Making Mania Work for YOU

Let me preface this by saying that the friend's therapist (Dr. C----) who'd promised to help me find a therapist hasn't done so yet. She's suggested someone in her practice, who didn't have an opening until September, and I'd said, fine, please get back to me with that information, or have her contact me.

It's September.

The doctor my friend had recommended (and whom her therapist did confirm as someone she'd use) had an outgoing message saying she was away for two weeks but leave a message.

I left a message, wherein I said I believed I was some version of bipolar, which Dr. C---- also believes after speaking with me, and I would like to talk to her about medication.

It's been three weeks. Dr C--- did call with the name of another doctor who might be good for prescribing medication, but I got the impression she hadn't worked with her before.

So in addition to coming into a manic phase, I have supposed professionals who should understand what it means when someone says, "I'm bipolar and I need help." It means, "I'm trying to wake up from this nightmare and I need your help to do it."

So I feel myself heading for another manic episode (compulsive talking to myself as I walk down the street being one of oh so many symptoms) and as always, I'm self-monitoring like mad, trying to recognize my amped-up symptoms as symptoms and not necessarily a reflection of reality. To put highly-charged reactions into perspective by breaking things down.

There are benefits to this approach, not the least of which is a clarification of priorities and relationships.

I won't go into boring detail, but I have some some reality-checking with friends I trust (friends who dont' live in Chicago, BTW), and they agree my "friends" here are pretty lame. Example:

A group of us loves Dr. Who, and the season premier was last night. Last week I sent an email suggesting we all get together to watch it. One of the women, who lives in the 'burbs, suggested we come out to her place, a rented house, where we could watch it and have a bonfire after. I said I was game if the two women with cars were.

One of the women has friends coming into town, so she begged off. Discussions ensued about going out, what we'd do, perhaps take in a local event beforehand. The other, C, talked about doing it.

Then Burb girl said she couldn't do anything beforehand as she had a story to finish (she's a freelance reporter), but she could watch the show with us. The other friend, C,  was silent.

I waited a couple of days and emailed C, who lives one street over, to confirm we were still going. No answer. This is very unusual for her. I sent another message the next day, Nothing. I informed Burb Girl that I wasnt' sure it was happening, as C was exhibiting passive-aggressive avoidance behavior that I'd seen before when she didn't want to do something but didn't want to come out and say it. Not to mention that I wasn't going to have my own plans in limbo and had just decided to sit at home and watch the show by myself and have a nice, relaxing evening.

I called C Thursday to make sure she was OK, as I still hadn't heard from her. I left a message, and got no reply. At that point, I emailed Burb Girl and told her that I assumed it was off and we'd get together another time.

Late yesterday afternoon, Burb Girl called me to say she was coming in. I assumed she meant to my house, until she said, "I'm going over C's. She's ordering pizza, so come on over."

"She's hosting?" I asked.

"Yeah. She didnt' say anything to you?"

"No."

"Well,I wouldn't take it personally; it's just C being C."

"Yes well, I'm tired of C being C. I want to see you, so I'll come over. Could you let her know that you invited me so I don't feel all weird about barging in?"

So I went over and it was fine, but I've written off this group. This is just one example of very typical behavior, including my next-door neighbor, a gal who is asked to watch the twins pretty regularly, knows how much I miss them, and makes sure to tell me AFTER the fact how cute they are and how fast they've growing.   Or being told someone can't hang out for long, because they have to go two streets over to Friend's house for a 50th birthday party for him (I know this person; I've hung out with him and been to his house. You'd think they'd ask me. Nope, Ditto barbecues, breakfasts. I was invited to Burbs girl's 40th birthday, held in our yard, and I made the  cake - took a day off from work to make it, in fact, because I stupidly thought it was an honor to help her celebrate. I'm so naive. I realize now that it would have been hard for them to hold the party for someone I know in my own yard and not invite me, especially since I'm the condo contact for reserving the yard.)

I've got enough work cut out for me with my own stuff that I'm not inclined to waste time dealing with adults who behave like schoolchildren defending their boring little clique. And part of the clarity is not holding on to anger or grudges, but simply realizing that these are not relationships that I want. So no more trying to organize get-togethers or parties or anything. It's less stressful to just plan for myself, and not have to worry about the crazy.

I've asked myself two questions lately that have been simple and obvious, but important to my perspective: 1. What would your life look like if you stopped caring what Kevin thinks about you? 2. What would your life look like if you pursued only those things/people that make you happy?

Day 4: Remembering the 70's

Today: vintage early-70's polyester maxi dress (shortened) in brown, orange, yellow and white, paired with lacy white hose and brown faux-patent flats. Bronze-colored large dangly earrings. (Inside, I wore with this a long tan loosely belted sweater with designs knit into it.)

Day Three: Fashion Bottle Cap

Today I went for mostly primary colors: bright-red skirt, brown short-sleeved top, bright-blue sweater. jewelry was a bottle-cap necklace with a picture of a smiling coffee pot, with a pull-chain for the chain.

I'm thinking the orange/brown/yellow 70's dress for tomorrow. With off-white lacey stockings and cowboy boots. And a cardigan.
Sold.

Day Two: Vintage Korean Polyester.

Ultra-wide lapels and fake-pearl cufflinks; green skirt and tights; pink belt; and faux-patent crimson flats made me the one to watch today.

This oppression will not stand, man.

Fashion Police Brutality

Today at work I came in from lunch and my supervisor asked me if I could join her for a moment in a meeting room.

Uh-oh. Something was up. Worse, I had absolutely no idea what it was. Did that idiot attorney complain because I'd been chasing him for that court document so I could cancel his bond? Was that lazy-ass property manager whining because after a solid month of no follow-up from him, I had to give him a deadline to do his freaking job? What? WHAT WAS IT?

My mind was racing through all the possible things I could have done that would warrant a Private Talk. What freaked me out was that I had no idea, none, of anything that would, and if you've been in this situation (and I have at this company, way more times than I'd like), you know that whatever it is will be so mind-blowingly insane and/or irrational that it's beyond the realm of your control, would not ever cross your mind to consider it an issue.

I walked into the room and my supervisor had some papers on the table before her (Termination letter? Written complaint about me? Shit, what was this?!?)

Here's what it was folks. I'm not kidding.

"I hate to be the bearer of bad news..." she began.

(Are the insane? They're going to FIRE me? Do they have any idea how suicidal that is?!?!?)

"...but I have to talk to you about your clothes. Seems you're in violation of the dress code."

I have to hand it to the people who run my department. They manage, every single time, to blindside me with their seemingly bottomless ability to fastball the bullshit.

So I answered the only way I could think to.

"What?"

"Yeah, seems the dress code (here she handed me one of the sheets of paper, pointing) "doesn't allow leggings." All of this said with a sympathetic grimace, as though it pained her to do this, really, but....

Yes, the dress code did say that. The dress code, which is fair and general and not assholey in any way, is designed to keep people from abusing Business Casual by taking it to Beach Casual. However, the mention of leggings was in a context with other clothing (e.g., sweatpants) that made it clear that they meant leggings worn alone, as trousers. Here's what I was wearing (I apologize for the quality -- a co-worker took it surreptitiously on his iPhone).

I'll explain what you're seeing: a jersey floral-print dress, which, because a) it has a low neckline and b) the A/C in the building is kept colder than I find comfortable, I covered with a cardigan buttoned to my neck. Under that are a pair of capri-length jersey leggings, because they are a nice middle ground between freezing in the office and wearing tights in summer. You are not looking at high fashion; you are looking at clothing that is perfectly acceptable in a casual business environment, especially since I see a lot more cleavage floating around than is really necessary. Oh, I should also mention that I've been wearing leggings with dresses this way for two years. My supervisor had even asked me once where I got a pair, as she really liked them. Yep.

"So, if I took the leggings off, and had bare legs, I'd then not be violating the dress code?

"Uh..right."

I know this sounds insane, so let me explain what's really going on here.

The head of the department is a bitter, petty, immature woman who takes pleasure in being a tyrant for its own sake. She's large. She personifies dowdy. She looks like a nun who left the convent and has gone shopping at the mall for coordinates. The supervisor, with whom I was meeting, is a pretty nice, fun person, but who unfortunately has accepted the role of Tyrant's lapdog. She's a bit more stylish, but she's made the kind of condescending comments about clothing ("now THAT's a nice dress!") that make it clear that I need some kind of guidance to dress in a manner  of which she and the boss approve.

I, of course, can think of nothing more awful than to dress like them. Both of these women are in their 60s. The Tyrant shows it less, what with obesity and a steady diet of souls keeping her skin plump and wrinkle-free, but they are aging people who made a life of corporate insurance, so you can guess just how many chances they take, period, let alone with their wardrobes. Me? I treat getting dressed like putting on a costume. I have fun. I play. I wear necklaces made from bottle caps. My stuff matches, and it might not be your style, but I don't violate dress codes or normal standards of decency. I'm an artist, I'm creative, and it shows. I also work on a floor where clients are never brought, and I'm not an Executive Assistant. I don't get paid to represent executives to clients, and I don't get paid to have the wardrobe that entails.

So what this is about is that head of the department doesn't like my style (mostly, I think, because it reflects a satisfaction in my own life that pays no homage to what she thinks is right and proper and the way she'd do it, which is of course a type of personal threat to her authority),  and has found some pretense to sic her first-in-command on me. What blows every last neuron is the notion that someone took the time to build such a petty grudge that she looked up the dress code to find a loophole that would let her condemn my personal style in the guise of enforcing a corporate dress code that any reasonable person would see I was not violating, and then present it to me as something they HAD to do, much as it pained them.

I knew this, and I knew that my best strategy was to play stupid, not let them know I was onto their bullshit. So I thanked my supervisor, graciously declined her offer to let me keep a copy of the dress code, and went back to my desk. I then called a contact of mine in HR and explained the situation, and she agreed it was ridiculous. However, in order for me to have my wardrobe reviewed, I'd have to go through channels and well, the thing is, I'm not an employee of this company; I'm a permanent subcontractor employed by another company who outsources to them. So the department head can let me go for any reason she likes, and any whiff of a challenge to her authority would make life hell.

No I have a better plan, and it is this: I am going to play their game and beat them at it, which will be so much more satisfying.

Tights. Tights are OK, as was pointed out to me. So tomorrow I shall start wearing garments that I'd considered too bright, too fancy for office wear, and I'm going to put them on. With tights. Colored tights. Tomorrow is a pink-and-orange ballerina-style dress with a flouncy skirt. With it I shall of course wear pale-green tights and my shiny red shoes. There will be nothing about the clothing that will violate the dress code, and I will revel in it. My co-workers are outraged by the situation, and are excited to see what I'll come in wearing. I'm glad I found those non-leather ostrich-toe cowboy boots at DSW last week, and I'm glad I still have that lime-green velvet Betsey Johnson dress. Oh! and the 1970s bright-blue Korean polyester shirt with the pink and orange flowers.

Yes, it's going to be quite a fashion parade at work. I wonder how many used bridesmaids dresses I can find at Salvation Army. OH! Muslim wear at the SA on Devon! Yes!

Man, they are going to miss my leggings.

Trifecta, Week 38: Home

I missed the Trifecta writing challenge this week, but I did the exercise anyway, because I'm trying to be better about these things. This week's word was Home:

a : a familiar or usual setting : congenial environment; also :the focus of one's domestic attention <home is where the heart is>b : habitat

After street ball and dinner she lay alone on the front grass staring up past the streetlights into the night sky. She did this a lot lately. The moon was very full, edging the clouds in a bright white glow.  By relaxing her eyes she could just make out stars behind the urban glare.

She idly registered her parents’ voices through the open front window, raised in argument about something again.  She listened for her own name – when she was the subject those were the most interesting arguments, especially when drinking was involved, and swear words – but this time she was not a factor.

Wait.

She rubbed the toe of her right sneaker against an itch on her left ankle. Her cat came up and settled down against her; he’d been into something and was dirty. She rubbed his long fur, pulling bits of leaves and twigs while staring at the sky.

Wait.

When the thoughts had first occurred to her, she thought they were part of another story like the others she liked to make up, the ones the teachers made a big deal about and said showed Talent. But unlike the stories, the thoughts seemed to come from outside rather than inside. It was hard to explain. All she knew was that the stories were in her head, but she didn’t think she had put them there.  

Wait.

The light that appeared, brighter than the moon, was startling but not a surprise. She stood and picked up the cat. As the light found her, she pulled from her pocket the worn note she’d been keeping ready. She and the cat blinked up at the nearing brightness.

The only thing they found the next day was a piece of crumpled notepaper impaled into the grass with a stick.  Written on it in careful, looping grade-school script:  “Going home.”

Of WASPS and Lamb. Sort of.

Auditioned tonight for A.R. Gurney's The Dining Room at a theater company for which I've auditioned twice before. What I like is that when I show up the people in charge tend to be of A Certain Age, so I don't feel so frustrated by the generation gap.

A nice surprise was that a woman I'd worked with before in another show was also auditioning, so we had fun catching up. After our separate auditions, we chatted outside. The bonus to this audition is that as you came back to the green room for your audition the coordinator handed you a free ticket to the show "in the quirky event we don't cast you." Since the side we were asked to do wasn't the one that we'd both really liked, we decided that if we weren't cast we'd attend in dresses and pearls (Gurney characters are all die-hard WASPS --- I think even the maids are all white, so kudos to the adorable African-American girl who showed up) and chant "but it's a beautiful lamb, Standish!"

You kind of had to be there.