I am currently off work.

It’s taken me five months to try to understand why.

Everything was going swimmingly at school. Supportive stakeholders, well-behaved pupils ("outstanding" behaviour, according to Ofsted), and visitors who always commented on how happy and welcoming the school was. Our last Church inspection was "outstanding".

But at the end of June last year, my brain seemed to implode. I went home and something snapped. I couldn’t function. I wanted to sleep all of the time. I didn’t want to see anyone – even my family.

After five months, I still won’t answer the front door at home, I only go out when I have to and I have no real desire to even meet people I know. I have become a hermit.

The doctor said I had anxiety and depression – and suggested mindfulness.

I bought the books and the audio downloads and used them, but not with much success. The books were interesting – and I tried exercises such as "The Mindful Itch": attempting to really feel the moment; experience the itch getting worse but not scratch it.

Gardening, however, has been the only thing that has kept me sane. I felt happier during and after. It was refreshing to complete manual work without interruption and there were no thoughts of any kind rushing through my mind. It was calming and peaceful.

The heavy burden of headteachers

Nothing has really enabled me to discover the "itch" that got me here in the first place. Time has been the only thing that has helped. Time to think. Time to do nothing. Time to shed some light on the reason I imploded in the first place.

I have been in the teaching profession for 22 years – 12 of which as a headteacher.

I feel demoralised. I seem to know less and less about teaching and learning, and find myself floundering in current budget worries and problem-solving that has little to do with the children themselves.

I am a people person. I am good at empathy. That has always been my strength. Well, at least it was.

That’s my "itch".

I’m always there. The "open-door" policy may as well be a "taken off the hinge" policy. Anyone and everyone has been able to stroll in, talk about whatever they need to and then stroll out again. I swear they have sometimes walked out taller, lighter and happier and I have sat at my desk getting heavier, shorter and more disheartened.  A problem shared is a problem half left with somebody else?

I can’t think of anyone I have ever turned away. But that’s why we have such a good and caring reputation. We all do it. We all give over and above. We all run the extra mile. But at what cost?

We have become too accepting of a responsibility for a raft of roles: security guards, police officers, nurses (yes, a parent once asked me if I could take a blood sample from her son), marriage counsellors, detectives and, currently, above all, "parents" and social workers – and I was even once asked if I could remove the dog poo from the street outside as people were stepping in it.

I have accompanied children and parents to the doctors and hospital for surgery and appointments, spent whole days at job centres, bought pregnancy tests, helped families move house, cleaned houses and bought furniture so that children had beds to sleep on. We have provided clothes, given "free" meals, made breakfasts and kept money in our safe so that husbands wouldn’t steal it.

We spend valuable time investigating unsupervised cyberbullying incidents that have taken place at home on a Saturday evening – with parents even bringing in or emailing screenshots full of the offending articles.

We have been shouted at, sworn at, hit and kicked and still "turned the other cheek" in support.

I have listened and listened. I have tried so hard and I think I have lost the plot. We are the superheroes who are supposed to be helping with the vast increase in social care needs and children’s mental health issues – with no additional funding to support it. And I have run out of kryptonite.

I care. I really do. But there is only so much that people can give without having a detrimental impact.

Maybe I have cared too much, but at least I do now know what the "itch" is.

I can see how over time the empathy given out has backfired. How the negative energy of the things we have to deal with on a daily basis can build up and take a part of us with it.

I’m left with one question.

Should I scratch this itch? And if so, how?

The writer is a headteacher in the West Midlands