My Second Chance at Teaching

by Facemelt91

The easy way out

Imagine you get thrown into a vast expanse of cold water. All around you is water, as far as the eye can see. No way back to shore. No shore to make it back to. Just water.

The first thing most of us would do is panic. This is bad, as it only accelerates the process. Panicking causes you to breathe more quickly. You lose more body heat as your energy is sapped from you, and before you know it, you’re struggling to keep your head above the water despite your best efforts, you end up getting dragged under by a current more powerful than you. At this point, we might think to cry for help, but by then, we’re beyond saving, especially when we’re alone. As the fight to keep your head above the water starts to fall in the water’s favour, the inevitable happens.

We start drowning.

Most people think that drowning is simple. I’ll tell you myself that it isn’t. It’s a complex balance of different phenomena all taking place at the same time. When your face enters cold water, you immediately go into something called ‘diving mode’, any marine mammal does it instinctively and humans are no exception. What happens is your heart-rate slows down in an effort to preserve energy. Your blood vessels become restricted, causing less oxygen to get pumped to the brain. I don’t care how long you think you can hold your breath – dive deep enough into cold water and you’ll start losing consciousness within a few minutes, sometimes before you even think you need to breathe. When that happens, you’ll start breathing on your own as your body attempts to regain lost oxygen. That’s when you start inhaling water. But it doesn’t go into your lungs when you inhale it: your body is smart enough to seal off the tubes to your lungs and force the water into your stomach. You swallow the water and then you cough it up, inhaling yet more water in the process. It continues like that, this slow process of water inhalation and vomiting until your brain finally starts to die and you stop struggling. At this point, unconsciousness sets in and that’s when your lungs open up to the water.

If you make it this far, you’re usually dead.

There is a crucial moment when you are drowning, a moment where you can make a split-second decision that could if not save your life, at least prolong it. Miss this opportunity, or make the wrong decision?

No second chances.

I drowned a long time ago, but not in the sense you might think. No, this was a different sort of drowning. This is the story of my fight to keep my head above the water.

*

I’m not going to lie to you, this isn’t a story about someone with a happy life and a bright future getting on the wrong train and ending up in hell. I didn’t arrive in hell on the train. I didn’t arrive in hell on a boat. I didn’t jump from 35,000 feet above ground level and crash through into hell.

I was born in hell.

I’m not going to detail you with my childhood. I don’t want to bias you against me. Let’s just say that some things are better left unsaid. Leave it at the fact that I was bullied relentlessly for things I can’t even remember having wrong with me, and I returned home to exactly the same thing. Few know the comfort of the shadows like I do. Some people spend their lives feeling like they’re invisible – I spent most of mine wishing I could be.

Fast forward a few years and suddenly I’m eighteen, about to head off to University after scraping through school by the skin of my teeth. I started studying English. I had a long-standing dream of wanting to be a teacher, and free from the pressures of home and the bullies at school, I ploughed through my studies. I even fell in love and rented a house with a girl who was at one point, a burning light in a world that had been completely dark for many years. I was doing extremely well in my studies too. I’d always been passionate about literature, but I found that I was actually good at it as well.

But even the brightest light fades, and that too faded. The last six months of my time at University were spent living between the gym and the library. I don’t know whether any of you have ever slept in a doorway, but I have, and I’ll tell you it’s far more comfortable than sleeping in a bed with someone who can’t stand the sight of you.

Many times I came close to just giving up, shutting my eyes and let the anvil that was attached to my leg by a rope drag me down to the seabed, or locking my door and letting the razor blade do the rest. But one thing kept me going – the hope that there would be light at the end of this dark tunnel.

As it happened, I was accepted onto a teaching course, starting right after I finished my degree. I was overjoyed. I was able to return home and train to be a teacher, living with my parents (who I had recently rekindled my relationship with) and sleeping in my own room. When I graduated, I did so at the top of my class, with the highest score they’d had that year. I was feeling pretty pleased with myself, but it was a buzz that didn’t last long. I entered the teacher training course the following September and that was things started going downhill.

*

You must understand that since I had known I wanted to do something other than drink cheap cider and smoke even cheaper cannabis, I had wanted to be a teacher. It was always my dream to stand at the front of a class and teach people about the really important stuff that they needed to know, to improve their lives and help them grow. Hell, to do a better fucking job than the teachers I’d ever had did for me.

So when I started training, I did so with a happy smile on my face. The first time I ever taught a full lesson was a blazing vortex of highs and lows, but mainly highs. The connection I formed with that class seemed to transcend any feelings of nervousness that I’d had up until then, and for once in my life, I felt like I had a purpose, a calling even. I was meant to be there, meant to be with those students. I was dedicated to doing well, dedicated to becoming an effective teacher so that I could do right by the students. It was the only thing I really cared about. It was the only thing I think I’d ever been good at.

But reality sank in soon. Once I showed them how good I could be, that was the expectation. I set the bar high, and every time I failed to reach it again, a little part of me died inside. Sideways glances and disapproving eyes met me everywhere I go. Mockery patted me on the back every day on the corridors and feelings of shame and despair churned bitterly inside the pit of my stomach.

Every day was a cocktail of emotions. Arrive to work shitting myself. Teach two lessons while my mentor silently judged me from the corner of the room. Leave the room after the bored faces had gone and silently stew in my own self-loathing. Spend the entire day watching my back, making sure I said all the right things and towed the line properly. Dotted the i’s and crossed the t’s. Stayed. In. Line. The politics were unbearable and the bullying was worse than it had been when I was a student. It got to the point where every minute away from faces was a minute spent crying into shaking palms. How could I have been so wrong about something that had initially felt so right?

While everyone else basked in glorious sunshine, I had a black cloud that followed me everywhere. It hung over my head, draining me of life and making me feel empty. When the black cloud was around, life just seemed to grind to a halt and everything lost all meaning that it once had. Things that I used to enjoy suddenly ceased bringing me pleasure. I couldn’t eat, sleep or concentrate. My lack of concentration led to failure and failure pushed me to try harder. I stayed later and later each night, sometimes not leaving the building until after nine or ten in the evening, only to meander home with tunnel vision and aching temples, collapsing on the floor and crawling back upstairs to revise my plans for the next day. I was running on little to no sleep. I had no energy to eat. I felt like I was dying, but it wasn’t just my body; it was my soul. At my absolute worst, I didn’t feel sadness, guilt or fear, but complete apathy for everything and everyone around me. I felt utterly empty and hollow, like I was devoid of anything resembling emotions, and the night that I left the building early and didn’t bother planning my lessons for the next day, I knew I had gone passed the event horizon.

I stood in front of the class full of expectant faces, about to teach a lesson on Great Expectations. I knew what I wanted to say despite not having planned it, but for some reason the words wouldn’t leave my mouth. It was like my brain had died and wasn’t responding to what I wanted it to do. I opened my mouth and tried to speak, but all I could do was choke on the water that started running into my stomach. I was drowning, drowning on the tears that streamed from my eyes as I broke down in front of the bemused students. That was the point where I realised that the dream I’d harboured since I was a child was all for nothing. Depression had finally taken over my entire life and was consuming me inside and out.

*

The last time I ever set foot in a school was to meet with a team of supervisors.

“We imagine this is a hard pill to swallow,” said the course leader. “But we don’t feel that you are fit to continue teaching, given your current condition.”

He and four others sat across the table from me, barely even looking me in the eye as they all explained to me, in no uncertain terms that they thought I was unsuitable for the teaching profession because I was mentally unstable. They were doing me a favour by getting rid of me, stopping me from harming myself or someone else. I thought it was outrageous but they were convinced that I was a risk to the wellbeing of the children just by having me in the school, and as a result, I could no longer work as a teacher.

I didn’t return home that night. I went for a long walk in the rain to clear my head, but the more I thought about it, the more I realised that they were right. I wasn’t fit to be in the teaching profession. I was so depressed I could barely function as a human being. How could I be responsible for thirty-plus children when I couldn’t even look after myself?

Over the next few weeks, I became more and more isolated from everyone and everything that I had ever cared about. I lost all joy in everything that I had ever cared about, and life seemed to be completely devoid of meaning, and when that happens, I began to question what the point of it was. I felt completely and utterly hopeless, to the point where even getting out of bed required a tremendous amount of physical strength and courage. Life was like living one continuous day that didn’t have a definitive start or end point and as the dark cloud continued to rain, its foul water putting more and more distance between me and the surface, I felt like more and more of my soul was being sucked away into a limitless hell. The dark cloud had succeeded in filling the room with water, and the anvil on my foot had finally won its battle against the little strength I had left.

Without teaching, I knew that I wouldn’t be able to ever make a positive impact on the lives of other people. The thought of being useless was too much for me to cope with. I had endured the pain for long enough. I wanted it to end. They thought that cutting me loose from teaching was going to help me get better. They actually signed my death warrant.

With a heavy heart, I left a note for my family to read. It wasn’t a long one. I begged them to forgive me for hurting them and promised them I’d watch over them when I was gone.

After everyone else had gone to bed, I put a film on the TV and snuck out without anyone noticing. I walked for nearly two hours until I had found a quiet spot outside town where I knew I wouldn’t be disturbed. It was a small woodland area with low-hanging trees. I attached a length of rope I’d bought the previous day to a tree trunk that overlooked a park bench, stood on top of the bench and pulled the noose I’d made over my head. The last thing I remember thinking was wishing that I’d never even started teaching; that I’d waited a few years until I was older and more mature and better equipped to deal with the huge pressure. When I jumped off the bench and felt the noose pull hard against my throat. Gasping hard, I struggled for breath in my final moments. I don’t remember much before I blacked out and lost consciousness, but the last thing that I remember feeling was a deep sense of regret, and the vague hope that if I woke up, I would do so in a better place.

*

My eyelids felt heavy. I was vaguely aware of the sensations that seemed to be carrying on around me, the sound of machines, of people talking, cold rushes of air and the smell of disinfectant.

After what seemed like an eternity of white noise and empty sensations, I slowly opened my eyes and found myself looking up at a bright light.

“Doctor Stable,” someone said, “I think he’s waking up.”

Moments later, a long face was peering down at me, checking my eyes. As the face came into focus, I saw two large eyes, staring down at me. Something about the doctor looked… off. I couldn’t quite put my finger on it.

“Eyes are dilating normally,” mumbled the doctor. “Can you hear me alright in there?”

“Urrff…” I replied. I tried to say yes, but it didn’t come out as I’d planned. I tried again, “Urrff!”

“Can you say that again?”

“Yes…” I breathed, coughing hard. “I can hear you.” I was relieved to hear the sound of my own voice, even if it did sound a little deeper than usual.

“Alright then,” said the doctor, nodding in satisfaction. The more I looked at him, the more I tried to picture what was wrong, but I couldn’t quite work it out. “Can you tell me your name?”

“Yeah it’s…” and I stopped. My mind went blank. Name? Nothing sprung to mind. What the… what the hell was my name? How could I have forgotten my own name? “I… don’t know,” I admitted.

The doctor raised an eyebrow. “You don’t remember your own name?”

“I have no idea,” I said, utterly flabbergast. How the hell could I just forget my own name? It didn’t make any sense. I didn’t even have the slightest inkling.

“Alright,” said the doctor, taking out a clipboard, “I’m going to ask you a few questions. First of all, do you have any family history of heart disease, stroke, diabetes, asthma or any other chronic illnesses?”

“I… don’t know.”

The doctor marked off a tick box, “do you have any allergies?”

“I…” I couldn’t answer. I didn’t know. I suddenly realised that I didn’t know anything about myself.

The doctor looked down at me, slightly worried, “can you please confirm your age?”

“I have… no idea,” I breathed. My heart was thumping against my ribcage, its heavy beat ringing in my eardrum.

The doctor nodded slowly, his face was filled with compassion, almost… sadness as he uttered his next words: “No name, no age… do you even know who you are or where you are from?”

I shut my eyes tightly and screwed up my face. I tried really hard to remember anything that I could, but nothing came to mind. It was like someone had painted over my memories with whitewash. I knew something was there… but I couldn’t see it. I felt tired and slightly annoyed. Surely I couldn’t just be a blank slate?

“Do you remember anything happened to you?” the doctor asked, lowering his clipboard.

“I’m sorry?” I said.

“You came here several days ago,” the doctor said. “You were in a coma. We thought you weren’t going to pull through, but you kept fighting. Nopony has come in to identify you, so we’ve no idea who you are or where you came from, and it seems that you don’t have the answers either.”

“Wait a second,” I said, rewinding through his words. Suddenly something clicked into place. “Did you just say, ‘nopony’ has come in to identify me?”

“Yes, that’s right,” the doctor said, “we haven’t had anypony come in looking for you. The only pony who visited you was the pony who brought you here. She’s asked to be notified when you wake up.”

“Nopony, anypony…” I said, “Why do you keep saying pony?”

The doctor looked slightly alarmed. He spoke slowly, deliberately, “Because… that’s what we are?”

I felt as though somepony had hit me over the head with a brick. My stomach lurched and I vomited all over my bed sheets. Before I slipped back into unconsciousness, I caught a glimpse of the hooves at the extreme ends of my light brown front limbs. The last thing I remember thinking before I blacked out was: holy shit, I’m a fucking pony.

Comments

[FlyingMushroomxii]

Felt a bit melodramatic at first but it was good,