We have a performance evaluation coming up—all of us do. English teachers are first. Math teachers second. They start next week, so VP Ma’am is losing her mind. What she does under circumstances of stress is what anyone with childhood trauma does: she wants someone with her. She wants to know she is seen and someone is there if anything happens to her.

So she demands a lot of attention. The hard part is that she transmits a lot of terror, and I can barely regulate my own emotions under normal conditions. I can’t co-regulate with her, nor can I calm down her after her little whirlwind of stress passes through. It’s fucking hard to deal with, especially since I know that Punishing Parent is next. If she feels under threat, which she might, she will punish me.

It was so painful the first time I realized she really does want to hurt me: the time when she looked at my National Dress, complimented it, and then immediately criticized something else about. Oh, yes, that was on purpose. She is punishing me. It was so painful when I realized in the C situation (when C got in trouble at school in April), that she was angry at C and wanted to hurt her and what she was doing was repeating every nasty rumour about her that she had heard and then telling me people were saying this about my daughter, so that I would be hurt also. It was so hard to recognize that someone wants to hurt me. Just knowing that is so painful. I am sure it echoes the pain of my mother’s punishing parent. You aren’t trying to guide me or teach me. You are trying to make me hurt.

I handle it as delicately as I can.

It means she finds these excuses to talk to me throughout the day. It’s never at a convenient time. It’s always 2 minutes before the bell rings or when I am walking to class, or some time when it intrudes on what I need to do. Probably because she holds the urge in, and suddenly it comes out. It’s not thought-out.

Today, she wanted to know what the expression “hemmed and hawed” means. Now, she is not very computer literate, so I can forgive her for not asking Uncle Google. However, she asked me four times. Actually, she did know, but there was a typing error in the textbook—of these, there are many. Still. It was literally four times.

“Is it like that?”

“Yes.”

“Is it like that?”

“Yes.”

“Is it like that?”

“Yes.

“Is it like that?”

“Yes.”

I had to go to the toilet then. I did anyway—badly. But she does that. The same question, repeatedly. Fucking yes. Is there some part of yes that confuses you? Is it not an emphatic yes? Is there something wrong with the yes?

Then walking to class, suddenly needing to discuss the questions for a quiz game on Saturday. Which we had discussed. And I had stated my opinion about already. And she had disregarded those opinions. So.

I went to class full of the triggered memory of simply not mattering. Thank you, VP Ma’am for sharing the disordered attachment love. Now I can go and see if I can activate every child in that class who also has disordered attachment. (I did.)

I don’t mind if someone doesn’t like my ideas, but if you don’t agree with me, stop fucking asking. I have other work to do. I would prefer to do it.

Anyway, it is an excuse for contact. She knows the meaning of hemmed and hawed. And she is stretching it out, because she wants something more than just yes out of me. I am reminded of the C’s vouchers, and my blogging friends cancelling and rescheduling. The little parts are sneaky. Or try to be. I did it on Sunday myself, suddenly remembering that I didn’t know if C had gotten a 1000 I had sent up inside a letter along with pancakes and hot sauce.

That was a little part, wanting contact. C didn’t respond. Clever girl. I am playing. Stop interrupting me. Fair enough.

As soon as I sent the text, I realized what I had done. Yup. Little parts. Nothing wrong with little parts, but C is a child. She isn’t my mommy. VP Ma’am, I am your colleague. I am not your mommy.

It’s going to be a hard week.

 

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