They make it damn near impossible.
A week into my leave of absence from work it was clear that neither the persistence of this manic break nor my doctor were going to allow me to return to work anytime soon. I hadn’t had an episode this severe in nearly 15 years and the time that had passed created an ignorance of just how bad things can get. I honestly expected to rest for a few days and then resume life right back where I was, except better. As if nothing had happened.
I, the one who writes about mental illness, had hardened to the fact that all the therapies I write about would prevent me from ever having to deal with the full force of psychotic mania again. Yet here I was, huddled in the corner, afraid of my own thoughts and consumed by a rage so severe I feared what I might do. Part of what led up to this was that I had stopped meditating, ignoring my own advice and suffering for it. A bigger part was my job, with it’s defeating scheduling and harassment, which I had to leave and deal with the forceful order from my doctor that I should not go back there. I was in no state to work. So disability it would be.
The Family Medical Leave Act (FMLA) guarantees an employee up to twelve weeks off to deal with their own or a family member’s illness. It protects your job and your benefits. I knew documentation would be required, but I had no idea how much. And at this point I was only asking for a few weeks to get my shit together, not money.
Something called FMLA Source contacted me with a request for documentation supporting my leave. But they did not specify what documentation was required or acceptable. All the emails came from an address titled “do not reply.” Then I received a notice directing me to claim for short-term disability (STD). I thought this was a mistake. I thought I would soon be getting better, but just the mention of disability set the walls spinning. I had been writing for years about the evils of being trapped on disability, and how a life spent on disability was one lived without the possibility of healing. This notice was only for STD, nothing longer than 26 weeks, but darkness sealed around me as my agitation spiked and I surrendered.
For years I’ve been the “get off disability” guy. I write about work. The necessity of work and the purpose and independence work make possible. No matter what. No matter how bad things got, I always got up and went to work. I always found health, mental health, was enhanced by just getting things done. The disability forms were attached to the email. I opened the attachment and was overwhelmed. I closed it. Everything became worse.
When my readers contact me it’s often to thank me for inspiring them to find, or at least try to find, meaningful work. Some have even said they’ve managed to come off disability and live full lives. Others do consistent volunteer work and through it find purpose. Meaningful Work is even in the title of my book, Practicing Mental Illness: Meditation, Movement and Meaningful Work to Manage Challenging Moods, and I see it as the highest pursuit, along with love, in life. And here I was staring at an STD form. Here I was, as if I had never recovered at all, as if the 15 years of living well had ended. I ignored the email. It was a Tuesday. I became suicidal.
I looked at the form again on Friday. It had a section for my doctor to fill out and a section for my employer to fill out. The doctor part was easy, but I had filed a harassment claim at my employer and was not about to go back there asking them to complete paperwork for me. Stigma from a manager had put me here, and my refusal to confront her, to make a case for the employability and good work of a person with a mental illness bred in me an even greater stigma – a stigma against myself because I have a mental illness. A gnawing feeling that maybe I can’t do well at a job and shouldn’t be hired. A need to put aside the newsletter and stop being honest about my bipolar disorder. The deep-seated belief that I was flawed. I’ve long campaigned about the stigma society holds against people with mental illness, but maybe, deep down inside, I agree with them. Maybe I couldn’t work, and shouldn’t. The disability claim unearthed a long-buried self-hate. I wasn’t up to working, and I wasn’t up to the confusing contradictions of filing for STD. The email said it was easier to file online than with the forms, but the email had no link for online filing.
My wife and daughter and I drove the next day to visit a friend’s family. This friend told me once that mental illness doesn’t exist. If it didn’t, then right then neither did I. On the way up another friend called to say she had injured and had surgery on her rotator cuff and she was out on STD. My wife and I discussed “how is my disability different?” We decided it wasn’t. But that long buried stigma dug up through hardened soil and told me it was. I was embarrassed to even think this way. But almost everybody does.
At our friends house we had a fight about some inane political topic and I exploded with inappropriate and vitriolic rage. My wife drove us home. The rage lasted and I didn’t sleep. I lost the magical prayerful peace of Sunday morning. My wife suggested we build a screen for a window to replace one the dog had jumped through. Work! I healed just a bit. But Monday came and I had nowhere to go. Nowhere except back to that cancerous email. This time, as if inserted by my despair, I found a link to a claim page. I clicked it. It said “oops – page not found.” I dug through the internet and finally found where to file. It was a State of NJ page. NJ is one of a few states that offers STD, and, while this filing was so difficult, I understand filing for private STD in states without such coverage is even more difficult. As it were, by the time I had everything done there were twelve tabs open on my browser.
I felt spent. The process had taken hours and I didn’t join my family for dinner. I still felt week and broken and undeserving of any help. Especially help that would confirm I couldn’t work and did qualify for STD.
I did qualify. I saw my doctor, he completed the medical forms, and a debit card to be reloaded with benefits came in the mail. I went to sit in the Parrish church. I sat with incompetence, with weakness and with failure. My wife, in a heated regrettable moment told me she had a hard time telling people why I wasn’t working. My daughter was critical of me putting every thought and every experience about my mental illness out there online for anyone to see. This disability was not at all like surgery on a rotator cuff, was it? In church, during funerals, the Priest says, “all is dust and to dust all shall return.” Sitting in that pew I felt covered with it. But the dust blew away when I stepped out of the church and all that was left was disability. I am not as clean as I thought I was. I embody the stigma I have fought for so long. I hold it against myself. Not just disability, but inability.
Weeks later it ended, I felt well, and I’ve returned to work at a new job. Ironically, ending the disability claim proved just as much a challenge as opening it. I’m dealing with the stigma by taking one day at a time and doing the best I can. And I’ve started meditating again. This whole experience shook me up, but it’s over. Yet I still carry it with me, and I’m glad I do. My compassion for those with bipolar disorder who don’t work had slipped, and I had become judgmental of those on disability. My mother always told me, “You never know a person’s life until it comes to you.” Well it came to me, hard. I still think a person with a mental illness should do everything they can to work, but I understand that this is not always possible. As for the stigma that I face, the stigma against mental illness by one with mental illness, that’s going to take some time. But I have time, especially now that the suicidal impulses are gone. I also have a new incentive, a rebirth of a constant reason for living: to stay well for my family and myself, and to keep working. To use the time I’m blessed with well and to free myself of the self-judgmental stigma that plagues those of us with mental illness. The low expectations we hold of ourselves that lie deep but are completely undeserved.
I always push my books down here, but this week I’m just going to urge you to subscribe to the newsletter if you haven’t done so already. It’s free!
Hi George, thank you for your willingness to share. I do understand the conundrum of work and illusivity of “being normal.” I worked for the state for 25 years and quietly melted into the shadows. My family and a few close friends truly understand, as much as anyone can. Yet as you know, so many things are difficult to specifically put into explanations. But my friend keep doing your good work, many of us are listening and praying for your well-being. Blessings
Vivian