Paula Hillman, author

My Dad’s lovely wife has died recently, and it’s made me think about priorities. This piece is dedicated to you, Jennifer…..

Regeneration

I’m nearly seven years away from being a teacher. Apparently, it takes seven years for a body to renew itself – more popular myth than strict scientific truth, but rooted in some fascinating biological processes. Cells are continuously replaced, though certain neurons last a lifetime; some tissues, like the lining of the stomach, regenerate every few days. A full cycle of bone replacement can take ten years. But, for me, it has taken seven to fully replace the broken, anxious, unhappy person I’d become after being in the classroom for thirty-two years. Melodramatic, I know, but irrefutably the truth.

When I talk about this with my husband, we agree that my career in teaching brought us out of the financial doldrums (the one where we had a young child, no assets, no home, no backup plan) and gave us moderate financial security. We have something to leave our children. I joke about Cumbria County Council owing me upwards of £500k because of the early retirement I was forced to take. His answer? I would not be alive now had I not.

In those last weeks before I quit my job, a typical day consisted of getting ready for school while running through my script for the day in my head; arriving at school for 7am; worrying that there was a smell of off milk in the corridors because the caretaker was useless; preparing my resources for the day because as a teaching deputy head, I had to deliver good lessons; prepping for a whole school assembly; fielding needy colleagues who started showing up from 8am; keeping an eye on free breakfast preparation; seeing needy parents; getting onto the playground for half eight because the gates had been opened and children couldn’t be left unsupervised; bringing children in at 8.45 and feeding them while chasing intransigent colleagues who refused to do the same (yes, some teachers would not hand out free bagels because it wasn’t part of their remit); registering and managing my class then taking them to an assembly that I had to lead; teaching a full morning often without the admin I needed because the school secretary alphas decided  they didn’t like me that day, or week, month or year; no lunch or break because I had to babysit bad-guy kids who weren’t allowed breaks; teaching a full afternoon or hiding away in remote corners if I had a slot of prep time (I was never given my own office, even though I was a manager); staff meetings or governors meetings; heading home with ninety exercise books to mark; food if I was lucky; walk if I was lucky; lying awake worrying about having to do the same stuff tomorrow. Weekends were worse because housework and food shopping dropped into the mix. No time for family; there wasn’t any. On the day I finally left my job, one of the things that tipped me over the edge was the admin leaving a sick note on my desk for me to sign, rather than bringing it to me and asking about my health. No way was I worthy of being spoken to.

Got in car; drove away.

It has taken seven years to unravel the damage a life like that caused. No one from the school contacts me; most hide if they see me; a couple will stop and speak; some took the opportunity to destroy my character. They will have their narrative. We all do. It’s how we make sense of the world we find ourselves in. Mine is that my mental health was shot to pieces in the last few years of my career, so I wasn’t seeing things clearly.  Whatever the truth was back then, I have gained clarity over the past seven years. My relationship with my two wonderful children has improved massively- I have proper time for them, now. We spend a lot of it together. That sense of dread at dealing with elderly parents has gone. I laugh with my husband every day. Why did I stay in a job that was having such a negative impact on me? Because, like many other people in this world, I feel unworthy. I had a well-paid, high-status job; I should shut up moaning. I didn’t moan, actually. I sold my soul for a good salary and kept quiet. But my brain was rotting. The school system hasn’t changed since Victorian times. It’s been digitalised and standardised, but it’s still basically sit still and listen, take in information, keep needs and opinions private. Children have evolved, but the system hasn’t. This equates with poor mental health for them, and they react as only children can. I was once standing by the classroom door, lining children up, when a child with whom I had a good rapport even though his home life was appalling, walked over to me and punched me in the stomach. The rest of the class gasped. I hadn’t been on my guard, so the punch landed hard. The kid was excluded for a couple of days, but I was made to feel like I was somehow responsible. This is the mindset of those inside the teaching profession. I include myself in this. About a year before I left, one Christmas, I was having to teach full-time without a TA, be a manager, run the Christmas show, sort the Christmas fair, and a colleague chose that time to approach me about how I’d been behaving towards her. I flipped. I ranted, raved, gave myself an ocular migraine, terrified and upset her. It’s how we were all living at the time. Why? To earn a wage.

Seven years on, I have better mental health. I sleep, I eat healthily and regularly, I don’t let anyone cross my boundaries; I make time for those I love. Things that should be prioritised, whatever job you do. Jobs don’t care about you, and status doesn’t make you a good person.

During those seven years, I’ve gained two qualifications and become heavily involved in the publishing industry. What I’m not going to do is let it define me in the way teaching did. I’ve written twelve manuscripts, eight of which are now published novels. But I don’t intend to toe the line with the gatekeepers of publishing. If I don’t publish another novel, I don’t. It’s not a priority. I love writing, but I love my life more.