Sorry miss Jenkins

I can’t get the motivation I need to move on. I feel stuck where I am, lonely, uninspired, ungrateful, scared, lazy, frightened, on my own. But I don’t feel suicidal today, that’s a start.

Yes this is seriously what it is like and I wish something would happen to jolt me into action. But I feel like I’m wearing one of those sumo suits and that my body is now just too big to carry around. I now prefer to leave the house and go places in my dreams, the good ones anyway. I feel trapped.

I’m supposed to be getting this graded exposure program that lasts 6 weeks. They think that I’m going to be able to go on the bus on my own and into town and back. I question this plan. I’ve lived here for four months in a rural location and been waiting all that time for my graded exposure plan. It’s not going to work and I’m going to seem ungrateful when the person comes to do it.

My new CPN looks a lot younger than me and is so mousey I think she is half mouse. I hope she has had a breakdown. I really do. Otherwise how is she gonna get me gradually exposed? I’m just gonna ignore her or not answer the door. She’s going to struggle with me and I already feel sorry for her. She reminds me of my French teacher at school who I nearly gave a nervous breakdown to.

I was such a twat to her. At the time I loved it because I was on a roll, all of my smart arse comments came out brilliantly and even my follow up comments got a laugh. Moments like that don’t come along often so I milked it, I was like a professional stand up comedienne. But you know what? The best bit, and also the worst bit, is that every time she tried to shut me up and get me back on task I had perfect backchat, sometimes even in French, because I was good at French, probably the best in the class. I went on (controversially) to get an A at GCSE and after that my French teacher at college called me a natural linguist. And I never bothered. It was a waste.

I tortured that poor French teacher (by being quite funny) into walking out of the class crying and for what? Because I found French easy and her lessons boring? Because for once people were laughing and I was good and funny, at any expense, and for once I wasn’t miserable in that effing school, for one double French lesson.

I was taken out of her class (she rightly refused to teach me) and put into the nohopers class. The aim in my new class was not to pass French gcse, it was to not get pregnant, overdose on drugs or get stabbed. I avoided all of those things, pretended I didn’t know any French and got an A. The teacher helped me after class because if I spoke French in this classroom, even to take the piss out if the teacher, I would have probably have got battered. Everyone in this class was going to fail. There were one or two aiming for a C but the teacher and I knew it wouldn’t happen.

I was a strange teenager. I was clever but I threw it away all the time. I didn’t care about getting into trouble, or maybe I did care, and wanted to get into trouble because I was so bored of school. French and all of the other classes just bored the crap out of me and so I was always looking for something to get up to. The most infuriating thing for my teachers was when they tried to shut me up and make me work, I knew my stuff. I knew what they were teaching or I had decided it was pointless for my life (i.e. quadtratic equations) so I always had a smart arse answer. I was the ultimate bad student, the type that good teachers love to hate and bad teachers fear with intensity.

And I went on to become a teacher. The irony is massively ironic. But as a teacher I would never meet a worse student than myself, not even to this day. I’m not proud of that. I found teaching easy and loved the naughty students because I knew every trick in the book myself but also because it was a challenge to engage them in learning and most of the time I managed it (even if it took ages and I had to resort to swearing at them). I was fortunate that I never got anyone worse than me. Fortunate and now as I’m older, embarrassed.

The teacher I made cry and leave the class, was called Julie Jenkins. I called her mamoiselle Julie. I was not allowed to but I did. Then I started copying the way she wrote her name and writing my own name like that. I wish I hadn’t been such a smart arse. I also wish miss Jenkins could see me now, stuck at home lonely and not knowing how to proceed. I’m not such a smart arse now miss Jenkins. Still, I’ve still got a feeling that my mousey CPN is in for a ride. I can see her walking away from me crying and asking for a different patient because I’m a smart arse, or, uncooperative. But really it will just crumble because I’m scared and she doesn’t look strong. She doesnt look like she will shout at me. She looks like if I shout at her she might cry.

This is not good because my plan b is to eat myself into the house so that I get so big I can’t get out, like an American. My only reservation, and why I havent started plan b is in case it doesn’t work and I lose heaps of weight one day and try to leave the house and live etc, I would be left with those flaps of excess skin that nobody can do anything about. I’m not keen on starting growth of those flaps just yet so I’m holding off.


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