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How to end up in a closed mental ward when working in the marketing industry
(a soapy love story)
If you want a sunshine story about mental illness, great talents, and a Kanye-level of genius, you should stop reading now. This is a story about living life with a mental disorder and about feeling insufficient and accepted at work. Overall, it is about uniqueness and diversity – something that is expressed in more than just our visible shell.
A few days ago, I told my boyfriend that I was to write an essay about balancing mental illness with work-life and ambition. He started laughing, for lack of a better response. The reason he laughed was because, as I am writing this, I’m sitting at the bedside in my tiny room, in the long halls of a secured mental facility.
In order to make sense of this essay, I probably need to sum up my life really quickly. On one hand, I have a great resume. I was always at the top of my class, worked several jobs, am a published writer, went to photography school, am a driven perfectionist - you get the point. On the other hand, my true resume is literally shit. I’m mentally and (mildly) physically disabled. There is a gap of around 5 years where there is no record of my existence, which is quite a long time for a 23-year-old.
I never finished my education, I have a handful of diagnoses, and a medical journal so long that my own doctor refused to print it, simply because it would take weeks for the administration to get the job done - you also get this point.
In my head, it has always been very simple: why would one hire a person suffering from a mental illness when you can hire one who doesn’t? The genius in this story, whom I have chosen to idolize, is my boss. Not the CEO (though I'm a fan of her too) but the Creative Director at the company where I work.
“I started isolating myself much more on the job. In the long run, it was incredibly demanding being an introvert in an extroverted world.”
I got hired simply because she believed that I was capable of becoming the best employee.
Next question: How do you maintain balance in your everyday life, working in the high maintenance marketing industry but also being diagnosed with bipolar type II, an eating disorder, social anxiety, potential avoidant or emotionally unstable personality disorder, some days autism or ADD - you never know these days. Please let me be annoying and refer you to the meme “one does not simply”.
I’m sorry if I come off as a sassy, 2000-and-late, bitch. That’s not actually my intention, but it makes it easier for me to cope with my circumstances. In the latest note in my journal, a psychiatrist described me as being juvenile. Maybe he’s right. But let me take you back to the day my great boss hired me. I was shaking as I walked into the very insta-famous office. I was badly dressed because I do not like to draw attention to my body. Who the fuck shows up badly dressed for a job interview with a person who has spent her entire life in the
fashion industry? My hands were so sweaty I couldn’t drink the coffee an intern poured me. This is the first time I met Lulu. I had known her name for most of my teenage years, but as she started talking, I thought “damn, I need to learn from her”. It was not her talents or career that affected me; it was her presence. I had never met a greater social trojan horse like her. It actually intimidated me quite a lot.
Lulu had googled my name ahead of the interview. She brought it up quite well and respectfully that she knew that I’ve had a terrible youth. She said she believed in life experience rather than school. She also believed that people with mental issues carried greater creativity. At the time, I was sure she said this to please me.
Or maybe it was because she hadn’t done well in school, I thought to myself. But this, of course, didn’t matter. To me, it was a bit of an unvarnished, romanticized idea, which actually bothered me a bit. But at the end of the day, I was absolutely spellbound by Lulu and ended up landing an internship at one of Scandinavia's largest bureaus, with the crappiest resume, feeling prouder than ever.
This was the first time I had ever worked a full- time job. I was thrilled because the fact was that I’ve always been told that I should settle. I should settle for the fact that my mental health would never make me capable. At the cash benefits office, they told me that if I wasn’t able to finish high school, they would not disburse me any money. Nor did they believe that I could become a nurse (my dream at the time) because of my physical disabilities (remains from a suicide attempt gone wrong); I should probably aim for a flex job for disabled people.
I have what is called high-functioning severe mental illness. This means that my intelligence is doing just fine, I appear completely insignificant, though my diagnosis also has a loud beating heart. Within the first months of my internship, Lulu handed me the most amazing and creative tasks. I got to take photographs for several of the company's clients, do mood boards, PR, brand manuals, and she even included me in a campaign pitch. I had expected to pick up a lot of coffee and clothing, but she never referred to me as an assistant. She always used the phrase, “I will throw you to the wolves,” said with kindness and responsibility. I never understood how she just trusted me with these tasks, but again, Lulu is quite remarkable.
“I ignored all my symptoms because I would not let my diagnosis be the person I am.”
Here’s an example. One day, she asked me if I could design an online magazine for the company. I said yes, knowing well that I was not nearly skilled enough in InDesign and Illustrator. But she didn’t doubt it. Actually, she let me do the whole design, using the skills I had picked up from YouTube the night before. When I handed it to her the day before the deadline, she just said, “Yes, I knew you could do it just right!”
All of this sounds terrific, very romcom-y (Ed. reference to a romantic comedy). But as time passed, I was completely stressed out, working overtime for months. I did not care about our clients or famous people (sorry boss). The only thing I cared about was my colleagues' acceptance. As we had our one- on-one conversations, she would constantly say that she did not see or notice my illness. I thought, “how can you not?”. I actually got quite mad at her. But I’d always been very private as well. I talk about my past with ease, a true firework of inappropriate jokes, but I have a very hard time talking about the present. I’ve always thought that going to work was my free time. A place where my mental illnesses don't matter. This was a mistake, of course. My greatest fear was telling them how I felt on the inside because I was afraid that they would think that I played the violin. Cry me a river, My.
So, I carried on in the only possible way. I ignored all my symptoms because I would not let my diagnosis be the person I am. I liked to think of myself as very ambitious. I started doing benzodiazepine (sedatives) every morning to keep my anxiety and hyperreflexial thoughts on the down-low. I started isolating myself much more on the job. In the long run, it was incredibly demanding being an introvert in an extroverted world. I preferred to smoke alone. I felt my whole personality was wrong. My job was project-based and demanded a lot of collaboration. I’m actually no good at working in collaboration at all. Even though Lulu respected this, I did not. After working for 10 months, I took an overdose of sedatives. The morning after, she called me several times. I couldn’t pick up the phone because I could not speak. My words simply didn’t make any sense due to the overdose (which I had refused to go to the hospital for). At some point, I called her back to tell her that I needed sick leave. I did a lot of mocking that I do not remember. I was told that Lulu cried at the office after our conversation. She knew something was up, though I never told her what exactly.
I know that nothing or no one is ever accountable for my self-harming or being suicidal.
But I also knew that Lulu would be absolutely incapable of not blaming herself or getting things mixed up in a harmful way. I would never hurt her. So, I just never told her.
I showed up on Monday and after that, months just went by. I tried to say that I wasn’t doing too well, but my communication was very bad. My entire world turned cruel.
My limits were beyond pushed, so my mind started playing games. Every day, they would laugh at me; tell me I’m weird because I wear noise cancellation headphones. Or laugh at my clothes or my weight gain. Or my lack of social competence. I can be very awkward. I have bad skin. They would all think that I had lost it – lost track of my job, my emails, my clients. I was sure they wished I would get fired. I’m incredibly bad at my job. If I join a conversation, everyone's body language would be pointed away from me. I’m convinced they talked a lot about me behind my back. I’m sure everyone thinks I'm full of self-pity. I was never invited when they went out to fancy restaurants. I was certain it was because I’m ugly and annoying and that they do not want to be associated with me. These feelings and thoughts continued for months, and they only got worse with time. Lulu didn’t like me anymore because I sent her a very angry email. Nothing has been normal ever since. I cannot bear it if she hates me. I cried every morning on my boyfriend's shoulder before going to work. I felt anxious, bullied, and excluded.
I went to see my therapist on a Friday. My eyes started rolling and I couldn’t breathe or speak for two and a half hours. I was turned in once again. It had been more than five years since I had last been admitted. It was embarrassing that I told everyone that I had recovered.
I’ve been here for two weeks. I didn’t talk to anyone for the first 7 days, either patients, staff, or doctors. I was afraid that they would bully me and hate me. What I did was walk back and forth, from one corner to another, hoping that no one would notice me. I would have liked to disappear into thin air. I’m starting to realize that it might have been myself; that the imagination of my surroundings were negative thoughts I’ve planted in my head myself. My boyfriend asked me, “When has Lulu ever said that she hated you? When has she not had your back?” I answered that I was unsure of this. A few days later, Lulu sent me a beautiful flower bouquet.
I texted her, “Thank you”.
She answered, “I’m so happy to hear from you. I miss you a lot.”
I do not know if I will be able to return to my job. But all Lulu ever told me was that I was capable. It’s all she ever led me to believe, and I see that now, and I’m grateful.
Whether I say I want to make videos or start painting, she’ll always say, “I’m sure you can do it”, not in a Nike-way, but in a very certain convinced tone. My point is that even though I was just another staff member, the impact these people had on my life was greater than all of my years in therapy.
It was the first time I thought that maybe I could be useful, maybe I could be good at something. Maybe I was actually worth paying a salary. And I am forever grateful for that faith.
How to end up in a closed mental ward when working in the marketing industry
(a soapy love story)
If you want a sunshine story about mental illness, great talents, and a Kanye-level of genius, you should stop reading now. This is a story about living life with a mental disorder and about feeling insufficient and accepted at work. Overall, it is about uniqueness and diversity – something that is expressed in more than just our visible shell.
A few days ago, I told my boyfriend that I was to write an essay about balancing mental illness with work-life and ambition. He started laughing, for lack of a better response. The reason he laughed was because, as I am writing this, I’m sitting at the bedside in my tiny room, in the long halls of a secured mental facility.
In order to make sense of this essay, I probably need to sum up my life really quickly. On one hand, I have a great resume. I was always at the top of my class, worked several jobs, am a published writer, went to photography school, am a driven perfectionist - you get the point. On the other hand, my true resume is literally shit. I’m mentally and (mildly) physically disabled. There is a gap of around 5 years where there is no record of my existence, which is quite a long time for a 23-year-old.
I never finished my education, I have a handful of diagnoses, and a medical journal so long that my own doctor refused to print it, simply because it would take weeks for the administration to get the job done - you also get this point.
In my head, it has always been very simple: why would one hire a person suffering from a mental illness when you can hire one who doesn’t? The genius in this story, whom I have chosen to idolize, is my boss. Not the CEO (though I'm a fan of her too) but the Creative Director at the company where I work.
“I started isolating myself much more on the job. In the long run, it was incredibly demanding being an introvert in an extroverted world.”
I got hired simply because she believed that I was capable of becoming the best employee.
Next question: How do you maintain balance in your everyday life, working in the high maintenance marketing industry but also being diagnosed with bipolar type II, an eating disorder, social anxiety, potential avoidant or emotionally unstable personality disorder, some days autism or ADD - you never know these days. Please let me be annoying and refer you to the meme “one does not simply”.
I’m sorry if I come off as a sassy, 2000-and-late, bitch. That’s not actually my intention, but it makes it easier for me to cope with my circumstances. In the latest note in my journal, a psychiatrist described me as being juvenile. Maybe he’s right. But let me take you back to the day my great boss hired me. I was shaking as I walked into the very insta-famous office. I was badly dressed because I do not like to draw attention to my body. Who the fuck shows up badly dressed for a job interview with a person who has spent her entire life in the fashion industry? My hands were so sweaty I couldn’t drink the coffee an intern poured me. This is the first time I met Lulu. I had known her name for most of my teenage years, but as she started talking, I thought “damn, I need to learn from her”. It was not her talents or career that affected me; it was her presence. I had never met a greater social trojan horse like her. It actually intimidated me quite a lot.
“I ignored all my symptoms because I would not let my diagnosis be the person I am.”
Here’s an example. One day, she asked me if I could design an online magazine for the company. I said yes, knowing well that I was not nearly skilled enough in InDesign and Illustrator. But she didn’t doubt it. Actually, she let me do the whole design, using the skills I had picked up from YouTube the night before. When I handed it to her the day before the deadline, she just said, “Yes, I knew you could do it just right!”
All of this sounds terrific, very romcom-y (Ed. reference to a romantic comedy). But as time passed, I was completely stressed out, working overtime for months. I did not care about our clients or famous people (sorry boss). The only thing I cared about was my colleagues' acceptance. As we had our one- on-one conversations, she would constantly say that she did not see or notice my illness. I thought, “how can you not?”. I actually got quite mad at her. But I’d always been very private as well. I talk about my past with ease, a true firework of inappropriate jokes, but I have a very hard time talking about the present. I’ve always thought that going to work was my free time. A place where my mental illnesses don't matter. This was a mistake, of course. My greatest fear was telling them how I felt on the inside because I was afraid that they would think that I played the violin. Cry me a river, My.
So, I carried on in the only possible way. I ignored all my symptoms because I would not let my diagnosis be the person I am. I liked to think of myself as very ambitious. I started doing benzodiazepine (sedatives) every morning to keep my anxiety and hyperreflexial thoughts on the down-low. I started isolating myself much more on the job. In the long run, it was incredibly demanding being an introvert in an extroverted world. I preferred to smoke alone. I felt my whole personality was wrong. My job was project-based and demanded a lot of collaboration. I’m actually no good at working in collaboration at all. Even though Lulu respected this, I did not. After working for 10 months, I took an overdose of sedatives. The morning after, she called me several times. I couldn’t pick up the phone because I could not speak. My words simply didn’t make any sense due to the overdose (which I had refused to go to the hospital for). At some point, I called her back to tell her that I needed sick leave. I did a lot of mocking that I do not remember. I was told that Lulu cried at the office after our conversation. She knew something was up, though I never told her what exactly.
I know that nothing or no one is ever accountable for my self-harming or being suicidal.
But I also knew that Lulu would be absolutely incapable of not blaming herself or getting things mixed up in a harmful way. I would never hurt her. So, I just never told her.
I showed up on Monday and after that, months just went by. I tried to say that I wasn’t doing too well, but my communication was very bad. My entire world turned cruel.
My limits were beyond pushed, so my mind started playing games. Every day, they would laugh at me; tell me I’m weird because I wear noise cancellation headphones. Or laugh at my clothes or my weight gain. Or my lack of social competence. I can be very awkward. I have bad skin. They would all think that I had lost it – lost track of my job, my emails, my clients. I was sure they wished I would get fired. I’m incredibly bad at my job. If I join a conversation, everyone's body language would be pointed away from me. I’m convinced they talked a lot about me behind my back. I’m sure everyone thinks I'm full of self-pity. I was never invited when they went out to fancy restaurants. I was certain it was because I’m ugly and annoying and that they do not want to be associated with me. These feelings and thoughts continued for months, and they only got worse with time. Lulu didn’t like me anymore because I sent her a very angry email. Nothing has been normal ever since. I cannot bear it if she hates me. I cried every morning on my boyfriend's shoulder before going to work. I felt anxious, bullied, and excluded.
I went to see my therapist on a Friday. My eyes started rolling and I couldn’t breathe or speak for two and a half hours. I was turned in once again. It had been more than five years since I had last been admitted. It was embarrassing that I told everyone that I had recovered.
I’ve been here for two weeks. I didn’t talk to anyone for the first 7 days, either patients, staff, or doctors. I was afraid that they would bully me and hate me. What I did was walk back and forth, from one corner to another, hoping that no one would notice me. I would have liked to disappear into thin air. I’m starting to realize that it might have been myself; that the imagination of my surroundings were negative thoughts I’ve planted in my head myself. My boyfriend asked me, “When has Lulu ever said that she hated you? When has she not had your back?” I answered that I was unsure of this. A few days later, Lulu sent me a beautiful flower bouquet.
I texted her, “Thank you”.
She answered, “I’m so happy to hear from you. I miss you a lot.”
I do not know if I will be able to return to my job. But all Lulu ever told me was that I was capable. It’s all she ever led me to believe, and I see that now, and I’m grateful.
Whether I say I want to make videos or start painting, she’ll always say, “I’m sure you can do it”, not in a Nike-way, but in a very certain convinced tone. My point is that even though I was just another staff member, the impact these people had on my life was greater than all of my years in therapy.
It was the first time I thought that maybe I could be useful, maybe I could be good at something. Maybe I was actually worth paying a salary. And I am forever grateful for that faith.
Blegdamsvej 6, 1st floor
Copenhagen, Denmark
Telephone +45 3232 3232
journal@weareheadlight.com
© 2020 Headlight Journal. All rights reserved.
Blegdamsvej 6, 1st floor
Copenhagen, Denmark
Telephone +45 3232 3232
journal@weareheadlight.com
© 2020 Headlight Journal. All rights reserved.