Picking on the Wrong Person

By Jean M. Bradt

This is strictly an adult story, and It’s for consumers only.  

Bipolars, have you ever had to “play your bipolar card”, to protect yourself? I had to, once.

Jean: I’m bipolar. Normally, I’m all, “Bipolars are just like everybody else. Treat us the same; don’t single us out.” But, once, I had to tell someone I’m bipolar, singling myself out to protect myself. 

The trouble started after I recovered from ten years of cancer and decided to try to get off Social Security Disability Insurance (SSDI). I wanted, needed, to go back to work. I tried desperately to get my old job (college professor) back. The colleges were not hiring.  

So I applied for a couple of administrative assistant jobs. I walked into those offices in my best suit. I spent several minutes per interview listing all my high-level skills. I was confident and assertive. And I was not hired. My many skills had threatened the employers.  

Finally, I applied at a thrift store. I bowed my head and only spoke — softly, so softly — when spoken to. I got the job. It lasted for five and a half weeks, when I became so depressed I had to go on Prozac. I quit.  

Desperate, I started applying to Home Health Agencies. You know, the places that send young women to care for elderly people in their homes. I kept my soft, not-so-confident approach with all the agencies, but the only agency that offered me a job was Sweet Angels. So I signed up with them. I lived to regret it.
 

Marsha at Sweet Angels: I hired Jean about a month ago. $8.25 an hour. We called her Little Jean (behind her back, of course) because we had another normal-height Jeanne that we called Big Jeanne. Little Jean was the quietest person I ever met. Anything I said, she would say, “OK,” and go right along. Any job I gave her she would take, no questions asked, smiling. She smiled whenever she was around people, but she frowned when she thought she was alone.  

The owner of Sweet Angels had been getting on me about our bottom line. “You have to bring in more clients,” she said.  

“But some of the potential clients are pretty creepy. I’ve been sending clients away if the employees are offended by them.”  

“Then find a new employee to give the creepy clients to. Somebody who doesn’t protest.”  

“Oh,” I said. “I think I already hired her. She never goes up against me about anything. She’s going to make us a lot of money.”
 

Jean: Marsha is one of the most beautiful women I’ve ever met. She isn’t so much a Sweet Angel as a Botticelli angel. Her pure, white skin is surrounded by heaps of dark curls that fall halfway down her back.  

“Marsha has a short temper,” one Sweet Angel, April, told me. But that doesn’t scare most bipolars.  

First, Sweet Angels sent me to a “blind” woman; she could see perfectly well. Because she was “blind”, Welfare paid for my services. For two hours, I cleaned her apartment as she held the phone and screamed at a Food Stamps caseworker, the hand that fed her — literally. The following day, for some reason, she replaced me with another Sweet Angel.  

Next, Sweet Angels sent me to a family who screamed at me for using the wrong detergent, mopping the wrong parts of the floor, and putting the wrong spices in the spaghetti. Did they tell me what they did want? Never. The next day, they took turns bawling me out for leaving only one hour past the agreed-on time, rather than two or three. “Just for that,” the mother said, “carry the stinky bedclothes to the laundry room.” Disgusted, I left them.  

Then Sweet Angels sent me to the Potter couple. “Frank has Alzheimer’s,” April said as she handed me the directions to his house. “He’s very helpless.”  

I arrived at the Potters’ beautiful mansion and knocked on the door. An elderly woman answered. She spent an hour telling me, in great detail, how helpless her husband, Frank, was. He couldn’t see, he couldn’t hear, he couldn’t remember things, and he could hardly walk. And she gave me a tour of the house — mansion?

“Where is he now?” I asked.  

“At the business,” the wife said. Frank owned a business, and he and his workers were delivering merchandise somewhere. “You won’t have to do any housework,” Mrs. Potter went on. “Just watch my husband and make sure he doesn’t fall. He needs somebody to keep him company. The first person Sweet Angels sent was a man. We turned him down. But you look nice.”  

Finally, Frank came home. A hulk of a man. Huge, tree-trunk legs. I didn’t understand why he  shuffled as he walked. Barrel chest, the seat of a booming voice. Hair barely gray. Bright eyes that focused on all that was happening. Big ears that didn’t seem to miss a sound.  

“Go over close to him,” Mrs. Potter said. “He can’t see you over there.” I obeyed, feeling like a slave on auction. Frank looked me over then said, “I can’t see your face.”  

“He is not old,” I thought, and I moved no closer to him.  

Frank shuffled outside and showed me the perfectly landscaped back yard. After the tours, I felt more like a guest than an employee. We entered the sun porch. No, that phrase didn’t do the delicate glass bubble justice. The solarium.  

“Can I get you something?” I asked him, desperate to earn my pay.  

“No,” he said. “I just need you to talk to me.” As I wondered what I was going to be paid for, Frank whispered something to his wife. She left the room.  

“She went to take a nap,” he said to me.  

Frank sat in the solarium. I sat across the narrow room, five feet from him. He talked to me softly, but occasionally he boomed out a word or two, then caught himself. He asked me where his wife was, but I heard none of the sorrow of memory loss in his voice. I humored him for two more agonizing hours, until quitting time. I stumbled to my car and drove home on autopilot. I felt undressed, violated, although Frank had never touched me.  

The following morning, I showed up at April’s office and reported Frank.  

“Are you afraid of him?” April asked. She gave me no time to ask which definition of “afraid of him” she had in mind. I didn’t think he would rape me, but he had humiliated me and I was pretty sure he meant to humiliate me further.  

“Yes,” I said, to try and get her to stop sending me to his house.  

“You’re paranoid,” she said. I felt a knife cutting through me. She went on, “We don’t have any more clients, so if you won’t go back to him, you’re terminated.”  

“Then I’m terminated,” I said. Marsha came in. I thought she would defend me, but she didn’t. She told me to see Joline about my last check. Joline told me to come back Monday, and she would have it ready.  

I agonized as only a bipolar can. In five more days, would I get my check, or wouldn’t I? What would I do if they withheld it?  

Monday, before leaving for what I hoped would be my last visit to Sweet Angels, I took all that day’s lithium — 900 milligrams — at once, just to make sure I stayed in control. As I drove, slowly, unwillingly, to the Sweet Angels office, I again considered my options. Maybe I could tape a razor blade to my arm under my shirt. If they refused to pay me, I could pull out the blade and cut Marsha.  

“Oh, God, why did I even think of such a horrible thing? Because I’m starting to go manic? Must stay in control. Must think of a safe way to protect myself. I know. I’ll use the razor blade to cut my own wrist, then smear the blood all over my face. They won’t dare go near me.”  

I walked into the Sweet Angels office. Angie, the receptionist, who had become my good friend, smiled at me. I broke into a big smile myself and was glad I didn’t have a razor blade.  

We were in the long, thin waiting room. You enter at one end, and Angie sits at the other end, looking at you. To Angie’s left is the door that leads in to the offices. We were in a vagina, with the uterus opening out from the side of Angie’s end of the room, just as it was supposed to do.  

I walked from the waiting room into a larger room. April’s office was on my right. I immediately saw Marsha on my left. I said, “Joline said to — “  

“Get out of here,” Marsha screamed. “You were fired, and you can’t come in here any more.”  

“I want my pay — “  

“Get out,” Marsha shrieked. “Go wait in the waiting room. We can’t just give you your check on a minute’s notice.”  

It was 9 am . I sat and waited. And waited. Angie talked to me a little, but she had a lot of calls to answer. I waited some more. Angie said, “You’ll get your check at 9:30 . That’s when the boss comes in. She just has to sign it.”  

I waited a few more minutes. The boss came in and walked past me, her face blank. (We still had not met.) She greeted Angie and disappeared into the offices, whereupon Angie said, “That was the boss,” rather than introducing me.  

The office door opened again. “My check!” I thought. But it was just Marsha and several followers walking right past me without a word. I know that a man sat somewhere in that office, but he wasn’t a Marsha-follower.  

“Marsha,” I said as she passed me. “Where’s my check?”  

“I don’t know,” she said, an impatient tone to her voice.  

I raised my voice to her for the first time. I raised it no higher than she had raised hers. “You’re required to pay me within 72 — “  

“You have to wait.” Marsha ran out the door. But then she had an idea. She re-opened the door and said, “If you’re going to make all that noise, go outside.”  

“No,” I said quietly. She closed the door. Another young woman opened the door. “Go outside,” she said.  

“No,” I said, just as quietly.  

The girl standing next to her in the doorway said, “Go outside.” It occurred to me that it was a contest, and the winner would be the one who succeeded in getting me to leave. “The one who succeeds in getting me to leave,” I thought, “will be the one who hands me my paycheck. And I wonder if all those girls really have the authority to tell me to leave.”  

Pandemonium. All the girls yelled at me at once. I yelled back, “You’re breaking the law.” They finally left.  

I assessed the situation. Marsha and her minions were on break, not working on my check, leaving me with no idea how much longer I would have to wait for it. Tension was beginning to build in the pit of my stomach, the particular tension I always feel before a manic breakdown. I knew how important it was to nip that tension in the bud. I had to do something to make the Angels stop tormenting me and give me my check, or I would get so manic that I would be thrown into the local psychiatric hospital. I couldn’t bear to be locked in a psychiatric hospital. But, to get the check and get out of there, I had to exhibit some symptoms, and maybe call the police too. Yes, the police would get the Sweet Angels off my back.  

But the problem was just a late check. The police don’t respond to non-criminal problems. I would have to tell them about my bipolar disorder and the dangers that came along with it. To withhold a paycheck on a bipolar is to pick on the wrong person.  

But wait! If there were too many dangers, if I displayed too many bipolar symptoms, that would put me in a psychiatric hospital. How many symptoms dare I reveal?  

The Sweet Angels waiting room was empty except for Angie, who was busy on the phones, and me. My tension built up further. It seemed to be cauterizing my stomach. I wanted to scream. I had to do something. Something nonviolent, I hoped. Angie hung up the phone.  

Quietly, I said, “I have bipolar disorder, and I’m getting tense.” That’s all. I decided not to reveal or wait for the appearance of any symptoms unless I absolutely had to.  

Angie looked me over carefully. Her eyes landed on my hands and then widened. She fell silent and started fiddling with one of her ceramic angels.  

With just those two words, “bipolar disorder”, our friendship reverted to a professional relationship. No longer a charming person, I was now a frightening stranger, the subject of  short, wary glances. No more conversations, smiles, promises of enduring friendship. Friendship? How strong is a friendship that can be destroyed by two words anyway? Actually, two words and something she saw. I looked at my hands. They were shaking violently. “Tremors are not a symptom of bipolar disorder,” I wanted to tell Angie. My hands only shook because I had taken so much lithium that morning.  

But Angie didn’t care what was a symptom of what. She was scared out of her wits. “Angie,” I said, “I would never, ever hurt you.” She seemed to relax a little.  

I told her that I needed to call the police. Still a bit wooden, she lent me her cell phone. “What is the emergency?” a woman asked.  

I knew that not getting paid would not be considered an emergency by this woman. So I said, “I have bipolar disorder, and I feel as if I’m losing control.” Angie got up and darted into the next room. “I don’t want to hurt anybody,” I went on. I answered a few questions, then hung up the phone. Angie returned and put the phone away. I thought, “I bet she just informed the entire office that I have bipolar disorder.”  

Ten minutes later, a policeman walked in. He looked around the waiting room, puzzled.
 

Officer Baker: I got the call about 9:35 am , Monday. A bipolar woman was terrorizing a Home Health Agency waiting room. I hurried over.  

There was one strange thing about the call. The bipolar woman had made it herself. Who ever heard of anyone telling 9-1-1 “I have bipolar disorder”?  

I found the agency and parked my car. As I got out of it, I was surrounded by a large pack of hysterical young women.  

“She’s inside, in the office,” one woman shouted.  

“She’s yelling and screaming,” another yelled. “I think she’s violent.”  

“She refuses to leave. We tried to get her to, but she just yelled at us.”  

“She tried to hit me.”  

“Hurry, please, before she destroys the office.”  

I did hurry. I threw open the Sweet Angels door. The room was quiet — dead silent. Was it the right room? I saw Sweet Angels flyers on a table and knew it was. I looked at the people in the room. They were all orderly and calm. A tiny middle-aged woman walked up and began speaking to me as if it were the only thing to do. So I figured that she was the bipolar woman. Sure enough, she stuttered and stammered.  

How could this woman have all the Sweet Angels so scared? She was only 5’2” and couldn’t have weighed more than 100 pounds. I couldn’t help breaking into a grin as she turned her trusting eyes up to me and tried to get her words out.  

Her name was Jean. I gathered from what she was trying to say that she had been a Sweet Angel herself. Her job had ended, and her employers were withholding her last check.  

“Who’s picking on who?” I wondered.  

I brought the owner of Sweet Angels out past Jean, who sat quietly, sadly, on the sofa next to an unfortunate woman who had chosen that morning to apply for a job at Sweet Angels.  

“Step into my office,” he said, and he brought the owner into the hall. After some defensiveness, she agreed to mail out Jean’s check as soon as it was ready. I returned to Jean. She was still sitting, her eyes big, her hands shaking a little, looking more like a kid who had been abused than like an adult bipolar. She thanked me, and I left.
 

Jean: All the while as the policeman spoke to me, he grinned from ear to ear. For the life of me, I couldn’t tell why.  

I found myself stammering. It took me three tries to explain the situation. I have never had problems with stammering. “I really am having a manic episode,” I thought. “No, I’m not.. Everybody stammers once in a while.”  

Fortunately, the policeman was a great listener. He figured out my problem and immediately solved it. He told the boss to mail me the check. I drove home, confident that my check would arrive soon.  

We seldom know for sure if we did the right  thing. The prejudice against us is unjust, even evil, but I used that same prejudice to protect myself. I, who have taken onto myself the career of eradicating it. I didn’t actually reveal any bipolar symptoms. I didn’t further the stereotype of violence in bipolars. But I must confess, it felt good seeing the fear on the faces of all those bullies.  

Revenge is so sweet!
 

Note: Jean’s check arrived in the mail four days later.
 

Officer Baker: (at the police station, recounting the story)  

“And then I see her, and she’s so tiny she couldn’t hurt anybody.” The listeners, other police officers, laugh.
 

Jean: But I could.

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