Chapter 1: The Suicidal SENDCo

 From the bottom up…

So, it’s official. I have become a statistic! Out of the 78% of SENDCo’s that consider leaving the profession every year, I have joined the 12% that have.

I am done!

A little bit of background about me – I have dedicated my career to students with Special Educational Needs and Disabilities. I graduated with a Music degree in 2005 and originally wanted to be a Music Therapist, before the opportunity to train to teach Music at an SEMH school was given to me on a plate – and here I have been since. In that time I have worked in three schools, two specialist, and the final being a mainstream. I joined the mainstream school working within the brand new resource provision. I successfully applied to be the assistant head and 18 months later, was promoted to whole school SENDCo. This is where the end began!

I’m not going to go into too much detail about the trials and tribulations of being a SENDCo, but in all honesty, it is the worst job in the history of jobs! A broken system + the ‘Gove and Cove’ legacy + entitlement + social media = a completely untenable profession for anyone to maintain any degree of integrity, self-esteem and positive mental health. Never in my life have I had people speak to me the way I have been spoken to as a SENDCo. Never have I ever had to fight so much against a system that is fundamentally, devastatingly broken. Never have I ever felt so useless, incompetent and like a failure. Never have I been quite as fragmented and heartbroken for myself, my colleagues and my professional integrity.

Needless to say, 18 months in and I broke. Not just a little, but a full break! It was brewing for a while. I’d already had two similar events where I’d managed to pull myself together, put on my big-girl pants and challenge my inner Frida, “We can endure much more than we think we can”, which was enough to temporarily fight a bit longer. I probably should have recognised the signs, in fact I think I did! But like any teacher who ‘has too much to do to feel’, I buried it. I let that pop bottle shake and fizz up and up. I ran out of spoons. My colleagues noticed it. The LEA told me to be more resilient (very helpful!). But after working a 13 hour day, a day of justifying my actions (again) and cushioning everyone’s blame (because I was the face of which to aim frustration), I was pushed and pushed to my absolute limits. It took one person to ask how I was, and that was it.

I cried – a lot! Big, blubbering, ugly crying. Through my tears and hyperventilating sobs I admitted that there had been dark thoughts in my mind; convincing myself that my family would be better off without me. I was so ‘un-present’ anyway as I was always working, it wouldn’t make any difference, and they’d at least benefit from my life insurance. I had chosen my tree. I had eyed up my husband’s insulin and was tempted to just fall asleep. I was done.

Eight weeks later, lots of walking, running, concentrating on myself and some happy pills, and I’m pleased to say I have completely turned my life around. It’s not very often I big myself up, but I am actually so, so proud of myself!

When my head was ready, I got someone else to look at my CV and started applying for jobs. At first, I didn’t know what I wanted, but I knew what I didn’t want. I applied for a number of jobs, but one I really wanted was a job with the Ministry of Justice. I was absolutely thrilled to get through the sifting and be offered an interview. I went to the interview refreshed and ready and smashed it – I left it feeling positive and competent (a feeling I hadn’t felt in a while). This was enough at this point. I was so proud of myself for getting that far in such a short space of time. When I got the email to offer me the job, I went into a complete state of shock and disbelief. I shook and I cried happy tears. I was out – I was actually out! And doing a role that I really wanted to do.

People have asked me since how it feels. I have a whole melting pot of feelings; excitement, anxiety, elation, fear, anticipation. But most of all, I just feel relief! Relief that I can start again and start to be myself again.

It sounds completely cliché, but becoming a teacher isn’t just getting a job, it’s living a vocation. You become a teacher and you forever present as teacher. ‘Teacher’ oozes from your every atom of identity. My 10 year old always says to me I can’t take her anywhere without the teacher coming out (she hates a museum trip!). As much as the prospect of being 65 and still standing in front of a bunch of teenagers was, I always knew I was where I should be. I am a teacher and I am good at it. Having lived through the good years and knowing the direction that education has and is travelling in, I don’t however see it getting any better. I for one, am scared for what what is to become and for my poor girls having to live it. I am heartbroken that this is how it ends. However, that feeling of relief is still all encompassing!

This blog is going to document my transition from ‘Mrs Proctor’ to just me. I am terrified of being something else. But the fear of starting something completely different is not as scary as staying in a job that made me feel as low as I did. And I don’t ever want to feel that way again.