J. sent a link to this article. She writes eloquently about many things that have been swirling around in my mind.
I actually cared about every single one of those lying, cheating students. I loved them all. I worked myself to death trying to help them out only to have them sabotage themselves. I played priest, counselor, academic advisor, artistic mentor, surrogate mommy, and disciplinarian. I listened to them cry, curse, explain to me why they were in jail for most of the semester. Somewhere along the way, the worst possible thing that can happen to a teacher happened to me: I got sick of the endless conversations, the endless repetition of behaviors, the constant handling of student “issues.”
The ironic part is that I loved teaching. I loved it with a passion that I can’t describe. I’m more myself when I’m in front of a group of people explaining complicated concepts. I have a real knack for breaking things down into steps and parts; I instinctually understand how to present them. I’m a good counselor and mentor; I know how to encourage people. Unfortunately, I lost the ability to believe in the nobility of teaching. It became nothing but a constant burden. I couldn’t find the fulfilling part anymore.
I don't think I'll ever get there; the part of my personality that requires me to constantly be of service is one of the reasons I'm teaching where I am. The kids I teach are less likely to feel entitled, I think, and more likely to need me to love them. But I do feel the exhaustion of putting my life into my high school students and getting very little in return. The work of schoolteaching isn't work to me; I love the planning, the breaking down of ideas, and the art of explaining things. It's the one-way emotional side of teaching these particular kids that is sucking the life out of me. Other teachers must have more love in them to give, or must be able to not love their kids, or have figured out how to love their kids in a way that isn't draining. I don't seem to be able to do that.