One of the most useful words to learn when you study literature is juxtaposition. It’s one of the very first things I ensure students know and understand when they enter my classroom. For those of you who haven’t brushed up on your SAT vocabulary in a while, juxtaposition is, in essence, the deliberate contrast of two things in order to highlight the differences between those things. A great example from popular culture you are probably familiar with is the famous baptism scene from The Godfather. The juxtaposition occurs through the masterful film editing: the scene swaps back and forth between Michael Corleone renouncing Satan in church and his orchestrated murders of the heads of the other major mob families. The juxtaposition highlights Michael’s hypocrisy, lack of morals, and public façade. Without this scene, the final juxtaposition of the film (Michael’s closing the door on his wife and actress Diane Keaton’s incredibly well-acted shock) doesn’t work.

Juxtaposition occurs all over literature, but it is also naturally occuring in the world around us: a modern high-rise built in the midst of a dilapidated neighborhood, a newborn child in the arms of an aging grandparent, bombs being dropped on a beautiful, sunny day. Even the daily spiritual battle of good vs. evil is juxtaposition at its most basic. This school year, the idea of juxtaposition took on new meaning as I experienced such a juxtaposition in my own mind. My brain seemed to fracture in two: there was the woman I know I am, and the woman I had become without my consent–and they were battling each other for control every day.

“No rain, no flowers / More pain, more power / Baby, the damage is done / It won’t be long ’til we’re back in the sun.” – The Black Keys, “No Rain, No Flowers”

“We smile, but, O great Christ, our cries / To thee from tortured souls arise.” – Paul Laurence Dunbar, “We Wear the Mask”

It’s well known that the first 3 years of teaching are the most difficult. It is during those years that the majority of new teachers leave the profession. Teaching is incredibly difficult, filled with unusual challenges and requiring those who select the field to be at least a little bit insane. Once I got past the initial years and mostly figured out how to write an effective lesson, grade efficiently, and manage student behavior, I assumed that teaching would be a breeze going forward. I am not trying to brag when I say that I am an excellent teacher, but it’s true: I know my subject, my craft, and my school’s culture. However, despite all of that, teaching can be challenging for other reasons: even an experienced teacher can struggle when life outside the classroom starts to bleed through, especially when that life is tumultuous. In essence, this year, I faced such juxtaposition between who I pretended to be at school and who I was at home that, at times, I was almost incapable of doing my job.

Two years ago, in my end of school year blog post (here), I wrote the following, now ominous words: “Recently, on a church retreat, when discussing the necessity of always abiding in Christ, one of the speakers said something to the effect of, ‘You cannot build a foundation in the middle of a storm.’ What she meant was that steadfastness in Christ does not come from seasons of struggle. One does not, in the midst of a cancer diagnosis or being layoff, suddenly have the ability to trust Christ enough to survive. One must have been abiding in Christ in the easy seasons in order to build the type of foundation that does not topple when faced with difficulties. My job, this year, was an easy season and, readers, I was frantically building that foundation.” Thank goodness I did.

I gave birth to my second son about five weeks into the school year and, one month later, I was diagnosed with a severe case of postpartum depression (PPD). I did not have PPD with my first child, so I assumed I would never deal with it. I am fortunate that the education about PPD is much better now than it used to be and, even more so, that I have a strong and supportive family. PPD can take many forms: can last for a couple weeks or a couple years, manifests as anxiety or fear or deep depression or a combination of those things, and varies in levels of severity. This blog is not a place where I want to delve into my personal medical information with more detail than to say these two things: (1) my PPD was severe enough to significantly disrupt my life and the lives of my close family members, and (2) I am stable now thanks to the support of my doctor, family, friends, and spiritual leaders.

During maternity leave, dealing with PPD was incredibly difficult, but it was even harder when I returned to work. At home, I could be honest about the way I felt: I could call my mom for help; I could text my sister-in-law; I could ask my husband to fly solo, so I could nap. At work, I was alone in a sea of challenging emotions. Teaching, as much as educators try to collaborate, is still often a solo venture: I am planning my lessons; I am grading; I am responsible for being the adult in the room–the one in charge both of the students and my own emotions. A single school day felt like an insurmountable challenge. For the first few months after maternity, on the way to work, I would either cry or pull over and sleep for 10-20 minutes–coping mechanisms that often did not help at all. I would sit in my car in the school parking lot dreading the job for which I begged and prayed for year, a job that I had previously believed was my dream job. I spent my planning periods staring at a computer screen and doing nothing. It took me a week to respond to emails because I had to build up the strength to do so. Every task seemed both pointless and impossible. I felt as though I was faking it every day, masking the apathy I felt with a shadowy form of the joie de vivre I used to have. It was absolutely exhausted. It wasn’t until mid-May, only a few weeks ago, that I experienced a desire to actually go to work.

I became hyper-aware that there are people in this world who feel the way I do all the time–not just during postpartum. How do they survive? Could I look to them for solutions? How would I be able to cope with this profound sadness and paralyzing anxiety? Should I quit my job? Should I quit life entirely? I felt a near-constant desire to get in my car and simply drive away from my life without telling anyone, to be swallowed up by the vast American landscape into a kind of purgatory where I knew no one and no one knew me. I thought obsessively about running away. Fortunately, my PPD did not include a detachment from my children, so I stayed, and I sought answers in the only thing I still trusted: my faith.

There was only one logical place to turn to in the Bible: Job. If you are unfamiliar with the story, Job is a faithful man who is abundantly blessed with wealth, livestock, and 10 children. When God allows Satan to test Job, he remains faithful to God as his livelihood, children, and health are stripped from him in one fell swoop. Job, in response, does not sin but, instead says, “Naked I came from my mother’s womb, naked I shall return again. The Lord gave, the Lord has taken back. Blessed be the name of the Lord!” (1:21-22). Eventually, however, Job begins to question his suffering: “Why was I not still-born, or why did I not perish as I left the womb?” (3:11). Soon, he considers God’s role in his suffering: “My footsteps have followed close in his, I have walked in his way without swerving; I have not neglected the commandment of his lips, in my heart I have cherished the words of his mouth. But once he has made up his mind, who can change it? Whatever he plans, that he carries out. No doubt, then, but he will carry out my sentence, like so many other decrees that he has made” (21:11-14). In chapter 38, God finally begins his response to Job: “Who is this, obscuring my intentions with his ignorant words? Brace yourself like a fighter; I am going to ask the questions, and you are to inform me! Where were you when I laid the earth’s foundations? Tell me, since you are so well-informed! Who decided its dimensions, do you know? Or who stretched the measuring line across it? What supports its pillars at their bases?” (v. 2-6). He continues on, reminding Job of His power, the vastness of His creation, and the insignificance of humans in comparison to Him. He does not tell Job why suffering exists; He asks Job to humble himself before Him, to recognize He is greater than anything else.

The issue with Job is that it doesn’t provide an answer to suffering, really. It doesn’t tell you why you suffer needlessly. (“Needlessly” being the keyword as suffering you brought upon yourself due to your own sin is easily explained.) I’m not even close to being the first person who has asked why God allows us to suffer. Since the beginning of time, humans have cried out from the earth, questioning everything from infertility to poverty. Numerous Catholic saints are known for their all-consuming mental suffering. I am not the first to suffer, nor am I the first to find the answers to suffering to be unsatisfying. The question then becomes this: when you suffer–and you will–how will you handle it? Will you just opt out of life, or will you find ways to press forward, to fight, to survive?

“In this world you will have trouble. But take heart! I have overcome the world.” – John 16:33

“God had one son on earth without sin, but never one without suffering.” – Saint Augustine of Hippo

In the midst of the Early Church, Christians were persecuted for their faith every day. They regularly faced the risk of death for simply believing in the resurrection. Paul wrote the Romans, “I consider that our present sufferings are not worth comparing with the glory that will be revealed in us” (8:18). Earthly suffering, according to Paul, is so insignificant in comparison to the His glory that we will partake of in Heaven that it is easily eclipsed by the hope of future, eternal reward. Satisfactory or not, this is the answer: we will suffer, but He is greater. His plans are greater. I like the way The Chosen explains suffering: Little James, who is disabled in the show, asks Jesus why he has not healed him. Jesus responds that He chooses not to heal some, so they can offer a testimony of what it looks like to praise God in the midst of suffering and pain. (It’s worth your time to watch the whole scene.) Here I am, at the end of the school year, with an answer to suffering that seems largely incomplete and unsatisfying but, at least, I can hang on because I know the Truth: God is bigger and better than my PPD. My PPD does not disqualify me from sainthood; in fact, it may be the thing that pushes me closer to it.

I was told, at the end of last school year, that this would be a year of “no fireworks.” I was not to rework lesson plans, worry about the choices of my long-term substitute, or concern myself with the quality of my teaching. The school year (or, in my case, semester) after having a child is defined by survival, not passion: not an eager thirst for professional growth but by a steady commitment to showing up and getting the job done. In anything, I have a hard time just doing the bare minimum, but I’ve sought comfort in a piece advice from our school’s chaplain who told me that maybe God doesn’t want me to worry about anything other than showing up for my children and taking care of myself right now.

For years, I have touted that teachers need to take breaks, do things to maintain good mental health, and prioritize their families over their careers. Yet, I’ve always been able to do both: be a dedicated and fun teacher and take care of myself and my family. This is the first year I’ve truly had to accept that one of those things was not going to be possible–and that I had to find a way to be okay with it, to be okay with living with depression, to be okay with going to sleep instead of grading the tests I collected nearly two weeks ago, to be okay with the type of teacher I had to be this year. To simply be okay.

–M

If you or someone you know may have PPD, these resources may help:

• Postpartum Support International
• Office on Women’s Health (US Dept. of Health and Human Services)

Previous years’ reflections: Year 1 | Year 2 | Year 3 | Year 4 | Year 5 | Year 6 | Year 7 | Year 8 | Year 9 | Year 10 | Year 11