Work, or the lack thereof

I received a letter in the mail the other day. It seems that I’m to go for some sort of appointment to be evaluated for my ‘alleged condition’. I’m torn on this — part of me knows this is a good thing in regards to the disability process, but part of me is very afraid to be under the looking glass by some doctor I’ve never met. I feel as though they’ll be checking my every response, glaring at me from critical eyes in hopes to somehow counter or dispel my claim at being bipolar to the point of disability.

I never saw this road for myself when I was growing up. I was like most kids as far as the career thing goes… “I want to be a doctor! Astronaut! Firefighter!” Or whatever the flavor of the week happened to be. Around 16, I landed my first job at a pizza place in the mall. I worked for 4 days, up until a busy Friday evening, in which I became so utterly panicked by the horde of consumers that I high tailed it out of there. Fast forward to age 25, and I’d had over 20 jobs. Maybe more than 30. I quit counting. Between the ups and downs of bipolar and the sometimes crippling anxiety, it’s an extraordinary feat for me to hold employment for longer than a couple of months. In my entire track record, my longest stretch of work was barely over one year.

I gave it a lot of attempts. I tried many different fields. Fast food, home care service provider, meat cutter, call center worker, freelancing, on and on. Nothing worked out for me. It’s not that I didn’t want to work at all, it’s that quite frankly stability is a big issue. Disability isn’t what I pictured, but I finally confessed to myself that I’m not meant for the workplace. Or maybe the workplace as it stands today is simply not willing to work very much with the mentally impaired.

Early April and I’ll be “examined”, I suppose, by this doctor the next city over. Not sure why the masses of paperwork from my mental health facility isn’t enough to satisfy them, but, I’ll jump through the hoops.

I feel like a failure though, I must admit. Or maybe inadequate. To me, the 40 hour worker is a hero, or a saintly figure or some sort. Or maybe just born with a neurochemical bullshit handling mechanism that I don’t have.

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

w

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: