First up: the decision to share or divulge an illness with anyone is yours, and your choice alone to make. Now I can only really speak for my own ‘coming out’ story: on the one hand telling the world of my HIV status (yes, I was hypo-manic at the time also, no I don’t want to talk about it) and more recently disclosing my bipolar diagnosis.
I’ve yet to write about how I arrived at a BP diagnosis, but for the purposes of this post let me open that can of worms just a little. Without question, in retrospect, I am certain I’ve been muddling my way through BP for as long as I can remember. When you’re growing up as a kid: constantly outside, vivid imagination, riding your bike to exhaustion, singing the car, on the school bus, on your bike…. that is a kid that’s “such a dear!,” “has such a personality!”, “is so charming!”, “so full of life”.
Well, ja. I was all of those things. Eat your heart out Robbie Williams. I was also terrified of failure.
I also desperately sought approval from everyone: my parents, my teachers, my friend’s parents, God (actual God) … the list is endless. Over time it dawned on me that my shit did in fact stank, there were some things I was simply not built for just for and just didn’t have that ‘thing’ that some other kid might have had made them the all-start cricketer.
This brief sneak preview is important because this desperate, unrelenting search for approval is likely, in my opinion, one of those environmental ‘triggers’ that exacerbated the onset of BP mania and, in those early years, severe BP depression.
Bipolar Disorder at Work: Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell?
Now, in that context, we get to the meat of this post: to divulge your condition at work or not. Keep in mind that BP, and many (if not all) mental disorders are not just misunderstood but the affected are subjected to stigma – the extent of which has ended lives (not even kidding) like real people have died because of shit some people have said.
Post my HIV diagnosis, the total fucks I could give was minimal (still is, might be that it has always been minimal). It would be fair to say that I went off the rails. At first it was subtle, a white lie here about why I was skipping some social function, an excuse there why I wasn’t up for going for a run; and, like most little white lies do they gain momentum like a snowball.
A very snow moving snowball at that…
It was literally years before I found myself so deep in a depression dealing (or not dealing) with my HIV diagnosis that I had become my own personal brand of Boo Radly. And as friends began to dry up, through no fault of their own, I began the slow and steady slump into deepest darkest depression I have ever known (and hope to never encounter again).
Then the white lies became excuse after excuse, most of which were true (but grossly over-exaggerated). Now this is important: it wasn’t like I did not want to get stuck into my work, hobbies or relationships: it was that I simply couldn’t. Physically I could barely open the microwave door let alone get in my car and drive the 600 meters to the shops, much less the 14 km to the office.
Now somewhere between the “great Facebook Post of 2019” later that same year I made a call: rise the fuck up, get a grip and see a doctor. A real one. Not a GP with a half-ass interest in ‘pain management’.
And so I did, I called up the Stellenbosch Psychiatry Department and asked for a referral (and no, I’m never dramatic, ever. Or cynical).
HR is not your friend (generally, but might be in some cases).
Soon after I was diagnosed BP-II (this was a while ago) I made the decision to disclose my disorder to my employer – more specifically to HR.
My reasons for doing so were two-fold:
- I could no longer, in good conscience, continue misleading my colleagues. Their unwavering support regarding my HIV diagnosis was simply incredible. One particular colleague – who’s opinion and support has been monumental in shaping me as a person – helped to restore semblance of self pride, and;
- That in the eyes of the law, disclosure of one’s health issues on the “forms” entitles one to enjoy full protection of the law if the shit hits the fan. I’m a big believer in leveraging* the tools one has available to achieve a specific result, if I wasn’t going to play by rules, how could I expect anyone else to know we were playing this game at all, rules aside?
*’leverage’ is not quite the term I was looking to use here. Maybe ‘rely on’ if things get tough is more to the point.
So, I sat down with HR and told my story. The whole story from beginning to end, and our HR rep was wonderful with how she dealt with the situation. It was now on record that I had a “disability” (yes, BP is a disability in South Africa). I was assured that I had no reason to fear retribution or otherwise, that my employer would not in anyway prejudice me as a result my disclosure.
Except it’s not that easy, is it?
No, it isn’t. Ye who say, ‘the truth shall set you free’ need a little more life, and a little less naivety. Here’s an example of how things play out, even when you’ve disclosed your condition:
BP says, “Hi big boss, listen, I’ve not slept in three days. I’ve managed to plan a whole bunch of things that I’d love to talk about when I’m back in the office though”.
Big Boss, “Um… OK. When can we expect you back?”
BP, “Well I’m not quite sure, but I’m feeling like tomorrow will be a better day so let’s hold thumbs.”
Big Boss, “Alright, just don’t forget a sick note.”
In principle a sick not isn’t a big deal to get hold of for a bit of cold, or maybe a stomach issue. Pop down to your GP and explain the situation and away you go note in hand. Now, try popping down to your GP with a mild interest in “pain-management” and start your story:
“Well back when I was 8, I sang Amazing Grace to two German Shepard’s in the rain because I could control their mind, then about a year ago, doctor so-and-so finally figured out I had BP.
BiPolarMe.org
So here I am: I haven’t slept in three days, I haven’t showered or eaten properly in 5 and even coming into this building has my anxiety fleeking (because WTF are you and why and am sharing my intimate thoughts with a stranger and second, I need this god damn note before I am relieved of my duties for good at work).”
Your well-meaning GP gets on the horn to your psychiatrist and, “well, doctor-so-and-so can only see you in two weeks. Can you wait until then?”
Well, obviously fucking not… I’m here sitting in your office. And have no pain to speak of.
And, we’re back to the drawing board, finding excuses why you can’t make it to this or that and no bureaucratic bullshit paper to “prove” how you were ‘feeling’ that day.
Honesty really is the best answer though.
Despite what I’ve described above, if I’ve learned one thing in my life littered with hiding in the closet, mysteriously maneuvering around depression, anxiety and mania is that one thing is sacrosanct: honesty.
Honesty in it’s most raw form is not for anyone other than you.
Use it to wrap your head around a reality and figure out a way to move past it or do the right things, by the right people, so that you find solace in your own heart and spirit. And be comfortable in your own skin.
