The number of work-related happy-hours during which I quickly went from what I like to call “business drunk” to “really fucked up” are numerous, as are, I’m sure, the number of times I have said “take off your shirt!” to a subordinate, or “I’m not taking off my shirt!” to a superior. Ten years ago, we had our company holiday party at a bowling alley. Such a mistake. Bowling alley bars are always dive-y (or home-y, if you’re like me), and dive bars are nothing if not heavy on the booze. “Here’s your glass of whiskey with a dash of sour mix.” A couple drinks in, it seemed like a good idea to bowl a few frames using my go-to bowling identity, Sugartits. Except, obviously I went with the more work-appropriate version, Sugaritis. Because when you’re reading those pixelated names from 20 feet away, you can totally tell the difference between -itis and -tits. At least, I assume that’s true because otherwise I don’t think the CEO would have chosen to play on my team… right?
Despite all this, I have yet to be written up, knocked up, or fired. In other words, this behavior seems to be A-OK for work. And yet? If the topic of depression is raised, and if I mention my diagnosis of, things get weird. Sexual innuendo, handsy-flirtations, commentary that borders on “pursuable in a court of law” —-all of this is okay. Depression? No. Immediate discomfort. And what makes this reaction all the more noteworthy is that everyone I work with, and have worked with over the past 10 years, in some way works in the field of mental health, and you would think that at some point in their professional career they would have worked with, you know, THE MENTALLY ILL. Or maybe have been on a city bus. Whatever. Same thing.
The only excuse I can think of for their reaction is that maybe all of their experiences have been limited to interactions with the lowest functioning, most disenfranchised, and least supported people in our city. So when I say something about how depression relates to me, maybe they are thinking, “does this mean you are about to urinate on yourself?”
Here’s another example of something that is okay:
I work with this woman who is moderately high-up and respected, and she was at our staff meeting presenting something that mein diktator felt was Of Great Value for the commoners (of course, the reality is that We Didn’t Give A Fuck). So, she’s standing up there in front of all sixty or so of us, talk talk talk, and I’m like, Candy Crush Crush Crush, and my my male co-worker (OMG HE’S ALSO WHITE! FUCKING OPPRESSOR!) asked me if I noticed her “fuck me shoes.”
WHAT A RAGING BAG OF DICKS.
Because, well, he’s a bag of dicks for lots of reasons, but specifically because he just sexualized, demeaned, and devalued this woman via her shoes. Her fucking shoes. How did that become a thing?
- Look at that slut. Did you see her purse? Wow. Rhinestones.What a slut.
- What’s that in your Rite Aid bag? Are those tampons? I bet you were just thinking about me and your vagina. You want me.
- Is that a pumpkin spice latte? You minx.
I would so much rather that he just said, “I totally want to fuck her” because then at least he is taking some responsibility for his nastiness. But instead, she’s responsible his uncontrollable arousal for her, those are her fuck-me shoes, and when she puts on those shoes, she is making the statement that she wants someone (presumably him) to fuck her.
(By the way, this gives me some insight into why I label even slightly-heeled shoes as my sexy shoes, as in: these are my sexy Dansko clogs! Way to ruin SHOES for me, male oppressors.)
Recently my sister Hattie asked me in a Facebook post how I felt about the band Motörhead’s line of vibrators and dildos (umm, like I was being raped?). THIS CONVERSATION WAS ABOUT A THOUSAND TIMES LESS SEXUAL THAN ANYTHING BAG OF DICKS HAS EVER SAID ABOUT COFFEE CUPS.
So, sexualizing women at work is fine, but talking about depression over cocktails is not, and other than the risk my coworkers run of having to witness me urinating on myself, I can only think that they are fearful that I will stop them in the hall at work and say, “You know, I’m so depressed and gosh it was hard to get up today, and I would totally jump off a bridge right now if it weren’t so goddamn hard to get to a bridge. I mean, I’d have to drive, probably in traffic, find parking (and there isn’t any parking by our really tall bridges), and even if there were parking, I’d still have to walk mid-span… and by the way, did I mention I’m really depressed and can’t get out of bed so you don’t actually need to worry?”
I PROMISE YOU, I will talk to my husband/sisters/friends/therapist before this happens.
Me and depression. Here’s how it goes down. I start to notice that: 1. I’m not quilting or reading or gardening, and if I’m not at work then I’m on the couch; 2. I’m so tired, and yes I do laundry and the dishes and maintain basic hygiene, but I just can’t bring myself to vacuum or get a haircut, or take the dogs for a walk; 3. I am so tired of dealing with depression, year after year, and it never goes away and it feels hopeless; so: 4. maybe I should check in with someone a little more removed from the situation than MYSELF.
Enter the psychiatrist.
If you’ve ever needed a psychiatrist, I’d love to hear how that went, because basically, the way it works, is that your general practitioner prescribes the meds, but they (rightly) want an expert to weigh in on this, so here’s a list of psychiatrists that they’ve worked with, and maybe you should contact one of them and make an appointment. Except, that list they gave you was outdated as soon as it was printed, and unless you are homeless, good luck finding someone who is taking new clients or has an opening anytime in the next 6 weeks. But eventually, you find someone who has about thirty minutes that they can give you, during which you cover all the low lights in your life as well as your current state, answer a few clarifying questions, have your diagnosis confirmed, get a new prescription, and schedule a follow up appointment in a month, except that by then, your psychiatrist has already moved on and you have to START OVER WITH SOMEONE NEW.
The perfect series of hoops to ask a depressed person to jump through.
So, about a year and a half ago, I’m at a staff meeting and it’s is announced that we have a new medical director, Melanie. I start whispering to my friend seated next to me, “Ohmygod, I know her! I actually saw her, professionally I mean! I loved her! But then she quit to work with the homeless. Such a bummer for me.”
Which reminds me of how frustrated I was when, at our second meeting, she said she was moving on, and that I needed to start the whole process over again.
Which reminds me of when I told her about my strained marriage.
And how much I hated the toxic environment at work.
And how unhappy I was with my life.
And now she works here.
Hooray?
Alright, so by now Melanie has been here for at least a year, but STILL, when we cross paths in the restroom and she asks me how I’m doing, I panic. “WHAT DO YOU MEAN BY THAT? I’M FINE, ALRIGHT???” Then there was that time when she noticed on a document I created that my name used to be hyphenated, and she asked if my last name is now different, (probably because she just wants to call me by the correct name– where will this madness end?). I blushed hard. “I’M DIVORCED, SO WHAT? THAT’S TOTALLY NORMAL. BY THE WAY, I’M NORMAL NOW.” But, yeah, I actually just said, oh. I was divorced; there was a name change. End of conversation.
At minimum, I feel awkward around her. I wish she were a horrible person, then others would not like her and then I wouldn’t feel left out when they tell me how awesome she is and how much they like working with her, unlike our last medical director (we had a medical director? Oh, HIM? He worked here? I always thought he was lost. Or homeless). I want to work with her, too! I want to be able to drop her name around others and tell them about that super casual conversation me and Melanie just had, it was totally chill, and she thinks I’m funny, and I think she’s funny, no big deal.
She really does seem “cool” at least as a co-worker, you know? I mean, it’s not like everyone fawns over her, it’s just that they really don’t have anything negative to say, which is really super rare here. Oh! And then what makes this worse? SHE HAS A BLOG, AND IT’S GOOD. It’s not at all about those assholes on her bus, or that dickweed she works for; it’s actually thought provoking!
SO WHAT? BIG DEAL. LIKE I CARE. I DON’T CARE.
Anyway, weirdness aside, I’m actually glad she works here. This place is such a drain on worker morale. I like that she enjoys her job, and does it well, and stays above all the crazy. Because, here’s the thing: I don’t think anyone would talk to her about someone else’s “fuck me shoes.” She’s treated with respect, probably because she set that boundary (whereas I clearly haven’t) (also, now that I’m now thinking about this, maybe I can’t ever cross that line from patient to co-worker because she did such a bang-up fabulous job of establishing it?). Well. I am hopeful, despite all this, that maybe I can watch her from afar (but not like a creepy stalker) and figure out how to “do work” like her, because I don’t ever want to have to hear about how aroused my coworker is by someone else’s shoes