"I've thought for a while that your headaches are anxiety related, and that you might want to get medication for that."
So Taylor told me yesterday, after I mentioned my latest headache. I've suffered with monthly headaches—ranging from one week a month to three weeks a month—for seven years. I've seen three doctors about them. I've self-medicated with caffeine and Excedrin. I know my way around a headache.
I was livid.
I've suffered from anxiety (hi grad school!) and I knew that the way I've felt for the past month, past two, no three years, is not related to it. Maybe depression? Or, what I feel more accurate for these days, extreme frustration?
Taylor and I talked it out. I'm lucky to have a spouse who communicates well.
Then I woke up this morning. I read Anne Helen Petersen's latest newsletter. I read this Medium article. I went to work, straight to sitting through a staff meeting about equity. We watched this video on racial literacy. We reflected on where we were in our own personal cultural competency. We looked at our district's statistics on inordinate amounts of disciplinary action against our black and Latino students. We watched videos with Seattle's parents discussing race, about how students feel about their teachers actions, about redlining and classism and the importance of understanding.
I looked around at my fellow teachers. I knew which ones had voted for Trump. I knew which ones only cared about classroom achievement: getting work done, getting good scores on the test, following class rules to the letter. I sat down for small group discussion, and listened to my assistant principal come right out of the gate with "but what about our troubled white students?"
And all I could feel was white-hot rage.
It hasn't passed yet. It fades in and out, static on my emotional radio, but there underneath the fuzz it stands: RAGE. A constant, streaming burn of anger. Dinner is happening too late? RAGE. I feel snubbed by a co-worker? RAGE. I don't get to workout one day? RAGE. My desk at work is too messy? RAGE. My assistant principal devises a stupid game just so that we all have to change seats at a staff meeting? RAGE. Half of one of my classes doesn't turn in their final project? RAGE. The heads of my church recommend that women stay off the Internet for 10 days, all in the wake of a court-appointment that will harm women? RAGE. I have to commute for two hours every day? RAGE. I don't see my kid enough? RAGE. I miss my family? RAGE. I hate my job/doubt my faith/want to live someplace more affordable? ALL THE RAGE.
All of these are typical parts of life. They are things I've been living with, and handling, for multiple years. Annoyances that usually I'm able to brush off or push aside as I go my merry way. And at first I made excuses—I'm getting back into the swing of work, oh this is temporary, things will settle down. I keep waiting for the patience to return. It's not. Instead, a boiling baseline of anger permeates every day.
