Sickness

I once worked at this horrid little outfit that has great contacts, so I stayed on because the work I made was of good quality and I got a steady paycheck. But the other employees were (and probably are still) dreadful, because they are a small group of people who suffer from various forms of mental illnesses and psychological problems. I would later learn that these social clusters are more common than I realized, because people with mental disorders typically group together for comfort. That left me the "odd man out", because I do not have those ailments. Growing up as I did around a family with a range of mental problems and addictions, I can navigate rocky waters much better than your average gal. Unfortunately, my ease passes for semblance among the mentally ill. I am oft confused for one of the same. Though this is not the case, have you ever tried arguing with a mental patient? It is a lesson in futility.

"Ohhh....I don't feel so good...

I do get sick, though it is of the physical variety. It causes the mentally ill in my family great consternation because if I am unwell, they do not get the care from me that they need. So, my early life was punctuated by useless doctor visits fueled by neuroses and insecurity. I took them for what they were and left it at that. After all, I was a child who needed care, and my pediatrician was a sane, educated, and intuitive man of religious faith (a rare and gentle person, indeed), so it wasn't that much of a chore. He always made me feel better :)  (Bless you always Dr. Dreyer, for your kind attention and loving care.) He taught me that there is a great art to healing. All the great healers I have met have a natural empathy so heightened that it passes for supernatural to the unwell. He saw me clearly, and in that recognition I thrived. I did not know him personally, but we knew each other punctuated by small, sporadic contact. Turns out, I also attract gifted people to me, too.

So I attract co-workers like moths to a flame, and they talk to me about whatever they need to at the time, regardless of my state of being. I'll write more about my experiences in these settings (which are funny as well as scary), because I learned once and for all that I cannot even temporarily clothe myself in their garments, even if it is to tend to them. It's too out of context. The mentally ill need structure, routine, and professionals who concentrate just on them—not my warm, beaming light in some impersonal 9-5 office setting. Yet here we are, so what is someone with my workload and responsibilities to do? I work through it (and them) with them. It's confusing and it doesn't work well at all, but as a women who has tended to her flock regardless of location (my family can bug out on me at any time), I can do it on the cuff, no matter where I am or what the circumstances are.

My skills in this regard do not go unnoticed. I become a source of reliable information very quickly, especially under the frightened gaze of a paranoid neurotic who struggles to contain me in their midst. "Who is she?! Why should I believe her? But...she's so right about so many things..." Because of this duality, I get one reaction to my face and another behind my back. Ah, the duplicity of the mentally unstable. How their minds must turn on them so! You can imagine the encounters I have in a confined space like a 9-5 office, where I am subject to the vagaries of someone's ravaged mind. Tortured souls and expression go hand in glove because work and therapy are confused. It's often mistaken for art by the sufferer, so creative industries have a fair share of hangers-on mixed in with the deluded.

"...but I can still make art."

It was in this regard that a part-time production editor (someone who proofreads), asked me about my prolific outpourings, in the form of a question that belayed her jumbled mind. "Is it compulsive?" Because she is educated, her question came out deeply envious and curious at the same time, rife with agendas. What is this? Who are you? I went with it as I know how to do, and asked her in return "Well, do writers write every day?" appealing to her conceit as a literary person. I had to lead her gently to it, because a wrong turn in this exchange will cause an eruption that I cannot afford while on deadline. It has to be done quickly and masterfully but mostly fast. "Well, some do," she replied in a pseudo-reflective, airily pretentious and falsely light-hearted way. OK, good, she's matching my tone in a snarky ironic way. Childish, but workable. Mental illness is not the sole domain of the stupid and ignorant, like some shitty movie-of-the-week would suggest. In this moment, I am the "parent" and she is the "child" because she doesn't like me but she's also scared of me. I know how that feels, coming from an abusive household. She's petty, but she's beneath me in terms of the work and her abilities are handicapped by her mind. No problem. I got this, which I have to, because there's no one else to help me with it. They don't know.

"It's not compulsive for me. I make art every day because I'm an artist." I stopped drawing, looking steadily and carefully at her in the eye, so she knows that my gaze can take her in to see right through her, any time I choose. "Oh", then she turned around and walked to gossip with the rest of the office, because I heard her stop at the reception desk to spread my words. At the time some were trying to frame me as compulsive, because I once told a story about my prodigious output. It's a heavy-handed way of diffusing a supposed threat. I would have drawn on the walls as a kid if paper wasn't available to me—so great is my gift that nothing can stop it. Now it was deliberately misconstrued by some and seen as a challenge to others. Another sick co-worker tiredly worked an admin gig because the severity of her mental illnesses did not allow her to be disciplined enough to make a living as an artist. Out of anger she played petty games throughout the day to distract herself and anyone who caught her envy. I caught hers hard naturally, so most of her bad static focused on me, like the diamond I was in their midst. They poured over my words like a mystic scrutinizes runes, something that still disconcerts me when I encounter it. "What does that mean?" I can see something thinking. How lost their despair is to me, their hatred, their petty power struggles riding the broken contours of their minds.

I learned to get sick on my own and keep it to myself, because the weight of an actual illness is more than a sick mind can bear. My life and my body becomes more than they can take, and their inquiries do nothing to alleviate their symptoms or mine. It has taught me much in the process. If I do take ill, friends and readers, I will get better, until that final hour when I can no longer be of service to you. Trust in me that I have found great healers as is my way. You should because you know that I do not lie. This woman has taken care of herself for a very long time. After all, how well do I take care of all of you? Remember, most pains of the body are temporary. My allergies will pass with the seasons, along with the side effects from allergy medicines, but those next to you may suffer for a lifetime. If I'm down, I will get back up, and when I do, there will be art here for you. Then, you may take what you need. God bless.