Excerpt
Chapter 2
Excuse Me for Living
I sat across the desk from a young, tall ice princess whose penetrating blue eyes bore into me like the laser that almost killed James Bond in Goldfinger. "Can you name an organizational challenge that you had and how you overcame it?" she asked me.
"What?" I said, having no clue as to what she was talking about or how it had any bearing on the copywriting job I was applying for within my company. Finally, I hit upon some semblance of an answer, but it was quite apparent that it was unsatisfactory to the human resources drone before me. The woman proceeded to interrogate me for half an hour. Before it was all over I had admitted that some editors I'd worked with were slightly moronic, that I couldn't stand working for high-strung individuals and that there had been some friction between me and the art director with whom I had previously worked.
"Why do you think you said all of those things?" Isabel asked in our next session.
"If I knew I wouldn't be sitting here," I said tartly.
"Do you think it might have been a form of self-sabotage?" Isabel persisted.
"You think that's it again?" I mumbled, with a sinking feeling in my stomach. It wasn't the first time I had heard this phrase in connection with my behavior.
"Well, in a way you rejected her before she could reject you," Isabel said. "It's a dysfunctional way of being self-protective."
So there it was. Over ten years after my last depression, my illness still permeated all aspects of my life. It was amazing to me how a simple thing like not being permitted to express your feelings as a child could lead to such bizarre behavior thirty-five years after the fact. But my upbringing, apparently, was going to follow me to the end of my days.
A week later the vice president of creative operations called me into her office. Anxiety and depression are first cousins and I was so nervous about potentially peeing in my pants during our meeting that I made sure to empty my bladder beforehand. When I got there, Tanya, or the Big T as she was called, clasped her hands on her desk and leaned toward me. "Now, when you say, 'I've worked for some slightly moronic editors' at an interview how do you think that makes you look?" she asked me.
"Not very good?" I cheerfully ventured.
"It looks like it's not going to work out with that particular book club," she replied somberly. "We'll have to try and find another place for you once your club shuts down, but I can't make any promises."
That night I suffered from the stress-induced insomnia that is so very common to depressives. Some of us have trouble falling asleep and others staying asleep. For me, it was waking up at four in the morning in a hyper-alert state worrying about what the day would bring. The next afternoon, I called Dr. Parise and pleaded for sleeping pills. He must have noted the desperation in my voice because he acquiesced. He also increased the dosages of my anti-depressant and anti-anxiety medications.
Then I began wondering how the non-neurotic stayed so cool under job-related pressure. They didn't sweat or almost pee on themselves like I did. I decided that there must be somewhere to turn for training on how to conduct myself in a professional manner. I looked at a Continuing Education Bulletin that one day landed in my mailbox and I saw a self-help class that was supposed to show me how to present myself in a way that I could get the desired response from others in both social and business situations. Two weeks later, I lit out for Winning Ways.