Good show, sir

On certain days of the week, my work takes me to a learning centre for young adults with disabilities.  This can range from autism and cerebral palsy to severe anxiety and rare genetic disorders.

These are some of my favourite days, as the students are lovely and they don't send out the same waves of negative judgement towards me that the other pupils do, like last Thursday when I heard one mutter to another that my hair was sporting a 'shit dye job' when my hair colour is entirely natural, bizarre as it may be.  There is no collaboration between it and my eyebrows.  It's like they're born of different parents.

Today, after a very enjoyable maths lesson - the first time I have enjoyed maths since the age of sixteen when I was forced out of the AS class due to sheer incompetence - I was approached by one of my colleagues on the way out.

'I thought you did wonderfully today,' she said.  'The way you worked with her was just perfect.  If you can make her laugh and get her to do her work at the same time then it's really something special.'

Now I spend a good deal of my time working myself up into a hysterical lather that I am about to be fired, so this was music to my ears.

Too much music.  I burst into tears.

'What's wrong?' she said.  'I thought you'd be happy.'

'I am,' I told her between sobs.  'I'm very happy.  I just wasn't sure.'

'Wasn't sure of what?'

'If I was doing ok.'

This lady is around my mother's age, and proceeded to coo over me in much the same manner, which I very much appreciated even if the show of such genuine affection did make me cry even harder.

'I'm sorry,' I said eventually, once the gift of coherent speech had been returned to me.

'Don't you worry,' she said.  'You're doing a very good job.'

And off I went.  And I haven't had anything to drink tonight.  Apparently that's what feeling good can do to you.  I can't believe I'd forgotten.

Tea-drinking instead.  Fewer episodes of crippling depression, more of insomnia.