Bouncing back from psychiatric illness is hard. Bouncing back into the world of work after psychiatric illness is even harder. And more nerve racking.
I was 30 years old. I hadn't worked in over 5 years. I finally had some stability with my moods and had reached the work experience placement phase of the vocational rehabilitation program in which I was enrolled.
The work experience placement or the ‘W.E.P.' as we called them in the program. Six weeks in a part-time position and suited to my skills and interests. I'm placed at the Vancouver Theatre Playhouse as a coat check girl.
All my new employers know is that I was doing ‘vocational rehabilitation'. We never ‘rehab' (too Betty Ford). Not that's there anything wrong with taking charge of your addictions. It's just that we were aware inklings about rehab, drugs, alcohol, mental illness, might put potential employers off. I wish we were further ahead than we are, but we're not.
And the media doesn't help much to decrease the stigma and fear about mental illness, now does it? Newspapers are always running headlines like: ‘Schizophrenic man attacks police'. They never splash headlines like: ‘Diabetic man attacks police' or ‘Lactose intolerant teen torches house'. And if they did, would they ever say those people weren't taking their medication? Nope. So, sadly or perhaps wisely we chose not to tell.
My first shift: an afternoon with Barney, the Purple Dinosaur! Easy. Lots of kids who didn't want to check their coats and moms who didn't have time to do so. We sailed through. We had oh, about a dozen coats in total. I worked with Lindsay, this bouncy blonde whose skeletal frame was almost transparent. She was great: bubbly, laughed at my jokes and treated me to lunch to celebrate my first day at work.
Second shift. I work with Norma. Stern, stoic; made no small talk, actually not even eye contact.
Yo-Yo Ma was performing. We were told ‘expect a capacity audience!' That meant: 657 people. It was night. It was winter. It was raining. We were going to be busy. All the coat checks would be busy.
We had a system: Norma led. I stood tag and hanger ready, like a quarterback set for the snap in the NFL final. And hike! Norma shoved me a coat. I hung, hooked, tore the tag and passed the stub to Norma. We were a well-oiled machine, the rhythmically beating heart within the coat check core. Hang, hook, tear, pass, hang, hook, tear, pass, hang, hook, tear, pass. 355 coats later, patrons seated. Stage doors closed. We breathed.
Seemed to go pretty well. Not so fast. I discover I gave out the right tags, but all out of order. In no order actually.
We had over 300 winter jackets all of them in a variety of colors: shades ranging from light black to dark black, hung in absolutely no order. It took us over four hours to get the audience out of the theatre with their proper coat.
I wasn't given a second chance. I didn't want one. Norma looked like she'd devour me for her midnight snack.
Monday morning. Mike, my job coach, called me in for the ‘debrief'. Words nose dived out of my mouth before either of us found a chair.
"I knew this would happen...I am such a loser. I told you I wasn't ready...and just because I have bipolar disorder they think...god...I knew this would happen... ...and just because I have bipolar disorder, they think they can..."
Mike stared at me in silence for, what seemed like, a totally inappropriate amount of time. Then he said "Victoria, you didn't get fired because of you have bipolar disorder. You got fired because well...you weren't good at the job."
"Huh?" I said not quite absorbing his words. "You mean it's because I was...I was incompetent? Cool! Anyone can be incompetent. Normal people are incompetent! I'm just like anybody who's bad at their job!"
For the first time in a very long time I felt normal. I felt like I belonged. It was liberating, validating even that I could be so normal I could get fired from a job. Fired not because I had bipolar disorder, not because someone found out about my psychiatric history, not because I came to work manically euphoric, but because I screwed up! Just like other people do. I was thrilled. Being fired never felt so good.
© 2012 Victoria Maxwell
(This is an adapted excerpt from her touring one person show Funny, You Don't Look Crazy)