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I pulled my blankets off in slow motion. My knees all but buckled under
me as I put one foot and then the other on the floor beneath me. I dragged myself to the shower, trying without
success to turn the spigot. I barely managed to put tooth paste on my tooth brush. My clothes closet loomed in
front of me, one big blur. I felt like I was sinking into a deep black tunnel. I had been gradually descending
into this abyss for days, but I wanted to pretend it wasn't happening. One hanger after another was thrown on the
floor or bed. What skirt matched what blouse? What dress went with what shoes? Anger rose up inside me. The greater
the anger, the harder the clothes landed on the floor. "What had I done to deserve this?"
"Why me?"
"...my job meant everything to me."
As I threw the discarded clothes on the floor or bed my husband picked them up, putting them all back in the closet.
He begged me to stop. "You have to stay home," he said. "There is no way you can function at work
today... For my sake, stay home. I'll stay with you. Please..." He didn't get it. Mental health professionals
couldn't show their own weakness. We aren't supposed to have a mental illness. Thirteen years before, I had been
diagnosed with Bipolar Disorder. But in the throes of my irrational thinking that morning, I had decided my job
depended on my
appearance at work. I thought if I didn't show up my supervisor would discover my secret, and fire me.
My job meant everything to me. I'd decided to change professions after many years, gone to college and received
a Masters in Social Work. Now I was in the last year of my training, my final field placement before graduating.
In my mind, my whole career was on the line. I was afraid I would lose my identity as a professional. I felt every
bit of energy trickle through my body and out my toes. I wanted to be sensible: return to bed, survive the day.
But thirteen years after my original diagnosis, the paralyzing fear that my secret would be discovered was greater
than all the good sense I had that day. I imagined my coworkers, when I returned to work, pointing fingers at me,
saying, "She couldn't come to work because she is one of them." I probably should have been more afraid
that my illness would be obvious to my colleagues. But I was not thinking rationally. I would go to work. They
wouldn't know.
Without a word to my hysterical spouse, I shuffled outside, one foot at a time, dragging myself to the car, opening
the door and thinking that my husband was right. As I placed my hands on the wheel I was gripped with fear. What
if I got into a car accident? Or I couldn't concentrate enough to find my way? I sat for what seemed like hours
without turning the key. I cried. I wanted to feel my husband's arms around me. But the fear of being found out
was still greater than rational thought. I turned the ignition and put my foot on the gas pedal. It's still hard
to know why I acted as I did. Perhaps I was trying to prove to myself I could get away with it. But I realize now
that if I saw someone in my condition walking down the halls, I would know immediately that something was wrong.
It was irrational of me to think I could hide my problem.
I started driving to work. I felt like someone else was in control. Soon my destination was in front of me. My
legs carried me from the car to the elevator in the facility. The elevator lifted me to the third floor, the doors
opened wide, my heart pounded, and my eyes filled again. I wanted to die.
It's not too late to turn around and go home, I told myself. But my legs started on their own. I found myself walking
to the psychiatric ward where I was expected to be a stable, collected, clinical social worker.
"The gray halls became longer, fuzzier."
With eyes lowered and a softly mumbled, "Good morning," I began the day. I pulled myself down the gray
halls. Voices came to me from a distance. I heard a patient say, "Hi, can we talk?" Nodding, I automatically
answered, "In a little while." I heard an authoritative voice saying someone named John was being discharged
the next day. I heard orders to refer him for community resources, and to provide the family with a list of possible
signs of suicidal ideation...
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