The Consequences of Revealing my Mental Illness

How being diagnosed played havoc with my career

The social stigma attached to mental illness has declined, but it hasn’t gone away.

A recent WhatsApp video I received confirmed that individuals are insensitive to the harm they can cause. (I should explain here that I cannot delete this contact as duty obliges me to remain a member of this Family Group. You can read between the lines.)

What shocked me was that they found a sick and tasteless video about suicide and depression hilarious. I was tempted to respond but kept quiet, for the sake of peace.

Nevertheless, I thanked them in my heart for giving me the idea for this story, my first contribution to Invisible Illness.

The Journey Begins

I was diagnosed with Major Depressive Disorder (MDD) 25 years ago. Although I’m fully recovered and continue to work on myself without need for medication or therapy, this recent opinion resonated with me.

“There are still attitudes within most societies that view symptoms of psychopathology as threatening and uncomfortable, and these attitudes frequently foster stigma and discrimination towards people with mental health problems. Such reactions are common when people are brave enough to admit they have a mental health problem, and they can often lead on to various forms of exclusion or discrimination — either within social circles or within the workplace.” — Psychology Today

I have experienced both social exclusion and workplace discrimination.

I’ve risen above that, moved on.

It’s not an easy road.

I hope that sharing this story of the impact on my career will give you the courage and motivation to never give up, because despite what I’ve endured I’m still here.

Stigma in the Workplace

Career #1

I began a new career in the corporate world after my divorce in 1985 and had climbed the ladder to Branch Manager within four years.

I’d found love again.

Life was awesome.

Three years later my world crashed.

Driving to the office one morning, I experienced the first of many anxiety attacks. My body was floating, sounds were muffled, and I pulled off the main road and stopped. I couldn’t face a day at the office. I turned around and headed home.

My partner drove me to the doctor. She booked me into the hospital where I spent two days on a Valium drip to reduce my anxiety.

My boss came to visit me. I felt ashamed but fortunately she was a woman and displayed compassion.

“You’re the last person I would have thought….”

My doctor booked me off for a month. The sick note said “Major Depressive Disorder” and that let the cat out of the bag. (Please forgive the cliché.)

When I returned to work, my boss had transferred to another division in the company. My new Area Manager, being a man, had no time for such nonsense.

The atmosphere changed. My input was ignored at management meetings, I picked up rumors I was incompetent and hadn’t a clue about budgeting.

I was desperately unhappy.

Despite my regular therapy sessions, I found it difficult to function in the toxic environment at the office.

Twice I tried to apply for positions in other divisions, but my boss prevented me every time saying “we need your expertise where you are.” Hypocrite!

I decided the only solution was to resign from the company, start anew and not reveal my mental illness to any potential employer.

(I was yet to learn that changing what’s out there doesn’t change what’s inside. A month after leaving, my partner and I drove to the coast for a break, the anxiety attacks returned.)

Another three years passed.

We’d started a business together, but that failed.

I decided to visit my estranged mother in the UK, against the advice of my therapist; she knew reconciliation was impossible, and she was right. It lasted a bitter four days before I walked out on my mother, never to make contact again.

I left London, moved to Surrey and worked there revealing nothing.

I was lonely. A stranger in a strange land.

Money was tight. The plan was that my partner join me once I was settled. That never happened as he was injured in a car accident in South Africa and I decided that was the Universe telling me “It’s time to go home.”

Within a week of arriving back, I went into a deep depression. The relief of being back in familiar surroundings with the man I still love today — thirty years and counting — released an avalanche of suppressed emotions.

I’d lost control.

Now I suffered from agoraphobia too. I couldn’t even step outside.

My husband (we’re married now), having survived attempted suicide and lived with depression, was my rock. He organised my admission to a psychiatric clinic where I spent seven weeks working through wounds that haunted me.

It was the best thing that could have happened to me at the start of the millennium — my half-century.

(I no longer need anti-depressants and I have coping mechanisms that require no intervention from a therapist.)

But when I started a new job after my recovery, the specter of stigma reappeared.

Career #2

I was working part time in an upmarket furniture store, an important first step back into the real world of work.

The shop manager was leaving. Because I’d proved my competence and ability, reduced customer complaints to zero, instituted new operational and admin systems and increased the store’s sales, they offered me the full-time position.

After a telephone interview with the owner in Cape Town, I accepted the job.

A manager traveled up to Johannesburg to oversee the handover.

I wish he hadn’t.

His cousin had been at the same clinic at the same time I was but for something more serious than MDD.

But in his mind, once he knew I’d been a patient there I was doomed — guilt by association.

He got on the phone to Cape Town and the job offer was withdrawn. I mean, you can’t employ someone who’s mentally unstable!

I fought that unfair dismissal in the Labor Court for six months but neither they nor I revealed that my mental illness was the catalyst. We stuck to legal procedures. I never brought up discrimination.

No way was I going to reveal my mental history in a public court.

I finally got a settlement. But it wasn’t about the money.

The biggest win for me was that I had fought back and never wavered. I didn’t break.

I spent the next 15 years in retail as an art framing consultant until retirement, being of that age past which they consider you an impediment not an asset.

However, I never disclosed my secret past.

In the beginning, asking for time off to attend Labor Court was no problem because nobody knew the whole truth of why I’d left my previous job.

And my excuse for time off to visit the clinic for out-patient check-ups and medication, was that I had to have a blood test for my thyroid.

That was the only time I felt comfortable telling a lie.

The Journey Ends

That’s a misnomer.

My journey has just begun.

After a year writing on Medium, I know I can write my heart out without fear.

And by doing so, lend a helping hand to others.

“Out of suffering have emerged the strongest souls; the most massive characters are seared with scars.” — Kahlil Gibran

You’re welcome to add any suggestions of how you handled similar situations.

Thank you for reading.