On the first day of fourth grade I eagerly enter the old red-brick three-story schoolhouse, trudge up the thirteen worn wooden stairs, and walk down a wide hallway that has tall windows that reach almost to the ceiling. At the end of that hall I climb another thirteen stairs to the third floor, walk down another hall and enter my classroom.
Mrs. Laswell, my teacher, is up in the front of the room by her desk. When I turn in her direction she looks down. Gray, I think. Her hair is dusty gray and her home perm looks recent. Her glasses have gray plastic frames with gray tinted lenses. Her polyester dress is a gray floral print and she wears a simple gray cardigan that looks thin and worn. She is old and tired of kids. She is dreading teaching another year. She has thought about it all summer, wondering how in the world she can get through the year so that she can finally retire next May. She settles on an idea. She sets up her lesson plans to be able to leave the classroom at least once an hour to go to the teachers lounge and have a cigarette. She hopes this year’s kids are old enough and good enough to leave alone—at least for the time it takes to have a quick cigarette to calm her nerves. It isn’t a perfect plan but it will have to do.
There are fifteen kids in my class this year. I take a seat in a desk next to my friends. The chair and the desk are connected. I lift the top of the desk and put my supplies inside: a brown glue bottle with a pink rubber nipple, 10 yellow number 2 pencils that need to be sharpened, a new pink eraser that’s rectangular with points at both ends and a 12 inch ruler that is wooden with a thin metal edge along one side. I look around and locate the pencil sharpener. It’s attached to the wall next to the black board in the back of the room.
Once we’re all seated, Mrs. Laswell drones on and on and on in a muffled monotone voice while I look around the room. On the back wall are wooden cubbies where I put my coat and boots and other stuff like that. There are enormous windows all along one side of the large room and there is a big elm tree growing outside. We are on the top floor of the building and I can see the sky and watch the clouds moving by perfectly.
At 10:30 we go outside for recess and enjoy running around on the playground. Lunch downstairs in the cafeteria is next. Today they serve rice pudding for dessert. I miss after-lunch recess because I refuse to touch the rice pudding and the rule is you have to eat everything on your plate or sit there thinking about why you didn’t. When we gather back in our room for the afternoon, Mrs. Laswell announces we are going to have a special all-school assembly at 3 o’clock. She dodges our questions about what it is about by turning her back and writing furiously on the blackboard.
She hurries back into the room from one of her “breaks” at 10 to 3 and instructs us line up single file to go downstairs to the cafeteria for the assembly. All the kids from kindergarten through eighth grade are arranging themselves facing the stage that’s at one end. We sit on the floor and the teachers stand leaning against the walls, looking bored.
I search the room for the 6th graders. They are already sitting close to the stage. I see my sister with them, laughing with her friends Sandy and Pam. As more and more students arrive, the noise level gets louder and louder. I lean forward to better hear what my friends Becky, Linda and Mikie are talking about.
All of a sudden there is a loud metallic screech that silences the room. The principal is attempting to get the new sound system working. He definitely has our attention now! After bumbling and fumbling a while longer with the help of the Phys Ed teacher, he stands behind the microphone and begins to talk. His voice sounds garbled and too loud. It is difficult to understand him—almost like he is underwater.
He tells us that starting tomorrow the students will be ‘housed’ all over town because they are going to tear the existing school building down and build another, newer one. It will take the entire school year to complete. “We must all do our best to get through the year,” he says with absolutely no emotion. He goes on to tell us where each grade will be located. Some kids will be in buildings across town. One class will be in the clothing factory on Main Street. One will be in the Methodist church basement. I stop listening when I realize I am holding my breath and look down and see my fingernails digging into the skin of my leg.
When we are released to go back to our classrooms the kids file through the halls in stunned silence. Mrs. Laswell explains to us, “Tomorrow morning when you come to school go to the main entrance of the high school and turn left. Go down that hall and up four steps. Take the first door on the right. That will be our new room for the year.”
When I go home that night my feelings are unsettled and jittery. My leg bounces all through supper and later I have a hard time getting to sleep. When I arrive at the high school the next morning and walk into the classroom my fears slam into reality. The room is tiny. It is off the kitchen that is used for high school home economics classes. It is dingy and smells of mold and blueberry muffins. There are no windows so even with the lights on it is dark. There are no blackboards. Our desks are squished together and face the center of the room in the shape of a contorted square. There is just barely enough room to walk behind the chairs.
It feels like my breath has been knocked out of me by an unexpected punch. My eyes squeeze shut for a second as if the assault is coming from the oppression of the stuffy hot room. When I open my eyes it takes me a minute to focus. The beige asphalt tile floor, beige walls and low dirty-white ceiling tiles move in and out as if alive. My friends are already sitting in their assigned seats according to names written on masking tape across the desks. As I make my way to the desk with my name, I panic because not one of my friends is close by.
As I sit down in my seat I have a bizarre awareness that my brain and body are changing. There is a shutting down, a slowing and thickening, a shallowness of breath, a heaviness of extremities and an uncomfortable pinched constricted feeling in my throat. It all happens so fast I can’t grasp what’s happening. There is a visceral darkening of mood. General overall pain cries out. It is like straining to swim through peanut butter. I feel like I want to run screaming out of the room. I want more than anything to get outside, to run home, to hide. I don’t remember anything else about that morning but when it is over I run home for lunch as fast as I can. I do not go back.
That night I dream of the classroom. The walls are closing in on me and I am being pulled into a dark hole in the middle of the desks. The light that is ahead fascinates me but I am totally preoccupied with the force of the black swirl that encircles me. Mrs. Laswell is there and I know she sees me but she turns around and walks out of the room. I reach out to my friends to pull me back but no one is strong enough. I wake up panicked and panting. “I don’t want to go to school,” I tell my mom. She confirms what I already know—that that is not an option. How will I ever get through the year?
I am ruled by overwhelming sadness. I feel ripped apart. Everything feels like it is ‘too much’. I am anxious and upset—just like when you’re about to do something new for the first time. My attitude has gone from a positive “I can do this!” to a flat “there is no way!” By the time I step onto the school grounds the next morning the voices in my head have completely taken over and are screaming horrible things about how worthless I am and what I don’t deserve.
Each day the struggle continues. Every morning when I arrive at school I hesitate in the hall outside the classroom—my mind scatters, my feet are so ridged and heavy they feel like they’re glued to the floor. I have to make myself go in. When I sit in the room for any length of time I feel like I will lose my grip on reality. My mind gets blurry, my heart races and I wouldn’t care if I passed out.
By November I am despondent and withdrawn. I am obsessed with getting out of that room. One day I look over and see Gilbert, who sits next to me, leaning back in his chair. Mrs. Laswell spins around, sees what he is doing, and snaps, “Gilbert, you may take your distraction out into the hall. Sit on the floor with your back against the wall until I come and get you!” I have found a way out!
Gilbert and I spend our days on the floor in the hall. It is calming for me to sit on the floor. The polished linoleum is cool against my legs and provides solid grounding for my fast moving, spinning cycles. I don’t even mind the fatigue that comes with sitting on a hard surface for long periods of time.
With lots of time to be quiet, I start to notice the difference between what is going on in the outer world and what is going on inside me. Sometimes outside can trigger a tornado of feelings inside. Other times my own thoughts can produce an avalanche of feelings. As I track my feelings it becomes clear that depression looms underneath everything. The sad, overwhelming, heavy, dark depression is a constant. The depression makes it difficult to have normal feelings. I get that I am not the depression but it holds me down until I want to scream.
Even though I am afraid of it, I get curious about the depression. When I am depressed I experience my life as being right over there on the other side of the room—just out of reach. I have very little energy available to move or do anything. The sense of hopelessness is overpowering. Being alone and isolated feels both safe and unbearable. I start to recognize that my depression is not the same as the other kid’s “feeling down” that they can snap out of pretty easily. Every day I know with more certainty there is something wrong with me. I am overcome with shame.
I begin to wonder if the depression will ever lift. I experience my predicament similar to needing to find a way out of the temporary classroom. Only now I need to find a way out of the depression. I spend the rest of the school year separated from Mrs. Laswell and my classmates by a thick brick wall. I know my pain is visible. But why isn’t anyone helping me? It seems odd that no one notices or steps up to intervene. Sometimes I do things that are kind of off the wall just to see what kind of response people will have. As I suspect, I am punished for bad behavior without acknowledgement of where it’s coming from. I’m certain my sister knows I am struggling and my friends have a way of letting me know without words that they will still be there when I get through this. Other than that no one cares.
By the time 4th grade is over in May I have become a different child.
I slog through the summer but nothing improves. Our new school building opens at the beginning of fifth grade. Everyone is excited to see what it is like. I walk into my new classroom and am grateful the room is large with lots of light streaming in the windows. I am disappointed that I still feel discouraged and completely depressed. I sink further into it. I don’t talk at school through that entire year. I am miserable. On Saturdays at ballet lessons in Topeka and I refuse to use my arms while dancing on point. I am silently screaming for help. I stop caring.
When I go into 6th grade I am sick and tired of the depression. I know my body and brain still aren’t working. I am so sad and lonely. I make a conscious decision to talk and try to be part of my class, although I know this means faking it. I pretend to be okay even though I’m not.
I remember the moment when the chemicals in my brain come back into balance and the depression lifts. It is September and I am sitting in seventh grade English class. A heavy curtain lifts in my head is replaced with a buoyant lightness and all kinds of positive activity. I have energy again. I have found the way out! How did I get here in the first place? How did I get out? How can I stop it from happening again? These are urgent questions and I need answers...
