I loved being a teacher. Who am I now that an illness forced me to leave?

This First Person column is written by Lisa Schoeler who lives in Calgary. For more information about CBC's First Person stories, please see the FAQ.

I was sitting in my grandpa's oak glider having coffee, a chihuahua on my lap and another nestled between my ankles, when a text message from a former colleague jolted me from my daydreams. 

"Do you want to come pick up your rocking chair?"

For 17 years, I identified as a teacher and my dreams were tied to that rocking chair. But a worsening bipolar disorder stole that from me and now, I'm trying to forge a new identity. Who am I really if I'm not a teacher?

I was a student teacher when I saw a rocking chair in a classroom for the first time. I thought it was magic. Every day after recess, the class gathered around the teacher sitting in that chair and slipped into the story she was reading. It was intimate, warm and nurturing — like the kids were in the hands of a loving grandparent. 

I knew I wanted to be the kind of teacher who uses a rocking chair. 

After I got my certificate, I taught Grade 1 and 2 and used my rocking chair frequently. With young children, having them close to you while they learn is vital. They sit at your feet for stories, lessons and to practise math concepts. They gather for songs and silly dances. When they're close, they find courage to share their stories, dreams and fears.

The chair was part of my job, part of me.

But I couldn't keep teaching.

I was diagnosed with bipolar disorder in my adolescence. The majority of the time, the medications alone kept me well. I was successful and innovative at work, and earned promotions. I felt respected by my colleagues and the families of my students. 

But eventually the symptoms of my illness built up in waves. In addition to severe depression and mania, I experienced debilitating anxiety — anxiety about work, about parenting, about suicide. The risk for suicide is high for people with bipolar disorder.

Each time the waves crashed down around me, I was forced to go on medical leave. Several times, it became more than my husband could manage at home, and I required the 24-hour care at a locked hospital psychiatric unit. 

The last lesson I tried to deliver from my rocking chair was soaked in these waves. It was an art lesson based on the illustrations in a storybook. As I read, my anxiety built, my mind spinning. I felt frozen, knowing what was coming and helpless to stop it.

Rocking chair or not, my illness took away my job, my purpose.