It's me. The crazy person who lost it yesterday. I want to use more colourful language, but, well you know me!
Yesterday I was unrecognisable.
I wasn't the composed, 30 year old who can juggle 28 student's learning needs without letting anyone fall through the cracks.
I wasn't the creative musician who can write a song to teach my students how to tie their shoelaces, or skip count in 2's.
I wasn't the daughter, sister, or friend that you've known for the past 30 years.
I was... well let's face it, I was a pyscho.
You might not know this, but I cried the entire way home. I couldn't see through the tears. The radio might have been playing, but I was too loud to hear it. I haven't cried like that since... Well I don't think I've ever cried like that.
You might also not know, but I could feel it coming. I could feel my stomach knotting, I lost control of my thoughts, everything was in a blur. I tried to let you know, but you didn't hear me. You might have been listening, but you didn't hear.
You might not know this, but I'm crying right now.
It's not your fault. You were caught in the cross fire. You were the unintended target of my frustrations and stress. I tried to spare you, but I couldn't. And for that I'm sorry.
But I'm not sorry too.
I don't know how to express to you that I'm sorry that you were the target, but that I also had no control.
I don't know how to let you know that it wasn't your fault, but also that you made me feel trapped.
I don't know how to say leave me alone, while also wishing and hoping you'd see that I just need you to love me and say that it will all be ok.
I hate that I feel this way.
I hate that the job I love so much, and that I was called to do causes me so much pain and heartache.
I hate that I pour my heart into my job, but it's never enough.
I hate that the stress is compounded right before time spent with family, which makes you wear the brunt of it.
I hate that after all this time, you still don't seem to understand.
I hate that everything about me, and the amazing little people I get to work with is boiled down to a bunch of arbitrary numbers and letters on a page.
I hate that my kids work so hard, and make incredible progress, but because of one person who decided that National Standards should exist, they are still labeled a failure.
And now, so am I.
And you know how I feel about failure.
I hate that that is all I feel right now.
To everyone who had contact with me yesterday: I'm sorry. I love you. Can we please start again?
I can't promise I won't still cry.
I can't promise that I won't have another panic attack.
I can promise that I will try.