Why Depression Sucks

Man, depression sucks. Believe me, I should know. It’s something I struggle with every day.

It’s something I’ve been struggling with since high school, but I was too chicken to confront it. Too chicken until recently.

The Wide Road

I’ve been a wear-your-emotions-on-your-sleeve kind of guy for as long as I can remember. I went through wild mood swings in high school. My mom and friends probably chalked it up to being a brooding, hormonal teenager. College was much the same. I’d be okay for a few weeks, then I’d get really down on myself and life. I lost enough weight during one spell to have some people worry about me.

In the back of my mind I just kept thinking I would get better. All I needed was to pray more, or be stronger, or smarter. My bootstraps needed pulling, and I was the one to do it.

Enter adulthood. Same ol’ me. Same ol’ temperment. But way more stress.

Moving. A new teaching career. Kids. Managing a home. Kids. Working on my marriage. Teaching. Kids. It was wearing me down to a nub. I’d sort of handle things for a while, then dip low. I would withdrawl, yell, scream, stop talking to people, sleep too much or not enough, or generally just become numb to it all.

I hate that I put my family and loved ones through that. And that’s exactly how the cycle begins.

The Carousel

Depression is a disturbing carousel of pain, sadness, and guilt. I would get down. Really down. Then I would start to feel bad for being down and unable to bring myself out of it. That would lead to guilt. That guilt would compound the sadness into an ever increasing downward spiral. I didn’t want to kill myself, but I felt fine if I were to die.

I would get to the point where I hated myself. I already struggle with confidence and self-worth anyway. It seemed I was increasingly more miserable than not. That’s an awful place to be. Especailly as a classroom teacher and a father of four.

The stress and guilt were weighing on me. Things were getting worse. I knew thoughts of pulling into oncoming traffic weren’t right. I was determinded to try even harder to will myself through this, though.

But I became more and more inward facing. The harder I tried, the worse it got. My wife lovingly asked me if I needed to go stay with my mom for a while to get some space. That’s when I knew something had to change.

The Narrow Road

My wife suggested that I go see a professional. It took me over a year to work up the courage to do that. I didn’t want to admit defeat. I didn’t want to admit that I couldn’t hack it at life. I didn’t want to admit that there was something wrong with me.

I took a simple online survey. It wasn’t what I wanted to see, but it was what I needed to see. I was depressed. Severely depressed at that.

I finally went to see a doctor. Sitting in the uncomfortable faux-leather chair of the waiting room, I expected to feel nervous. That emotion didn’t disappoint. But there was another unwelcomed visitor- shame. I was not expecting to feel so much shame. I felt shame because this was one more thing I couldn’t do right. I was defeated.

Chemistry, Not Character

The doctor was pleasant enough. He diagnosed me with depression and prescribed some medicine. I continued to see him for almost a year. The medicine helped. I was hoping to talk to him more, but he didn’t seem like that kind of doctor. He was pleasant, but not exactly personable.

At the urging of a friend I switched doctors. This new doctor was phenomenal. He listened to me. He asked questions and answered all of mine. He explained depression to me. We talked about the stigma of mental illness. He helped me see that my depression wasn’t totally something I caused. It was some faulty wiring in my brain among other things.

He told me that if someone had a physical illness that we would give them medicine. So, if someone had a mental illness, why wouldn’t we give them medicine too? I’m no more capable of thinking my way to a cure for depression than someone with the flu can think themselves healthy.

* * *

I’m better today. I’m not perfect or the best. Just better. I’m learning to cut myself some slack and not shoulder so much guilt. It’s a process, but I think it’s working.

If you or anyone you know is suffering from depression, please, please urge them to get professional help. Make the call for them, or ask someone to make it for you.

Set your fears and ego aside and get some help. Life is too short to spend it that way. Our God has given men and women the intelligence and know-how to help those struggling with this. Remember, depression is a flaw in chemistry, not character.

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Crispy But Not Burned

I remember pacing the aisles of my favorite used bookstore a few years ago. Somehow I always end up in the education section.

Amidst the old books smells, I found a book called Not Quite Burned Out But Crispy Around the Edges. It was a funny book, and the name has always stuck with me.

Not quite burned out but crispy around the edges is exactly how I’ve been feeling this year. The feelings of burn-out are pressing in on me like a collapsing tent. And I hate it. This isn’t me. I feel the dirge of overwhelmingness is about to crescendo in heartbreak. I don’t want to lose myself in the process of teaching.

I have to get out of this rut and get back to the heart of what I’m doing and why I’m doing it.

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Disappointment and the Bee

“How many words can we miss before we’re out, Mr. Stortz?”
“One.”
“One?!?!”

I cracked the cap of a well-worn hi-lighter.  Pushing the dulled neon tip across the first word on the list, I felt that familiar anxiousness as we began.

Bee day.  I have to confess, word nerd that I am, that I always dread it a little.  Today was our class spelling bee.  We have to pick winners from our classes to participate in the school-wide spelling bee next month.

But the whole thing is just a tough nut.  I remind the class that only a few people will win today.  Losing is a part of life.  A hard part of life.  Disappointment will linger long past the time you’ve asked it to leave.  The thing is, everyone thinks they’re going to win.

Round one ends.  Only six kids remain. Two kids are already crying.  A tough nut, indeed.

One of the sweetest (and brightest) girls I’ve ever taught missed her first word.  She really wanted to win.  And she most definitely could have.  But she didn’t.  She missed her word by one lousy letter.  Her wide-eyed smile faded as quickly as her shoulders slumped.  Tears began to well up along the rims of her eyes.  She became visibly upset and couldn’t hold back her tears.  I told her we could talk in the hallway after the spelling bee was over.  Definitely a tough nut.

Ten minutes later we were talking out in the hall.  Her crying had eased a bit.  She told me how upset she was with herself.  The more I listened, the more I could feel her frustration.  I pulled her close and put my arm around her as we spoke.  I told her that disappointment is okay to feel- just don’t let it consume you.  I reminded her of all her accomplishments this year, and told her how everyone still cared about her.  She went down to the restroom to wash off her face.  I think she was feeling a little better, although I’m not sure I was.

A little later, she trotted over to ask me a question about the novel she is reading.  Her eyes were wide and her smile was sweet once more.  Disappointment is certainly a tough nut, but one that must be cracked.

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A Gas Station Sandwich

I was happily enjoying my gas station sandwich during my 20 minute lunch. I like to call them power lunches when I bring in outside food- even if it’s from a gas station. It just makes me feel better about life.

My team was chatting with a substitute at our table. After relaying a story about his visit to a Comic-Con, he asked me what I did for fun. I had to stop and think about that for a minute. Actually, I didn’t answer him for long enough that he answered for me. “You mean you don’t do anything for fun?” I joked with him and asked if laundry and driving my kids around counted. Humor is my default defense mechanism when I’m uncomfortable.

I don’t know what it is about me, but I am a magnet for unsolicited advice. I get it constantly from all sorts of people. He told me that I had better find something to do for fun, or I was going to burn out big time.

The truth is, I have a very hard time making time for anything resembling a hobby or social life. I play my drums once or twice a year. I pick up my guitar every so often. I tried moderating #4thchat for a while. Once upon a time I even updated this blog (kinda) regularly. I guess I watch movies in between breaking up my childrens’ fights and take an exorbitant amount of time to read short novels. That sorta counts. Right?

I don’t want to burn out, but I don’t know how to take the time to enjoy much for myself. My wife, my four young children, and this teaching gig are already more than I can handle. All I wanted to do was eat my gas station sandwich in peace. I just don’t know…

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Compliance Was Not Worth the Price of Admission

I lost it.  I lost my cool today.  I didn't yell.  I didn't raise my voice.  I did something much worse.  I insulted a student.

I'm not one to lose my cool at school.  I’m sad to say that usually happens when I get home.  Today was different.  I had a rough morning getting my kids up and ready.  My school computer was acting up.  And several students were shouting things across the classroom during the morning announcements.  That shouting was the last straw.

I went over and stood between the two shouting girls' tables.  I should've made eye contact and pressed my index finger against my lips.  I should've looked at them with the teacher eye and slowly moved my head back and forth.  I should've whispered, "No talking during announcements."  I should've.  But I didn't.

Instead, I went for the easy kill.  I did something that would make me feel good for about half a second and terrible for the rest of the day.  I used my tongue as a weapon.  I insulted two nine-year-old girls.  I said something to the effect of, "Did you release your brain into the wild this weekend?  Why are you shouting during the announcements?"  Wow.  It's even worse when I type the words out.  Way to go, teacher of the year…

I called the girls over to my desk when the announcements were over.  In earshot of the class, I apologized to my students.  I told them that I was very sorry for saying that to them.  They should not have been hollering, but I should have handled that much better. 

One girl said, "That's okay, Mr. Stortz.  We'll do better tomorrow."  The other girl looked at me for a moment.  For the first time I noticed tears pooling near the bottom of her red-rimmed eyes.  Her eyes met mine.  She nodded and went back to her seat as she wiped her tears with the back of her hand.  I wanted to crawl into the bottom of my file cabinet and hide until lunch.  Then I wanted to crawl into my lunch bag and hide until tomorrow.  I’ve rarely felt worse in my years of teaching.

Well, I got what I wanted- silence during the announcements.  But at what price?  Their compliance was not worth the price of admission.  I took out a huge withdrawal from those girls today.  It's going to take a while to get us back to ground zero.  If I truly believe that great learning happens in the context of great relationships, then I've got some work to do on these relationships.  I'd better get started.

“Death and life are in the power of the tongue,
and those who love it will eat its fruits.”
-Proverbs 18:21

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Stripped Learning

Cue the Imperial Death March…

Testing day.  It’s finally here.  For the last week, my class has been going through labor pains as we prepare for the inevitable day of our state writing test. 

We are in our room this morning, but it’s different.  The whiteboard is blank,  The SMART Board and computers are off.  Our learning artifacts on the walls have all been removed or covered by dull butcher paper.  The fluorescent lights are fully on.  The desks are all in rows facing the front.  It’s still our classroom, but it’s different.  It’s been stripped.  Not only physically stripped, but stripped of its dignity.

Why the formality?  Why the radical transformation?  This environment is not how I teach the students, so why must it be how I assess them?

I caught myself a few times lately saying things like, “When this is over, we can get back to real writing.”  The state test is, unfortunately, real.  It’s just not authentic.  It’s easy to forget the difference.

*     *     *

I paced the room, both anxious and confident, as I actively monitored the students.  I knew many of them were fighting the feeling of being trapped and constrained, just like I was.  Some students sped through, and others took their time.  But, in the end, I’m not completely sure it mattered. The hour hand took six trips around the clock, and it was all over.  The fear, anxiety, and tears came to a close.

Each of my students will now get a number- one number assigned to their learning.  This number is assigned from one day out of their lives.  It reduces their learning down to a quantifiable digit.  This number strips their learning.  It strips it of context and authenticity.  Their learning is stripped of its significance.  There’s a word- significance.  Where does that fit into bubble sheets and scripted prompts?

In our race to the top, there’s pressure to quantify as much as possible, whether that number represents significance or not.  But, we must never forget that there is a face behind that number.  It’s a face of significance.

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"It Just Hurts." -The Pain Kids Hide

"There's a dog on the playground, Mr. Stortz!"  Several frantic girls were screaming and rushed over to me at recess today.  This usually happens a few times a year.  I looked around and didn't see anything.  The girls pointed to the other end of the soccer field where a man was letting kids pet his dog through the bars of our black iron fence.  This was definitely a no -no.

As I walked over to put a stop to this unauthorized dog petting, a soccer ball whizzed by the back of my head.  I had forgotten how lively the soccer field could be.  The man had already walked off by the time I reached the scene.  I cautioned the students about petting strange dogs and reminded them to be safe.  

I began walking back to my area when I heard the tiny yelp of ten year old girl.  I turned around to see one of my students hunched over and rubbing her shin.  She had just been pelted with a soccer ball.  I asked her if she was all right.  She winced, but assured me that she fine.  She's a tough girl.  I'm sure it hurt, but I knew she would be okay.

Fast -forward ten minutes.  My patrol took me towards the side doors of the school.  I walked past one of the squared brick columns and found the girl who had been hit by the soccer ball earlier.  She was sitting with her back against the rough brick, arms wrapped around her legs and her chin resting on her knees.  Her eyes were red and a little puffy.  

I asked if she was okay.  She sniffed and gave me a few short nods.  A little girl in tears is practically my Bat -Signal for shifting into dad mode.  I looked at her again and asked if she was sure.  Tears began flowing as she mumbled, "It just hurts."  She could no longer hide the pain.  Immediately, I knelt down and rubbed her shoulder.  I asked if she would show me her leg.  It seemed fine.  I assured her that things would be all right; just to give it a little time.

*          *          *

I thought about those words today- "It just hurts."  I wonder how many students in my class are hurting?  Not from soccer balls, but from much deeper pain.  How many children are going through divorce, hunger, abuse, neglect, or bullying?   How many kids are hurting and trying to hide it?  How many students are trying to be tough and not show their pain?

That pain is where I need to begin with some students.  What can I do?  Where can I help?   I don't want them to hurt, and I certainly don't want them to be hurting and hide it.    

"It just hurts."

Maybe learning when to use a comma before a conjunction isn't so important.

Photo credit: Rachel Ford James
 

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