Feary. It's a term my friends and I use lightly.'OMG i drunk too much and phoned him for 12 minutes and I have no idea what i said, I'm so feary.",  " i slept with him. again. feary isn't the word.' 'I'm so feary about work tomorrow.'

It implies a state of uncertainty, of doubt, of fear.

You left, packed your bags and moved.
We travelled, no need for a map, driving with a purpose
You unpacked with a, broad smile and wide eyes
I clenched my jaw, muscles working too hard
Keeping everything together.
I made your bed, and you discovered the loose screw on the towel rail
I wrote it down, knowing you'd keep the imprint copy of the form, staining your room with my handwriting.
You told me where to put your clothes, i folded everything away
clothes, memories in my brain.
We smiled, mine forced, yours beautiful, expectant, excited
You held me, told me it would be okay
Outwardly, i agreed
We walked to my car, both needing to say more, neither verbalising
I drove. You walked,
Away
For now.

Feary.

Holiday, It would be so nice.

It occurred to me recently, that I have not properly written in a  while. This somewhat alarming realisation came to me when I was lying in 35 degree heat, reading The Fault In Our Stars (again) and listening to Lewis Watson's  bloody fantastic debut album.

I was on holiday with a boy.

We departed from Gatwick South terminal and breezed through check in- my suitcase was underweight for the first time since I was 11 and seamlessly moved through security, my titanium knee not setting the alarms off was a massive bonus. All in all, so far, so good. There was a Nandos. We had two hours to kill. It was legitimately the best airport of my life. We purchased six toblerones, two huge bottles of water, a milkshake and spent the remaining half an hour judging people who  we would never see again. (I mean, what 20 something wears Crocs for Christ's sake?!)

Now, I love flying. But i hate planes. I'm 5 foot 10 and my boyfriend is just over 6 foot. Plane seating was not built for people with long legs and above the height of 5 foot 5. My knees were permanently digging into the passenger in front; the seats are so packed in, that I genuinely felt a little like a sardine in a can, and discovered a moment of melancholy sadness for the poor things. There's another thing I hate about planes: the other passengers. I was sat next to the chavviest teenage girl, whose mother decided it would be a good idea,to buy her underage daughter, duty free cigarettes for their holiday and let her drink on the plane. I should also note, that the mother then swapped to sit with me and decided to tell me all about her intense fear of flying, clutching on to my arm and genuinely causing a riot, as the plane came to a perfectly normal landing. I dislike people.

The holiday itself was amazing, we were staying at an all inclusive resort, ten minutes outside of the main harbour of Playa Blanca in Lanzorote. The food was incredible, I felt like Gus and Hazel at Oranjee. Buffet menus, free alcohol and soft drinks, and I was in heaven. Most days, we just lay in the sun by the pool. However, I found myself again, incensed at other human beings. When we arrived, we got a welcome pack with dinner dress codes etc on it, and a polite reminder that reserving sunbeds by towels was prohibited- SO WHY DID I ARRIVE TO A SEA OF MULTICOLOURED COTTON EVERY MORNING WITH NO OWNERS ATTACHED TO THEM?! (Sorry, I was very  upset by this)

 Luckily, George is the most easy going person I know, so he lead me to another block of sunbeds, got me a Kaz (like fanta, but better) and calmed me down. I should also mention that George is very active, he stupidly but amazingly ran a marathon with little training in 3 and a half hours. Now, my realizations of going on holiday with a boy were starting to develop.

On holiday, I like to do as little as possible. I like to lie in he sun, read a book, swim occasionally and have a scheduled afternoon nap because I'm old and I don't like to  deny myself such perks. George can sit still for approximately 20 minutes. Subsequently, we became pool, bat 'n' ball and table tennis experts, and now I think I could play in the Olympics for any of those activities. It was also just as I had reapplied my factor 50 (ginger problems) ready to work on turning my milk bottle complexion into a more agreeable shade of freckles that his tanned little face would pop next to mine and ask to play water volleyball, I mean of all the times?!  He also suggested climbing one of the volcanoes. I got my way with that one, no bloody way.

One day we walked the forty minutes to the main centre of Playa Blanca, the ten minutes away, as previously mentioned was in actual fact by car- the rep didnt tell us that bit. I got my hair braided, and George ate donuts; we also found a pick and mix shop. Glorious. But the hightlight of our adventures out of the safety of our little bubble, was to the market, where my poor spanish was not helpful, apart from when I had a conversation with a jeweller about his mother and my own being the same age. We got local wine, and the little man on te stall, gave us free bottle openers as a gift ( I don't think he had much custom) and George found the local football team's new shirt. Again- why?!

As our holiday was coming to an end, we planned a meal at the harbour, with our left over Euros (we had spent the majority on pick and mix and icecreams). I was in the shower, when I heard a scream from George. Still with shampoo in my hair, I rushed out of the bathroom, causing a small ocean to be formed on the floor, and arrived to George rifling though our paperwork, his usual easy smile had been replaced by his eyebrows knotted together furiously and  his eyes were wild.

"Rachel, we aren't leaving tomorrow, we are supposed to be leaving for the airport in 15 minutes"

SHIT.

We were supposed to be out of our rooms at 12. It was now 6.15 and we needed to pack, check out, and get on a coach by 6.30.  Panicked was not the word.

just a bit panicked then.

so, our lovely, relaxing holiday, ended with me packing our cases blindly, throwing away many toiletries, forgetting my nail varnish as it was left in the fridge, putting on the first clean clothes we had and sprinting to catch the transfer coach to the airport, me with hair so wet, I may as well have just admitted to the other passengers that I was unaware that our flight was that evening.

Having arrived looking disheveled and me still with wet hair, we had a romantic Burger King, got more Toblerones, and there was nobody sat next to me on the plane home.

The good thing about being in such a state of panic? We didn't have time for holiday blues. But now, as I'm sat at home, having sorted my car in for a service, ordered a new tax disc, done two lots of washing and a food shop, I'd do anything for one last game of table tennis in the sun.

Robbers

I haven't written in a while. I miss it.

 I'm 24 with no clue as to what I'm doing. I dye my eyebrows too dark on purpose. I like avocado and hummus more than is strictly normal and have a slight obsession with 24 hours in A and E. I wonder if I'm actually making a difference to the children in my class. I hope I am.  I am the most competitive person you will meet; I rule at Monopoly for this very reason. I strongly believe that second place is a first place loser. There are times where I'm still extremely angry about the past. I over think too much and that's why I don't sleep- not for any of the other reasons I may tell people- it's  because I wake up in a cold sweat thinking about everything that could go wrong. I have huge regrets. Topshop jeans are the only ones that fit my huge bum and oddly long legs. i have the best friends and boyfriend- they are the people that keep me sane, one of my best friends called me to say she was having a poo when my dad was diagnosed with cancer; that was the only thing that made me smile in about a month. There are days where I can't stand to see the person staring back at me in the mirror. Those days I wish I could still run. There are dreams I've given up on, because I figure I'm an adult now and don't have time for them.  Lilies are my favourite flower, and Alien is my perfume of choice. I have 50 odd pairs of shoes, and wear about 6 on a regular basis. Likewise with nail varnish,I'm practically a hoarder. I'm scared that people will figure me out and that I'll die alone having had all my cats eat me. There are nights where I sleep with a stuffed bear so that I have something to hold on to. I've given up sugar in my tea and decided that tea is rank without it, but because I'm stubborn I keep drinking it anyway.  I miss being young. I miss not having responsibilities and when my biggest concern was what to have for breakfast, now I don't even have time to breathe, let alone eat.  I love the rain. Frozen is a masterpiece. McBusted were the highlight of my May

I haven't written in a while. I miss it.

overjoyed

We went to the church where your parents got married, we played with lambs and ate Chinese food. We fell asleep, early, tangled together, curled into each other's necks. I have never smiled as much as I did when you opened the door to let me in. You make me a better person. You're a game changer. You're an opportunity for happily ever after. 

I came close this week to never wanting to step foot in a classroom again after my NQT year.

I dreamed of other jobs, other countries, other lives. 

The reality is this. I don't have a life. 

I'm in school at 7am, and most nights I don't leave til 7pm. I work through my break-time doing intervention and rarely have longer than fifteen minutes of lunchtime because I'm always doing something or other. I sit down for approximately twenty minutes, once I've returned home, to eat my dinner. After those precious few minutes when I can savour the taste of food which is meant to keep me energised, and which does anything but, I settle down to do my marking which can take anything up to three hours, then make resources, plan lessons and answer emails till anything up to 1am. That's an eighteen hour day. Every day.

Weekends don't exist. 

I plan, make resources, complete data, sort interventions, and mark some more. I work solidly for about sixteen hours over the weekend. I don't have nights out, I don't go out for dinner. I don't even get to watch television. The time I get to spend with people, I worry. Endlessly. About lessons, about data, about individual children, about observations. About everything. I feel guilty for having time to myself. How ridiculous is that?

Don't even mention sleep. 

I'm exhausted. I am beyond exhausted. I feel as though I'm on the edge of some sort of meltdown. 

People tell me it get's better. It hasn't. It won't. "Yes it will!" People say. Naive individuals. My class next year will have completely different needs, levels, abilities and interests. They will be completely different children, I can't just pick up the planning I've done for my current class and assume it's going to fit. It wont. 

An article from The Guardian, explained it beautifully, 

'But despite this, I rarely had an evening to myself, let alone a holiday without work. I know some people think that teaching is a job that will fill every moment if you allow it to, but I wasn't doing anything more that was necessary to prepare properly and I streamlined things as much as possible. An unsustainable work-life balance is a normalised and accepted as part of the job, but it shouldn't be.'

I really hope that my love for my class and job outweighs the hatred of the pressure, the expectations and the doubt that's lying in my head, creeping ever closer. Telling me I'm not good enough.

Just let me sleep.