losing our grip on purpose

by

Alexander Jones

Dear Transit Authority Flunky Doctor:

I recently made the biggest mistake of my career at the Transit Authority by telling you that I take Lamictal to treat my Bipolar Depression. Now I have to watch my back. Thank you. I am required to get a full physical from you any time I change positions or get a promotion within Transit, any time I’ve been involved in an incident or accident, or once a year regardless. I tried to change jobs a few weeks ago, and I disclosed that I was taking Lamictal, and why. After answering a series of repetitive, invasive, poorly worded and unprofessional questions (No, I’ve never “tried to kill myself”) you decided that you “had to act on this” and told human resources to hold up my move. A lot of my coworkers and supervisors were curious about why. I had to lie to them. I had to get a letter from my psychiatrist stating that I was fit to perform the job I’ve performed for over a year. When that letter didn’t satisfy you, you told human resources to hold me up again so my psychiatrist could send you a second letter stating that I was fit for the new I job I should have already started. You weren’t clear if you were worried about the Lamictal itself causing drowsiness, dopiness, laziness or incompetence, or if you were worried that bipolar depression would make me throw myself in front of a train. My perfect attendance, spotless record and extensive resume didn’t matter. Your outdated, outmoded, old fashioned and insensitive attitudes toward mental illness do. You don’t seem to bother the alcoholics running heavy machinery or the cheerful cokehead electrician I work with, even though they’ve already been in trouble, sometimes more than once. How about that engineer who’s had three heart attacks but smokes and eats Twinkies while driving a train filled with passengers? All of them are probably bigger risks than I am; they’ve all established a paper trail; I haven’t. But hey, I’m crazy, right?

I was wrong about having no paper trail. I do, now. Because I was foolish enough to admit to you that I have a problem that’s being treated. Truth is, I’m angrier at myself for telling you than I am at you for deciding you needed to cover your ass. Something about that makes me sad. Oops! Not suicidally sad— that would be crazy. This is the junction of bureaucracy and prejudiced medical personnel.

But don’t worry. It’s not your problem. Your ass is covered. You’re not my doctor, after all. You work for the Transit Authority. And so do all the other people you interact with, like the human resources department you “had to act” for. Do you sing and dance for them, too? I’m waiting for the day that someone I work with (I did eventually change jobs) finds out through the nepotism grapevine that you “had to act” on something. In addition to human resources, you made a note in my file that your office assistants and nurses will see, and my current supervisor’s supervisor is married to a human resources agent and one of my old supervisors is dating one of the receptionists in your office.

But I’m not your patient. So don’t worry.

Sincerely Yours,

The (sanest) Transit Authority Pipefitter

Alexander Jones has an English/Creative Writing BA. After graduating he went to trade school for metal fabrication. He’s placed short stories, CNF, or poetry in Akashic Books, Bridge, Chaleur, DASH, Eunoia Review and other publications. One of his essays won GoRail’s 2012 contest; he got to meet his congressman in Washington DC and sit momentarily in his comfy office chair inside the Capitol as his prize. He’s slowly earning a Master’s Degree in Holocaust and Genocide Studies. He works as a welder for a metropolitan transportation agency near New York, and lives with his wife and son in New Jersey.