My job is to preach the value
of good mental health and well-being to secondary teachers. Have I applied any
of what I preach in my own life for six months? No, I’ve done the opposite.
I’ve not looked after myself at all; given up going to the gym, not thrown a
leg over the bike, got nothing in perspective, had no balance in my life.
When we have no time the things
we should keep are the first to go.
In the past month I’ve beaten
myself up something fierce, been as hard and unforgiving of myself as I
possibly could be. I’ve sought no help and kept in mind the kind words of my
good woman and my friend Rock for all of five seconds. My inner pessimist
reigns supreme. I know I must do better but I’m so fuddled that I can’t
remember how.
I know good mental health
practice but don’t do it. Why is that? Why can I not forgive myself for not
being perfect? Why have I not jumped on the bike when I’ve known it would do me
a power of good? I’ve worked seven days a week, but surely could have found or made
some pedalling time somehow.
Why have I not asked for help?
Pride? Insecurity? Is it the thought that someone will think me incompetent,
think less of me? They’re two sides of the same coin, I think.
Little by little I come to terms
with things. It helps to know that I will survive, that my good woman will
stand beside me no matter how much I stuff things up. If my job goes west, the
sun will still come up in the east. I and we will find ways; we will solve the
problems that present themselves to us.
A cousin on my father’s side
traced the family tree a long time ago. We are descended from a line of
stonemasons from Frome, Somerset, in the early nineteenth century. I’ve always
liked the image, the metaphor, of people who keep chipping away at something,
knocking off the rough to reveal something finer, some truth, underneath.
Rock on.
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