21. My Very First Job

A podcast about navigating friendship + mental illness and a new essay about the messy truth of my first few weeks at work

The girls holding paws. Now, how’s that for a great way to start Friday morning?!

Hello Beautiful Human,

I can hardly believe it is Friday. I am also overjoyed that it is because fall weather is finally here! There is something about early fall weekends in Vermont that cannot be beaten. Crisp early mornings, crunching leaves, hot coffee, both girls frolicking in the field, and cozy layers. I know that makes me sound like a basic b***** influencer but I can’t help myself. I can’t get enough of this season and after the monsoon of a summer we had, I feel as if I almost deserve it.

This Sunday, September 17, we will be having our inaugural Solidarity Salon at 2 p.m. EST, so please mark your calendars!

The Solidarity Salon is an hour-long storytelling hour for paid subscribers. It is an hour devoted to healing out loud. The salon is a place to hold unequivocal space for each other as we are seen in our raw truths. For the first fifteen minutes, we will write our stories in silence together and for the remainder of the hour, we will read our stories aloud. This is not about having a polished piece. Rather, it is about sharing your honest truth. I am so excited to finally build a forum to learn more about you and offer the healing I have been given by being heard and seen by all of you. I will send the Zoom link out on Sunday morning via email so keep an eye out and if you’re not yet a paid subscriber and would like to join, we’d love to have you!

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There is a new podcast episode out this week with my dear friend Sarah for paid subscribers. She and I have been friends since we were three years old and we have been through everything together. In the episode, we talk about her experience of being a friend navigating my illness. She shares insights about how she cared for both herself and me while going through it as well as things she unexpectedly learned along the way. I adored speaking with her and learned so much from her about how to show up better for the people I love.

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And now, time for another essay in my ongoing series about life with serious mental illness and my best friend Maura.

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21. My Very First Job

Bouyoued by my parent’s joy and the seemingly bottomless potential this new job held, I spent the weekend cleaning my apartment and shopping at thrift stores for new work outfits. Between thrift stores, “mopping” my floor with a sponge, and many naps, I called the psych ward relentlessly with hopes I would get through to Maura. I was determined to confirm that she had been given my signed contract and I desperately wanted to celebrate the incredible news together on the phone, even if doing so in person was out of the question. I tried and tried again but each time, the nurses always had a reason I couldn't talk with her — she was sleeping, she was at group, she was meeting with the psychiatrist. The nurses’ endless excuses for why I couldn’t talk to her infuriated me but behind the anger lay deep-seated fear.

What was going on with her? 

Why didn’t she call me back?

Why did they keep saying she was with the doctors? 

I did my best to push away the anxious thoughts and catastrophic storm clouds and before I knew it, it was my first official day at work. Walking into the Rivermill Complex that day I was flooded with anxiety and optimism. It was impossible to discern between the two as the butterflies in my stomach danced like they were at a rave. But after walking in and being faced with the room full of researchers, my anxiety took over full tilt. With sweaty palms, blurred vision, and seeing the room tip to and fro, I tried to contain my panic attack. Only after a post-doctoral researcher came up to me and offered her outstretched hand did I come back to earth. Reading my anxiety like a book, she shook my hand far longer than anyone usually would, and slowly, with her palm in mine, I stabilized.

After being introduced to a few more people and having an onboarding meeting about office policies in the conference room, I was ushered down a long hall by my boss to where I would be working. My boss showed me around – the kitchen, the bathroom, the additional conference room – and introduced me to a few members of the team I would be a part of.

And then there, right in the middle of the beautiful brick wall-ed, sunlit hallway, I saw it. 

Kate Speer

Research Assistant

Printed on an official plaque that hung to the left of a doorway, there it was, clear as day – my name. 

MY. ACTUAL NAME. 

My boss smiled realizing I had seen it.

“Yes, exactly – this is you!”

With a little hop, I pranced inside unable to contain my glee. 

I had an office.

I had my own office.

This was real life.

This was my real life where I had a job and my own office.

The deep pride and joy of that moment propelled me through my first week and I threw myself into the work I was assigned. I was tasked with cataloging apps in the iOS app store that targeted mental illness and mental health and building a list of criteria that could be used to assess their efficacy. It wasn’t glamorous work but I committed to it with a vengeance. Scribbling note after note with each download, I compiled a lengthy list of criteria that first week. The week flew by and by the end of it, I collapsed in bed and proceeded to sleep for 37 hours straight.

My first few weeks passed like this – in a joyous flurry of doing every task I was assigned with gumption and crashing into bed each night. After three weeks of app assessments, the adrenaline and novelty of the new job began to wear off and I quickly came to realize that the idea of a job and the reality of one were very different. While I had hoped my symptoms would dissipate or resolve in the work setting, the opposite started happening. The demonic hallucinations that used to only torment me some days became a daily occurrence and worse still, they seemed to grow even more severe when I closed my office door to get work done each morning.

I told my psychiatrist and he increased my meds to contain the psychosis but nothing seemed to help. I did my best to white knuckle my way through it but one bleak February day, the non-me me, the hallucination that manifested as an evil twin of myself, re-appeared. She had terrorized me for years and been gone since my last hospitalization and in the many months of her disappearance, I had forgotten how truly terrifying she was. But that one morning, she was back. Sitting in my office chair with her feet on my desk, she smirked at me as she twirled a gun in her hand. 

Fuck. 

Just. Fuck. 

I froze in fear and then dissociated and defecated myself right there in the hallway. As diarrhea dripped down my stocking and pooled in my shoe, I came to and realized the disaster of my predicament.

Chest heaving and gasping for air, I sprung into action and sprinted down the hallway away from the hallucination and into the handicapped bathroom. I had to clean myself up before the team meeting and most importantly, before the non-me me found me. Fortunately, I carried backup clothing with me for this exact occasion and had my survival kit in my work bag. I was no stranger to accidents, after all. I had had them since I was a little girl and after years of experience and years of being stranded and shamefully covered in excrement, I had finally built a system that managed the fallout.

I pulled out my survival kit and set to work. First, I turned on the water to muffle any noise I might make. Then, I lay down a puppy pee pad, stepped upon it, donned hospital gloves, and set to strip with calculated effort. I first took off my clothing and assessed the damage – Jacket. Clean. on hook. Dress. Clean. on hook. Bra. Clean. on hook. All clean. The rest, however, was entirely ruined, my shoes included. Tears cresting at the realization that I didn’t have backup footwear, I screamed at myself internally – How could I have not thought to pack some? How??! Kate HOW!?!?

I paused in a state of panic. What am I supposed to do? I have a meeting in five minutes. Should I wash them? Do I have time? Or are they just toast? A knock at the door made the decision for me. I tossed the soiled sneakers in the waste bin and feigned calm yelling ‘Just a sec!’ Realizing I didn’t have enough time to salvage my clothes in sealed ziplocs like I usually did, I tossed the soiled stockings and underwear in the trash too. Fuck. What an expensive morning. Another knock at the door came and this time, an irritated voice accompanied it. “What’s going on in there?!” 

Again responding that I needed ‘just another second,’ I set up my remote shower. Laying a second puppy pee pad down, I cleaned my left leg and stepped it over to the “clean pad.” Then, it was time for the right. Naked and shivering, it was now time to clean up and double-check myself before re-dressing.  As I grabbed swaths of paper towels another knock at the door came. Battling tears and a panic attack, I again asked for another second and mopped the soiled floor. Too overwhelmed by the stranger outside, I skipped my usual deep cleaning steps and threw on my backup leggings. Piling clean paper towels on top of the soiled mass in the trash can, I tried to find my breath — to calm down — to get my bearings. But as another knock arrived, I knew I had run out of time so barefoot and shaking I exited. 

I was met by a scowling woman on crutches. With just one look at her, my body flooded with red-hot shame and I began to apologize profusely. Shaking her head in dismissal, she looked me up and down, head to toe. I shrunk against the wall as she assessed me, terrified I had missed something while cleaning myself up. Then, with violent scorn, she commented.  “Your apology is not accepted, you ableist princess.” 

As the bathroom door closed behind her, I fell to the floor in tears. It was all too much and I hated it. I hated everything. I hated my body for failing me so aggressively. I hated my mind for creating demons that haunted my every day. I hated that the non-me me was back. I hated that I had no idea what was going on with Maura. And I hated myself for failing someone with a disability. Every part of me wanted to run – to flee – to go home and call Maura – to be back under the maple tree in the summer sunshine – to be anywhere but there.  I wanted to just disappear. But I had a meeting and my parents’ joy to protect, so after a moment or two of crying, I pulled myself up, wiped the tears from my face, and made my way to the conference room in shame, exhaustion, bare feet, and wrinkled leggings. The day might have gotten the better of me but I wasn’t giving up on it just yet.

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Probably Anxious is an entirely reader-supported publication and I am deeply grateful for your support. Being a paid subscriber makes my advocacy work possible. If you are able, please consider becoming a paid subscriber today.

A subscription costs $6 a month ($1.50 a week) or $60 a year ($1.15 a week).

Paid Subscriber Benefits Include:

• Access to The Patient is In — a podcast exploring serious mental illness through the lens of those affected. Each episode includes an interview with someone touched personally by my lived experience of mental illness and explores it through their perspective. You can listen to the most recent episode here where I sit down with a friend I have known since I was three. We discuss navigating friendship, support, and self-care in the face of serious mental illness.

• Access to the audiobook version of Maura + Me — you can listen here.

• Access to The Solidarity Salon — an hour-long storytelling hour devoted to healing out loud. The salon is a place to hold unequivocal space for each other as we are seen in our raw truths. For the first fifteen minutes, we will write our stories in silence together and for the remainder of the hour, we will read our stories aloud. This is not about having a polished piece. Rather, it is about sharing our honest truths and being seen in them. The next Salon is this Sunday, September 17, 2023, at 2pm EST.

• Exclusive Content where I answer your questions or share behind-the-scenes photo essays. You can read the most recent column about navigating how to support someone who is struggling deeply with shame here.

• Access to Community Chats where you can connect with me and the community, at large.

Please know: if you cannot afford a subscription and would like access, simply email hi@katespeer.com with the words “subscribe” in the subject line and I will add you no questions asked.

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That’s it from us this week.

Sending so much love and snuggles from these two best girls.

Kindly,

Kate