Tag: mental health

Writing

Battling Insurance: My Fight for Essential Female Health Care

Alexandra Diane

I should be prepping for surgery. My kids should be dropped off at different grandparents’ houses, and my bags should be packed for an overnight stay. Instead, my “provider” and I have been fighting with my insurance company. God I hate that word, provider. They are doctors and should be addressed as such, no matter what. Maybe by renaming them “provider” it is easier for the insurance companies to deny the approval requests.

For the last two years, and longer, I have been jumping through every step needed to get a partial hysterectomy. But even with the evidence provided by the doctors, UNITED HEALTH CARE has decided there wasn’t enough proof and deemed it elective and therefore not covered. 

Strange. 

I am unaware that removing precancerous cells is elective. I thought that was called preventative. Maybe the language changed while I was being put under for leep procedures and in-depth biopsies. The removal of MY uterus wasn’t only because I needed a more invasive way to remove the precancerous cell. 

—side note: my doctors warned me that once they removed my uterus that there was a 90% chance they would find stage one cancer. 

My cycle is so heavy that my doctors have said it is the equivalent to hemorrhaging. Last year I had to have iron infusions because my levels were so low. If I had been male, I would have been sent to the hospital four times over, but because I was female, I was told it was okay because being anemic was normal. My cycle lasts anywhere from 7- 9 days. For me to function like a normal human who isn’t bleeding out, I have to take a pill called Tranexamic Acid. This medication the blood clots hold longer in the womb, significantly reducing blood flow. But this medication is only a band-aid for the actual issue. The fibroids that line my uterus. 

Another reason at 39 I am trying to remove my uterus. Let’s not get started on the cysts that make me throw up from pain whenever they swell.

My doctors told me that anyone under 40 usually gets rejected. Something about women changing their minds and wanting more kids. But my husband is fixed and we already have three kids. So because of this nonsense it’s why it has taken me two years of having my body scraped, burned, and prodded repeatedly before we even tried to submit UNITED HEALTH CARE. But it still wasn’t enough. 

I had no idea that my procedure was rejected until Monday evening when the mail arrived. At that point, it was too late to call my doctor and find out what happened. Tuesday morning I called and spoke to the woman who submits all the information to the insurance companies. She said their office received the information Friday after their office had closed for the weekend and they did not know about the information until Monday morning. She was already in the works to send almost six years of medical records to UNITED (un)HEALTH CARE.  When I called back this morning, she said she was on the phone with them for 3.5 hours trying to FAX — because it’s the 90s still in the medical world — the information over because UNITED HEALTH CARE’S fax was not working. She had to fight with them because the fax number they provided was not working, and they claimed it was the doctor’s office’s fault. It wasn’t until she tried three different machines before UNITED HEALTH CARE provided another number and it worked.

I called UNITED HEALTH CARE myself after finding out that it wouldn’t be another 72 hours before they decided my six years of preventative care would be deemed worthy by their standards. When I got a hold of a human they told me that they were unable to explain why there was not enough evidence. She also told me only providers can discuss this information. Not the fact that I know what’s going on with my body, or the fact that I have actively jumped through every hoop they have asked for… 

No…

As a normal non medical person I am unable to hear why I was rejected or even be able to defend myself. If I were to try it would stop anything that provider had submitted.

So the only thing that would be able to hurry the process along would be for my doctor to stop doing her job, seeing other patients, and have a peer to peer call explaining away the miscommunication. 

I find it absurd that anyone working at an insurance company would think themselves to be on the same medical level as a doctor who works for patients. Those who are insurance company’s medical directors are no longer working for humans. To me these people have sold their soul for  the almighty dollar because that could be the only reason why so many people are rejecting those who need medical care.

I don’t know when I will be able to reschedule my partial hysterectomy. I had it set up this way so I would have my entire summer to heal. I know my body, it is stupid. It likes to reject anything to make it better. I need 8-10 weeks to heal and that is what the summers off give me. I didn’t want to have to schedule a sub to cover my classes for two months. If I was going to do that, I would have taken care of this in January allowing myself the ability to enjoy my summer. Now I am going to be playing the waiting game, wondering when I will have organs removed so my body has less of a chance of turning angry cells into cancer. 

Writing

Loss and Love: Cherished Heirlooms

Alexandra Diane

Prompt: A sentimental heirloom (that you lost)

Just reading this prompt put a dagger in my heart. There are two pieces of jewelry that I have lost that still eat at my soul. One was a necklace my late grandmother gifted me, and the other was a ring from my mom. 

I know the exact moment my necklace vanished. My life was being uprooted, my future ex husband, and I were moving to Brazil, and our life had to be packed away. We were lucky and had an amazing support system of friends to help us pack our belongings, take our furniture, or drive unwanted items to donation centers. I was on my side of the bed packing up my nightstand and my best friend came in and asked if I needed a JM Lexus reusable bag. I said, “No, that can go, but please check it first because I use that bag for travel all the time.” 

Now, this is 110% my fault. There was a huge possibility that the case for my grandmother’s pearl necklace was in that bag. The JM Lexus bag was black, and the necklace case was dark navy with a bit of gold on the edges. I should have just had her hand me the bag and check myself, but I was feeling overwhelmed with getting rid of junk that I had stuffed over the years in my nightstand. 

Parts of my mind ‌screamed at me to stop, and I checked the bag. At one point it felt like a hot poker was stabbing me in my brain, but I ignored it. After we took everything out to the trash that night, I had dreams that I lost more than the necklace and woke up in a cold sweat. I rushed downstairs to check the trash, but it was too late. I spent that morning going through all my bags and jewelry boxes looking for this necklace, but it was gone. I broke down and cried. This was the last thing my grandmother gave me before she lost her ability to speak and became trapped in her body because of Pick’s Disease. 

This wasn’t the only piece of jewelry she gave me, but there was something extra special about it that I felt connected to. They were a simple strand of beautiful round pearls with an intricate  golden finesse clasp. I’m pretty sure my grandfather had it designed for her because I have a jade necklace as well that he had made. Whenever I wanted to feel put together, I would wear that necklace. That meant it was in a of pictures. Although it was simple, it made me feel beautiful at a time in my life when I didn’t feel it that often, and now it was gone. 

It took me moving to Brasil and moving back before I confessed to my mom I had lost the necklace. I felt like a child again. How could I have been so irresponsible? Why didn’t I just get up and double check the bag when every part of my body was pulling me to it? I will never know what possessed me to stay put, but I have learned the hard way. When my body is pulling me to a feeling or urging me to look in a certain place, I do. It has helped me find so many things that I thought I had lost. 

About a year after I confessed about the necklace, I lost a ruby ring my mom had given me. I was on my way into Pure Barre for a class. I didn’t want to leave the ring in the car because the area, although nice, had a string of car break-ins. My normal routine: walk into the studio, say hi to the front desk employee, walk to the back and put my stuff in the cubby, go to the bathroom, and come out and put all my jewelry in my purse. If you had asked me to swear on my future daughter’s life, I would have. Every ounce of me believed the ring went into my purse. But after my class, when I was putting everything back on, it was missing. I looked everywhere in the studio. I laid on the carpet in the back room and checked every nook and cranny to make sure it wasn’t there. No part of me wanted to believe that any woman would go through our purses. But when I got out to my car, I laid on the ground in the parking lot looking for where it could have fallen. There was nothing. But unlike the necklace incident, I didn’t have a searing pain telling me to look somewhere; instead; I was left feeling empty. 

I never found that ring, nor was I able to replace it. Instead of waiting six plus months to tell my mom I lost the ring, I came home, called her, and cried. Cried that I lost the ring, cried that I lost the necklace. I felt unworthy of these heirlooms because, for some reason, the universe didn’t want me to have them. She assured me she wasn’t mad at me, sad the ring was gone, but wasn’t mad. A few Christmases later, my mom gave me a small box. I should never have been able to guess what was in the box. My mom has a major shopping problem; my dad calls her an elf. But when she handed me that present, a part of my soul sang. When I unwrapped it, I saw a simple strand of pearls. Now the clasp wasn’t as fabulous as the one I lost, but they still mean the world to me. Now, when there is a special occasion, I don my necklace with matching mermaid and pearl earrings, and when the event is over, everything goes in one box and into a secure drawer. I’m not taking any more risks with these pieces of jewelry because I would like to pass them down to my daughter. 

Writing

Why Crime and Punishment Left Me More Than Hopeless

Alexandra Diane
Daily writing prompt
What’s a classic book that you think is overrated?
View all responses

I thought after reading Charles Dickens’ Great Expectations I would consider that to be the piece of classic literature to deem overrated. But as a writer, I slowly learned how to appreciate the wardrobe scenes representing the change in character and status. For a moment I figured it would be anything written by the Brontë sisters, since I am very much team Austen. But no, it was not a British author to get under my skin and disturb me nearly twenty years later. It was the Russian philosopher Fyodor Dostoevsky and his novel Crime and Punishment.‌

Reading that book felt like a crime and most certainly a punishment. I swear my high school depression peaked while reading how horrible Rodion Raskolnikov’s life was in St. Petersburg. Maybe that was the author’s goal, for the reader to feel so destitute and helpless. I know the story was meant to challenge readers on their faith and bring up a philosophical question about human existence, but fuck. I still have nightmares twenty years later where no matter what I do, I cannot crawl out of the darkness.

The book is supposed to be a psychological thriller. To me, it was 110% psychological and no part thriller. If anything, it induced some form of PTSD, but that was about it. I hated Raskolnikov’s character; I found nothing redeeming about him. I just wanted him to die. He was a horrible person. I was unaware that there was a moral question that murdering people was okay to rise out of poverty. 

My confusion about how this is a moral dilemma stems from how I was raised: with a strong moral code and work ethic. The idea of abandoning your career or all attempts at bettering yourself and your family is completely foreign. It doesn’t matter how hard life gets; you do not give up. Theft is unacceptable, and murder is out of the question. There are things you must do to survive, but that is not the reason Raskolnikov was doing either; he just found those options “easier” than working.

Outside of that, I’m certain that this book is why I have a distaste for the dystopia genre. Even Crime and Punishment is not dystopia, it feels like the beginning of the end for me. Everyone is so broken that they believe the only way to better themselves is to lie, cheat, and steal. Those who are good lose everything. After Raskolnikov murders the old woman and her sister, a fever dream ensues. I don’t feel sorry for him being wracked with guilt about what he did. Throughout the entire story, his guilt eats at him, but he never truly confesses. And he does; it’s so empty. Somehow the author gives him a twisted happy ending where his love, I use that term loosely, always gives him some form of redemption through her love. 

There was nothing to root for here. The characters I hoped would win or have a moment to breathe never do. Maybe that’s just how it was in 1886 Russia: horrible, almost to where all hope was lost. I never felt comfortable in my own skin while reading this book. I wanted to shower and turn on every light in the room. Even now, writing this, I feel the darkness closing in. All my hope is lost and I don’t know how I can dig out of it. It reminds me so much of postpartum depression, but the only difference is I fought to get out of that darkness. I will never understand writing a character that gives up. In life or fiction, you have to fight, because if you don’t, the only other option is death. And for someone to murder another just because it’s easier, you might as well have one foot in the grave. 

Writing

Reclaiming Joy: Millennials and the Battle Against Burnout

Alexandra Diane

I miss life before it became a brand. Before everything was a bought ad and AI took over. A world where people used to find things that fit their interests. It was an active place, not something passive that tried to fill a void but only left the human feeling more empty than before they came. A time before doomscrolling where the viewer hardly processes what they are taking in. I wonder if we will ever go back to that place, or if it’s gone forever.

I’ve read a few articles that say that with the boom of AI, humans have flipped the switch to focus on the humanities. Part of me hopes that is true. People need to work more with their hands and engage in what they are actually doing. 

For the longest time, the minimalistic lifestyle was sold as the only way of living. It was a concept that went further than how someone decorated their home. Humans shut down. Everything they created was kept on devices and shared only in a virtual space. Homes became more of a museum, and hobbies that didn’t advance your career were shunned. I don’t know when we snapped as a generation. Maybe it was when we were strapped with crippling debt and the inability for most to buy a home. But suddenly there is a joke about the millennial generation picking up grandparent hobbies. Hobbies like gardening, cross stitching, and needlepoint. But they are not grandparents’ hobbies; they are actual hobbies. Hobbies that do not need electronics or a cloud. Our generation has been finding peace when we work with our hands. And with how doom and gloom that world is presenting itself, it makes sense. These tactile hobbies that, as children, were discouraged to pursue because‌ they did not “further” our education or future. 

I see it now with my students. They are forced to think constantly about their future and what will get them into college. So many of them are skipping grades or graduating with their AA while simultaneously earning their high school diploma. Which is great; it saves the parents’ money. But at what cost? So many of my students are in therapy and burnt out by their sixteenth birthday. I have heard time and time again that many of them do not know how to be children or have “fun” because their lives were structured around college as the end all be all. 

What are we doing as a society? 

Millennials are proof that you can not only think about the future. Parents have eighteen, if that, short years to shape their offspring into decent human beings. That means allowing them to be children while still holding them accountable for their actions. But as a teacher, I see being a decent person being pushed aside for academic achievement. Students believe that if they become entitled once they reach a certain academic standard. To them it equals their self-worth, causing many of them to lack empathy and compassion because all they value is a score and nothing with a deeper meaning. 

There is a project I assign for freshmen: a positive anti-drug / drinking PSA. For that project, I asked them what they enjoy outside of school, and most said sleep. Some students claim they are too exhausted to be creative, and others explain they do not find joy in anything because they were never allowed to discover who they were. Obviously, I take this all with a grain of salt, but this has been a pattern for three years now; it’s hard not to take it seriously. But what I know is that the public is still feeding Gen Z the same lie they fed us. The lie that college is the only path to a career that will bring you satisfaction. 

As adults, millennials are rebelling against the notion that a career is the only way to find happiness. Society calls us a childish generation. But there is a reason many of us still go to concerts and hide in the world of mystical fiction. We stopped caring about what society thinks. We want worlds with heroes and freedom to explore the unknown without being judged. Where are looking for the simpler things in life, and know it is not always the easiest path. In most works of fiction, magic replaces technology, but in those worlds, magic is an assistant; it does not take over and replace it. We spent so much of our youth being shamed and shit on that now we are crossing the threshold of true adulthood with our middle finger in the air. 

I wish we had developed that thought process as the world evolved into its current state. As a teacher, I look at my burnt out students and shake my head. Because none of it matters. The world is changing so quickly. Maybe it’ll be a blessing, and humanity will have time to step back and spend more time on its hobbies. But will the younger generation even know what brings them joy? Other than a flashing screen in front of their faces. Part of me wishes Y2K would happen now and the world would just reset and watch the chaos take over. 

Lent

Healing Through Faith: A Journey Back to God

Alexandra Diane

This past Lenten season I gave up social media, like I have for the last six years, and every year it is a much needed detox. Usually, I spend those 40 days writing new blog posts, which are automatically shared to my social pages. This year, however, this year I stepped even further back. I didn’t want to wonder if my posts were getting engagement or if I was earning new followers. Life was too busy at the moment and it wasn’t just even then. Since about August, I have been playing unpaid therapist for two of my childhood friends. Around the same time, two of my childhood friends came to me with problems in their marriages. One ‌husband of 18 years cheated while the other husband succumbed to his addiction and broke sobriety. While each man responded differently, the one doubling down on his infidelity and the other breaking down to his wife and seeking help. However, in both cases, both women were left broken.

While the heartbreak came from two different situations; they both talked about healing through faith. Both of them grew up Catholic; as they grew up, their faith journeys took them in directions in life. My friend, whose husband is in recovery, has been church hopping trying to find the one whose message resonates with her soul. Their devotion to Christ being what connected her and to her husband in the beginning. The other had lost their way and was searching her way back but was nervous about how structured the Catholic Church was. Though she was searching for a new home, she felt lost in how many types of churches that are available in South Florida. It didn’t help that her soon to be ex-husband was weaponizing faith. She felt lost and broken, and anytime he gave a snarky response, he would manipulate teachings from the bible to fit his narrative. 

We sent text messages back and forth every single day. Because let’s be so for real, while we love each other and I have known them both since the single digits, life does not allow for in person friendships unless the universe aligns perfectly. But I noticed a pattern. Not just with them, but with other friends in my life. We were all searching for healing, either from our past or from the chaos of everyday life. Most of us would get lost in our phones trying to escape or ignore the pain that was etched into our souls. 

Then I received two messages. The first “I have a big bible at work and I spend like 20 minutes a day reading it now. Trying to get to know God for myself. Not just through sermons” And a few days later, “I’m finding out that the more routinely I open the Bible, the more I want to. Feels foreign to me.”

This sent me on a hunt. I searched through Amazon and other sites looking for a journal or book to buy them to help them through their problems. But they both kept telling me what they found felt like homework overload, surface level with no guidance, or they were being talked down to. And to top it off, none of the subjects were hitting the pain they were looking to heal. So I made my own. 

I went back through our texts and saw the same issues over and over again. They both felt since they had stepped away from the church in their early adult years that God no longer saw them. With love, sometimes they felt as if their past haunted them. That their actions made them unworthy of God’s love or anyone else’s. The biggest thing was trust. They both had their trust broken by men who were supposed to be their protectors. I wanted them to know that even though trust was betrayed; it wasn’t lost everywhere else. 

For my friend whose husband stepped out of their marriage, she is full of so much pain, hurt, and confusion. She doesn’t know what to do with all her feelings. They are eating at her soul, and as much as she vents to me and other friends, she can’t let go. Because of this, I focused on surrendering and letting feelings go to God. Even to me, that idea sounds impossible because I, as do they, love to be in control of everything. Asking them to let go while I find it hard seems unfair, but I know that’s what we all need to do. 

Surrendering to God leaves you open and vulnerable. Which leaves you asking who you are. And if you are truly trying to turn a new leaf, you are developing a new identity. One where you are trying your best to pick peace over anxiety. That also feels like an impossible task, and one that most of us will revisit time and time again. Because while the theory of it sounds amazing, the practice of it is ongoing. 

I knew that once they had broken down their walls; they needed to be rebuilt. So for the second half of the journal, I focused on finding joy and strength in God. For most of us; we allow our fear to control us. When fear takes over, it’s easy to miss what God has in store. We all have fears that we have missed our purpose in life. But once we survive the hard seasons, we can be thankful. It strengthens us…..or gives us a dark sense of humor, but either win win 🙂 

When I finished their individual journals, I got this text: “Honestly, looking at these pages, you made this specific to my anxieties and I am so damn touched.”

I did just that. I made them both for each friend, tailoring it to their deepest fears and anxieties. But that’s when I knew I needed to make one for the public. Because we are not unique in our pain and suffering. We are not the only ones who become lost and sometimes feel like apps and other journals out there are ‌too much. I hope if anyone buys this journal; it will help them heal and bring them closer to God. I am not perfect. I will work on it every single day to be closer to my creator, and I hope if anything this helps you find peace. 

IF you are interested in picking up the journal, A Quiet walk with God, it can be found on amazon https://www.amazon.com/dp/0999704354

Teaching, Writing

Finding Creativity After Postpartum Depression: Teaching, Burnout, Healing, and the Return of a Lost Spark

Alexandra Diane

Today I made a newsletter for my students. While that may seem like a normal thing a teacher would do, it hasn’t been for me. For the last three years, I have been fighting to clear my head of the head fog left from postpartum depression. I knew something was wrong with me, but it wasn’t until December that I realized I was going through the motions and being a shell of my former self. 

The year prior, I stopped taking the antidepressants. They were leaving me numb to the world. I didn’t want to hold and cuddle my baby; I sought no joy in life. All the things they were supposed to fix, they didn’t. What they did was add on weight and affect my ability to feel. The only thing they stopped me from was killing myself. Now I wanted to die because the world was gray and I had lost the spark, even the spark to take my life. To most, it would seem crazy to stop taking the pills that were “keeping me alive”. However, this was not how I wanted to live.

For the next year, I would go through the most challenging time of my life. I wish I could go back and apologize to my children and husband. My emotions and nerves were kindling waiting for a match to strike, and most of the time I came home from work a bonfire lit by my students. I would lash out at anyone who stepped wrong. Not because they did anything so outlandish that it deserved my ire, but I was so over-stimulated from keeping myself under control at work that I exploded at home. 

Over the summer, I promised myself things would change. I wouldn’t allow my students to get under my skin. But I failed. I failed so miserably. After a horrible interaction with a parent who screamed in my face during open house, my classroom became a place of nightmares. Everything was grating on me. Students who usually listened, weren’t. Senioritis cursed the students I trusted to execute projects at a higher skilled level to underperform. But the blatant disrespect broke me at my core. 

It had me questioning every bit of my soul. Any other job, I would have left to find something that would bring me peace. But I didn’t want to abandon these kids. Kids who mostly didn’t give a shit until tears were streaming down my face. Some of those who brought on that response were too self absorb to understand they’d fucked up. I looked for other jobs. I went to several interviews, but none could match the salary I needed to earn to send my kids to camp when I no longer had summers off. Eventually I walked into my classroom with a fuck mentality. If the kids learned, awesome. If they didn’t, oh well. I understand that was a terrible way to think, but I had to stop being a doormat. 

Oddly enough, once I did that, the students changed. 

It was like being surrounded by a room of narcissists. Once they lost power, they had to find new ways to get attention. Their negative tactics weren’t working anymore, so they had to earn praise to earn my attention. And by the grace of God, my students started doing their work. It’s weird to sit and watch students work silently when for months you had been asking them to just lock in and do the work. 

The tension I carried with me started to fade. Enough so, I started to feel creative. For the last six months, I have been revising an old manuscript that may never see the light of day. It holds too many emotions that whenever I work on it I am taken back to dark places. I wanted to work on something new and fresh, so I partook in the 50k novel writing challenge that takes place in November. A spark had been lit, and I could write book two of Ravenmaster. For years I had been playing and doing research but never felt clear headed enough to write. By the time we reached Thanksgiving break, I had typed just under 24 thousand words. With everything going smoothly, I thought I could reach 50 thousand words and start revising over the Christmas break.

But life isn’t a Hallmark movie, like I was teaching in class. Or maybe it is because I am facing the possibility of cancer before forty. 

The 18 school days of December flew by, marked with appointments and biopsies that just led to more doctors. While I was in class, I looked at these groups of teens and was jealous. They had so much time to dream and learn, and I didn’t. Or maybe I did. I picked up a freelance job and edited a few podcasts. Nothing exciting, but it felt good to use my talents again. 

Between writing something fresh and original and editing, I felt alive again. The spark of creativity that died when I got pregnant with my youngest son was back. It was a feeling I had been chasing for years. There had been moments where I thought the veil had been lifted, but I think my toes were just skimming the bottom of the pool, allowing me to take a break from threading water. 

It wasn’t until I had two weeks off with my family did I finally see the light. Only this time it wasn’t a tunnel trying to kill me. My soul felt free. We spent our days carefree. I didn’t answer emails or texts from students. Some nights I wrote, other things I cuddled my babies. My husband and I took a trip with the older two and lived with no pressure. We emptied my bedroom and my husband laid new flooring. As we put things back I purged what I didn’t need anymore and I let feelings go along with it. 

I came back to school for the first time in three years excited. I had ideas about what I wanted to do differently. My inbox was filled with emails from industry professionals about the film world. I love reading them and now I know how to share them with the students. I’m going to kill myself and fight tooth and nail for them to preform. They aren’t a trick pony. But I will lead them with crumbs. Social media posts about topics I want them to learn. A newsletter beautifully designed with information that they’ll need once they leave this campus. All of it feels fresh. 

 I woke up on the new year feeling as if I could breathe for the first time. I always laugh because authors write about characters letting go of a breath they didn’t know they were holding. I think I understand what it means now. It may not be an actual breath but an emotion or fear that was keeping them down is now gone. 

Writing

Lessons on Resilience

Alexandra Diane

Share a lesson you wish you had learned earlier in life.

I’ve lost so much looking to the stars waiting for an answer. I allowed my heart to rule my destiny, ignoring the pull within my soul. I wonder what I would have been if I had chosen a different path. Would all the dark and vile things still have happened? Or would I have been safe wrapped in fate’s warm embrace? 

It feels pointless to spend time on the what ifs. There is no time machine to change the past. Even if there were, I wouldn’t know where to start. 

Would I go back and never say yes? Would I never give my number to a blonde mohawk in a sea of black? Or would I go all the way back to the beginning and have the courage to answer a simple question with the fire that fueled my heart?

It’s hard to face reality. My youth is behind me, and I have spent more time avoiding following my dreams and passions because I allowed the wrong people to guide me. Fear of the unknown has held me back more times than I can count. 

I tell myself time and time again that I won’t let fear win. At times, the darkness seeps in, settling into my mind, and doubt swells like a bitter tide. Sometimes, the warmth of the midday sun is hidden from me, leaving me cold and alone, isolated while I am surrounded by people. 

And while I dig myself out of the nightmare that is my mind, the world pushes me back down. 

An incident at work has triggered my PTSD. Digging up parts of my past that I thought I had recovered from is robbing me of the joy, comfort, and protection of my classroom. Forcing me to be uncomfortable in my skin as I have to see a person related to the wretched interaction every day. 

What will it take for me to finally break? Will I reach a point where I can no longer pick up the pieces of my life and force them back together? Wearing this mask everyday to pass for functioning is draining. How much longer will I play this game?

Teaching

Managing Classroom Anxiety: Protect Your Peace as a Teacher

Alexandra Diane

Friday out right sucked. 

When my students came in, I had a full-blown panic attack. My anxiety took over, and I allowed my stress to control me. One of my students asked if I was okay, and the tears just started flowing. I asked her to grab our AICE coordinator to come watch my class because I knew there was no way that I was going to get myself under control until I removed myself in that situation.

 When she came in, a veteran teacher was with her. The coordinator sat with the class while the other teacher walked with me so I could just breathe. The coordinator was talking with the class, and one student said, “oh she’s just having a bad day.” The coordinator just looked at her and asked, “How can she just have a bad day when you guys are her first class?”

Living with anxiety is taxing. The last time I had a panic attack this bad was over a decade ago when I was living in Brazil. Loud noises surrounded me. I was in a dark space with people that I didn’t understand the language, and my ex-husband was getting blackout drunk. I felt so helpless in this situation that my brain just shut down because that was easier than dealing with how lost I felt. That night broke me so much that I knew my marriage was ending. 

Breaking in my classroom like that really made me wonder if I needed to end teaching and move on to a different career where I don’t invest my emotions that strongly into the workplace. 

When I broke in my classroom, it was because I was at a loss, but differently. The administration’s way of dealing with students on their phones or causing disruptions is to write them up, issuing a referral. I don’t want to do that because, for seniors, if they get any referral they are no longer allowed to participate in any of the fun activities. So instead of giving them a referral and stopping them from going to Grad Night or prom because they don’t want to stop talking while I’m trying to teach, I repeatedly asked them to stop doing whatever they’re supposed to not be doing. 

I broke because I’m trying to protect them from destroying their senior year within the first three weeks of school, but not a single one of them was thinking about what they were doing to me. And when it’s the students that you look forward to seeing most that end up being the ones on their worst behavior, it takes a toll on you. 

If I had been at home or out in public somewhere where I wasn’t worried about my job, I wouldn’t have had to swallow all of this negative energy. I could have screamed, yelled, or told them to just stop at a level that a mom does with their children that puts the fear of God into them. 

But I don’t want to be screaming at them. I don’t want to do that to my children at home and I don’t want to do this with kids, who are almost adults, that I’m trying to work with them at a professional level. A large majority of them have worked their butts off to earn that respect. 

But there are those who forgot that this is a classroom. They have forgotten that I’m a teacher and that they still need to learn. What is worse is that they forgot that their actions have full consequences. 

I’m no longer going to be protecting them. I need to protect my peace. And if writing them a referral is the only way to get them to understand that I am very serious about them learning and bettering themselves, then so be it. They don’t deserve to go on all these fun things if their behavior doesn’t earn it for them. I won’t allow myself to swallow all the negativity again. They not only affect me at the workplace, but they affect me at home. And the children that I have at home don’t deserve to get that backlash that I swallow for 8 hours every day. It should be those who are mistreating me that deserve that response. 

Teaching, Writing

Struggles of a Teacher: Managing Disappointment and Disrespect

Alexandra Diane

How are you feeling right now?

I’m not.

Not good.

I’m disappointed.

I feel empty and betrayed. 

I came into this school year excited. I spent most of my summer planning out interesting ways to teach genres and trailer concepts to my students. I started with horror and built it from the start of the genre.But it seemed that, since I wasn’t dancing for TikTok or breaking up my lecture into two minute dopamine hits, a small amount tuned me out. Usually that is fine, but these students are loudest with their opinions. They are the ones who cause the most chaos. 

It sucks to have to fight with teenagers just to get them to stop talking. Hearing groan after groan makes my skin crawl. A few of these students switched into my class because they didn’t want to be in the other class. I don’t know what they expected from me. But it wasn’t to sit and listen to them bitch and moan. We are at school. You have to learn. Instead of watching trailers to watch the evolution of the genre and have all the pieces broken down, they could just read a textbook. I promise that would suck.

I started the week explaining how I stopped watching horror when I began working in news. There isn’t anything a filmmaker could create that is worse than what humans actually do. So on Thursday, the day after a monster shot up a Catholic school while children prayed at mass, I broke. 

I didn’t want to talk about death and destruction. 

I wanted to be distracted by what my students were planning to create. So as the juniors went off to their class meeting about rings, I spoke with my seniors about what the next two months looked like. Those who had me before were amazing. Scripts were already being planned out and teams built. But again there were a few who thought my class was a fuck around class. 

I hate it.

I will not be up the kids’ asses.

It doesn’t work for my class. 

My upperclassmen usually know that when I am giving them freedom, they are working one way or another. But some believe they must use their phones, shouting out things. I didn’t have the energy to fight yesterday. I just let those continue to make the same mistake over and over again. I hoped that I wasn’t going to have to collect phones from the almost adults, but it looks like I’ll be treating the majority like freshmen because the loud few can’t respect rules. 

I thought that was going to be the worst. Until a handful of my trusted kids broke my trust. I am not spelling out ‌what they did because it will be blatant who I am talking about. I have enough students who read my blogs and stalk my Instagram that they will know who I am talking about. But when people go back on their word and I find out, they are burned. There is not enough time in the school year for them to earn it back. They will graduate soon, and the years of trust that had been built has shattered. 

It sucks because I am here to listen to my students’ trauma dump all over me when they have problems. I help them with their classwork, look for jobs, scholarships, and things that are more than just teaching TV Production. If they had that elsewhere, they wouldn’t be asking me. I am not jaded in my belief that everyone has a stable home life or that they have an adult to seek guidance from. But because of that, I think they have forgotten I am the adult. I am not their peer. The disrespect has festered, and I am over it. 

So that is how I am feeling right now. 

I need a three day weekend to decompress without looking at a single email from parents accusing me of trying to fail their student because their child did not turn in work. 

Teaching, Writing

Confronting AI in Education: Teachers vs. Technology’s Role

Alexandra Diane

Today was probably the most conflicting day I’ve had in a while. We finally had a PD set up for all the TV production teachers in the district to work together. We shared every level of equipment and what software people can use, and as a group we were successful. Teachers were asking questions, guiding others in how to use software in different ways. We didn’t just sit through the same training that most of us have experienced for years.

However, when we walked into the district mandated Khanmigo training, it took that feeling away. How are we supposed to feel as humans and as educators being forced and told time and time again to use artificial intelligence in place of our teaching? The replacement is a reading between the lines because the trainer said that Khanmigo was to be treated as an assistant and as our partner. Unfortunately, the entire presentation showed how human teachers could become null and void. 

Palm Beach County spent billions of dollars developing this artificial intelligence teacher assistant. Students are mandated to have at least 10 interactions with the artificial intelligence system a week or a month; I can’t really remember. But these interactions are supposed to hold a conversation with the robot. One teacher suggested we just have them log in and say hi to the AI. I shut down that idea quickly. I don’t have time to say, okay guys, don’t pay attention to me; ask the robot whatever you want. The amount of stuff my students have been flagged asking Khanmigo is absurd. Most usually ask about why some people in history killed themselves. Or how they can do horrible things to the robot. I would love to say here, ask the robot this question, but then the students will continue talking to the AI and ignore that class is starting. 

My real problem is that they don’t encourage us to have one-on-one conversations with our students. The county already is shoving down our throats this trusted adult system, but why are we not actually working on developing a strong bond with our students? Students are being encouraged ‌to ask questions and develop a relationship with the robot. It seems counterproductive. Maybe instead of our classrooms being heavily focused on tests, and earning money for the schools, we actually teach what we are trying to have the robots teach.

The session started with an example of a poorly written “Khanstruct-a-Prompt” about scriptwriting. It was truly degrading to read. But it was supposed to encourage teachers to develop one that would work better to engage with our students. And the next example did just that. The AI chooses a scene, does a scene breakdown, gives examples of how to write a script, elements needed in a script, and helps the students write their own scene. But all of this is passive. The student isn’t being engaged with. They aren’t checking in on what the student understands. 

At this point, I don’t have a job. That is what I teach my students at the beginning of their film class. I spent hours finding sources and examples for my students. Going over every way to write unique elements of a script. But it seems like it was all pointless if I tell the students, enter this prompt and talk to the robot. Mind you, I have done it with the robot; it gets stuck. It doesn’t understand the nuances of dialogue, and after a while, it keeps pushing out the same nonsense over and over again. 

After a few more examples, we filled out a paper and chose the role of AI. We filled in the instructions and standards the AI is to use, how it is to support the students, and the expectations of the students. But aren’t all of those elements what teachers are supposed to do? 

I am confused. I thought I was supposed to teach, not robots. Or is the district trying to figure out how to get rid of teachers outside of being glorified babysitters?

Now, this whole concept isn’t totally evil. Especially for teachers who don’t care about their job. I have heard plenty of students say they have teachers who don’t actually teach. I’ve had to help them learn how to research and write papers. If they have math questions, I just tell them I will pray for them and to go ask their teacher. They end up rolling their eyes and just googling the answer and never learning how to solve the problem.

But what about the teachers who actually teach? 

Are we supposed to stare at the back of the kids’ heads because we have prompted the AI to act like a teacher? That was a suggestion repeated multiple times in the session today. That we should prompt the AI to act like a teacher. The presenter kept referring to the Khanmigo as our assistant and encouraged us to talk with the AI to collaborate with it. 

I find it amusing that it’s named Khanmigo, aside from being a production of Khan Academy. The name Khan only brings two people to mind; Genghis Khan and Khan from Star Trek. Both are villains. I’m just trying to figure out what kind of villain this software is. Is it ruthless invaders or is it somebody with vengeance trying to destroy an entire race because they were wronged? 

Either way, I can see the forced implementation of AI in this way could destroy some teachers. Outsiders wonder why teachers are leaving the profession in droves. Once upon a time, the answer was rude kids or nasty parents. But now, more than not people don’t want to fight with the new mandatory “resource” that is to help “supplement” our lessons.