I really don't feel like writing about this week. It was, more or less, horrific. The only thing that has allowed me to keep body & soul together was that the Boy has become beatific. He cooks all my meals for me, he coos and cuddles me, he doesn't get phased when I suddenly burst into tears and he keeps reminding me of the wonderful life waiting for me on the other sides of the classroom. Last week Lucretia responded to one of my anxieties by reminding me that the Boy was "my rock of Gibraltar." At the time I just thought it was a nice thing to say. I now realize that it was absolutely prescient. He's the rock under my feet. Without him, I think I might be dead.

He's off visiting Exodus now. This is his break from me. A week of this, even for a saint, was a little much.

I'm getting counselling, by the way. It's built into the school board policy and several other teachers recommended the service. I have to admit that getting counselling is a lot better than resigning my position (along with any hopes of teaching again). I'm not a bad teacher in the abstract sense, but it remains to be seen whether or not I can handle the practical aspects of it. So, in lieu of starting a new life in Edmonton, I think I'll wait for them to call me back.

So I'm going to make a pact with you. It's kind of a one-sided pact, since you don't get all that much out of it. The pact is this: I'm not going to talk about school for the foreseeable future. I'm not going to talk about what goes on in the classroom, whether it be good or bad, because thinking about school outside of school has become my biggest problem. It robs me of sleep, it robs me of appetite, it makes me cry at the drop of a hat. I absolutely can't make stories of my life without sinking deeper into the depression that's becoming chronic.

So no more school stories. Nothing until I get my feet under me. I'm sorry about that, but you have to understand that I'm fighting for my sanity right now.