It’s a creeping sensation which has always left me dizzy, queasy and distant. It usually starts on a Saturday morning, and at first isn’t that unpleasant. A gentle question comes from somewhere. Are you ready, it asks. Will you be ready?
What it really asks is, do you have every minute of the five hours teaching you’ll be doing on Monday locked down? Do you have every single eventuality covered? Do you know the answer to every potential question covered? Will you know what to say and do in every possible situation? Or, will someone punch through, find a hole, and you leave you exposed as a fraud, only an imitation of a man going about his working day.
The feeling grows and grows through Saturday. It’s hold can be loosened by keeping busy, but by the end of the day, it occupies half my thoughts.
Sunday night, and my extensive notes for the next day are covered in annotations, some even readable. Even fewer are useful.
I don’t want to be consumed this way any longer. It shouldn’t be this way after twenty years. I’ll be sad to leave it behind, because by all accounts I do it well. But it comes at a price.And I don’t want to pay it any longer. So I’ve chosen a new way., which will come with its own problems. Is it really worthwhile giving up on a stimulating job for one that is less so, but offers less mental stress? How will I fare being away from the type of environment where I made such strong connections with the people I worked with, and for?
Well, no time to turn back. Except when there is.