Going back to work

"My actions are my only true belongings. I cannot escape the consequences of my actions. My actions are the ground upon which I stand." ~Thich Nhat Hanh

When I was admitted to the hospital, I sent a text message from the ER to my boss to let her know I wouldn't be in for my shift that night.  The only thing I told her was that I was being admitted to the hospital.  I didn't tell her why, I had no idea how long I would be in there.  I ignored the text messages that followed.  The ones that asked what was wrong, would I be in the next day, how long did I anticipate being out of work.  I didn't know.  I wasn't in a good place to deal with that either.  My mother went in either that night, or the following day to talk to someone about taking me off the schedule for at the very least that week.  All in all, I ended up being out of work for just under a month.

Coming back was really hard.  I wondered what the rumors were around my absence.  I didn't want to know what they were.  How would I handle the inevitable questions about what was wrong that led me to be in the hospital for a week?  I decided I would answer any questions with "I'm feeling much better, thank you".  Ultimately, that worked sometimes, other times I just had to say I was sick, but I'm feeling better now.  Then some persisted even further trying to pry down deep and find out how I was sick.  What did I have.  There didn't seem to be a good answer to that, so I just said it was personal and I'd rather not talk about it.

I lived with the fear that if people knew why I had been inpatient, they would have judged me, felt unsafe with me working in the part of the store where I worked.  I was afraid they'd gossip or look at me like I was weak. 

I came back to work on a very limited basis, just working one day a week.  It was exhausting, but I did it.  I was out functioning in society.  I looked normal, not like I had been sick enough to be out for as long as I was.  If it had been a "medical" issue, like a burst appendix, or a seriously broken bone that needed surgery, or God forbid cancer, I would have more comfortable sharing what was wrong.

I ended up ultimately leaving that job, as scheduling was a nightmare around my therapy, school, and kids.  I'm now working in a work study job that gives me modest hours, that work with my school schedule as it changes each semester.

I think that we, who are afraid of telling people what is wrong, help keep the stigma alive and well.  I'm working very slowly to get it out there that I have an illness, and that sometimes I'm fragile, sometimes I get anxious over silly things.  I'm writing about it so others can read to learn what it's like, or people who are in similar situations have someone to relate to.

Mental illness is real.  Just like any other disease.  There are treatments, and services out there for those of us who suffer from this disease.  Maybe, if one person opens up to one other person every once in awhile, we'll be able to start to crack through the stigma.  The one where people think that everyone on the inpatient unit is psychotic, or that no one with mental illness can work among them.