To be well-heeled is to be the object of envy of others. At first (and maybe the only) glance, I would agree. If you saw me finely dressed and layered in the likes of Cartier, Louis Vuitton, Hermes, Bulgari, Yurman and more, have you already misjudged me? These layers are a mere shroud, a disguise. They envelope a very fragile skin that takes me great effort to hide my true self from others. What could possibly be wrong with me? Take the time to look beneath the layers and you will see that my true skin is transparent. The tornadic winds that tear within the shell of my body are horrifying as you watch them move through me and devastate my body and mind, the lashing rain which never stops and often results in real tears of my own on the outside. The endless bolts of lightning ripping throughout my body, whipping me into an uncontrollable and disorienting frenzy of internal panic attacks on the inside, most for no reason. I am more Frankenstein’s monster than I am the well-heeled, cheerful Sunday stroller walking down Fifth Avenue as I first appeared to you.
No one really understands the workings (and failures) of the bipolar mind better than another bipolar or a doctor-specialist. Coming in a close second are those individuals who have a strong and knowledgeable connection to a bipolar person. At first glance, bipolars aren’t any different than the next person on the street. But now imagine that you are Frankenstein’s monster trying to navigate your way through the minutiae of life that others pass through with ease. You feel as if life has played a cruel and unjust joke on you and purposely set out to take you down. Whatever the problem is that you are experiencing, imagine magnifying it ten-fold. Your heart will be racing from the anxiety and your chest is ready to explode, while at the same time you are just so tired and defeated and depressed that you could lay down on a dirty city sidewalk and go to sleep.
I really thought that with this new blog I would be writing about the beautiful and enlightening experiences that would make silliness or humor out of my bipolar experiences, or at least make the bipolar more palatable. Recently, that is not how it is working, and I am locked in a box of negativity, self-defense, depression, anxiety and turmoil.
The first quarter at my company went off with a really big bang … in a very, very bad way. After only two disastrous months in my new department, I felt I had no choice but to approach my employers and ask for a Reasonable Accommodation based upon my rights under the Americans with Disabilities Act (ADA), even though I knew there was no place to move me. I would not have been surprised to be let go (I am sure the company’s legal team made sure to keep me there for fear of a lawsuit). It was ok at first, a lot of boredom and feeling like a pinball as I bounced from department to department to department throughout the day. I no longer have “my space,” no private office area to hang my coat and bag, no place to rest for five minutes to gather my thoughts or to self-reflect. But I deal with it.
And then the assault on my paperwork for those two months began. I was torn to shreds on Zoom by members of management who do not seem to have a grasp on what bipolar does to a person’s ability (or lack of ability) to think and act coherently. I was so demoralized that suddenly the 11 years I had worked there was of no merit or value. My future was being determined by the two months I would consider the worst two months of my 11 year history there, two months where I faced open hostility in my office, and a general tone of “not available” to me when I did have a question. The Admin I sat with clearly has no understanding of the bipolar mind in motion, the lack of clarity, the panic, the depression, “fight or flight,” which is usually flight for me. It has been having such a negative effect on my mind and body that I have returned to where I can’t eat, I am exhausted all day long, and all I want to do is sleep.Â
I had a brief reprieve last week courtesy of catching a cold (not Covid). I woke Saturday very ill. I slept the entire weekend. Work’s health-protocol kept me home Monday and Tuesday, so no planning time for the Wednesday torture session. So I slept! I have also decided that when the next email comes to “continue” the conversation, I need to speak up for myself and ask for a pause while they read the one whole year’s worth of Lesson Plans, Notes, and brief Narratives to see what my notes USUALLY look like. They will not be perfect, but they are night and day compared to the Hell and torture they have been putting me though. After all, it was only two HOFFIFIC months where my bipolar was out of control compared to eleven years of STELLAR Reports, Narratives, and Conferencing. Something has to give, and if I am asked to bite the bullet, I may need to have the bullet bite back, at which point there is no point of return.
What would you do???
Blessings,
Noor
PS. Today is my birthday. The ultimate gift would be early retirement, only gotten through my husband, adding a few more productive and able-bodied years to the construction, decoration, and landscaping of our retirement home. This body is not getting any younger or more able, so every year counts.