Last summer I fired my psychiatrist. We had a fundamental disagreement over the value of work in my life. She believed that my mental health was far more important than any job, while I maintained that although this was basically true, I was far more likely to survive if i could continue to enjoy the benefits of a stable income. I suspected that if her fee was contingent on my earning ability, she may have had more of an interest in keeping me as a viable member of the work force.
Her treatment of me is not my point, however. My point is that I am lucky; although I am sometimes severely impaired, I have long periods of time in between episodes when there is little wrong with me. Oh, sure, I keep my quirky outlook borne of years of surreal experience, but on the whole, I’m a regular kind of person.
While I do not deny for a moment your, my, or anybody else’s right to wear plaids with stripes and wander the streets muttering to ourselves in some lanuage foreign to every nation on this planet about the latest in conspiracy theories, it is my firmly held belief that mainsteam society has a lot to offer us. But mainstream society wants us to look OK. It is much more acceptable to try to explain to a well person that you have hallucinations than it is to demonstrate these symptoms. And sick or not, there’s a lot to be gained simply by being clean and polite.
It is no small acheivement for me to show up for work on a daily basis, and perform on a rigid schedule. I have lessons to plan, and papers to correct, events to schedule, and documentation to keep. Life is hard all around; more and more children exhibit challenging behaviors. Sometimes being a psychiatric patient is an asset. Nothing these children can dream up compares with what I’ve seen as an inpatient.
When I can meet these challenges it is difficult to remember that my illness is real and to protect myself against it. I force myself to eat and sleep at reasonable hours, and work at getting people to understand that I must have some time in the middle of the day to rest and put my feet up. This is not just for my comfort. Experience has taught me that it’s downright dangerous to work all day without rest.
I have an invisible disability, but a potentially deadly one. The trick is learning to appropriately care for myself while supporting myself to the best extent I am able. Work means freedom. Work means being able to live on my own, do my own shopping, and get myself from place to place.
Granted, we can’t all withstand the pressures of a job. Sometimes I can’t. Sometimes my head blows apart and I think one more day on the job will kill me. But I know which I prefer. Tomorrow I’m going back to work. And I’ll count myself lucky to do it.