crazy and might as well face the institutionalization that I had convinced myself was coming.  Went back to the doctor, and she began trying to find a psychiatrist that could see me.

In the meantime, the principal at the elementary school where I worked, asked "Is everything ok?"  I stupidly told her what was going on, saw no reason to be anything other than honest.  I had never had a problem getting along with "Mrs. Frills."  (Not her real name.  Lol.  I'm not totally stupid, I know you gotta protect the guilty).

Turns out, I should have probably not shared medical disability information with my boss.  Let that be a lesson to ya.  Here's why:  2 days later, I happened to be having a rough day.  It was gonna be about 13 hours long, grade cards needed to be put into envelopes and distributed, valuable planning tine had been robbed of all of the teachers by the sacred, mandatory, 3-day-week grade-level meetings and about half of my 23 students were very needy.  Pencils kept breaking, need a band aid, or an eraser, forgot my reading book at home, blah, blah.  Oh yeah, I also was expected to be teaching during all of this.

I reached my point of being overwhelmed, after my concentration toward my lesson had been interrupted numerous times. So, I shed a few tears of frustration, but was not upset with anyone other than myself.  I just felt helpless to fix so many problems at once.  I continued to try to get my lesson moving anyway.  Then, Mrs. Frills "just happened" to walk into my classroom, and boy, was she pissed . . . . about some trash on the floor. She yelled at the students, never acknowledged me in any way.  Just yelled at my babies for a stupid, insignificant reason, and left. . . .

(To be continued in the next post)