blackandbipolar.net

Hello Dear Readers,

After much delay, the new site, blackandbipolar.net, is finally up. Though it's still under a bit of construction as I learn the site and posting mechanics, please enjoy future writings there. All content has been transferred as I was hoping for a more user-friendly layout and look.

Thank you for the support at this blog over the years since it's (hypo?)manic inception in 2011. I'm happy to report the blog is just shy of 15,000 hits with readers all over the globe. It means a lot to know that it's of value to someones, somewhere, which is why I've left it up, even during long stretches of inactivity for which I apologize.

Onward and Upward,

Chris

On the History and Merits of the Retail Merry-Go-Round / A Job any Job (part one)

Bagging groceries, checking ‘em in, checking ‘em out, and collecting a check at Whole Foods (WF) at 36 is certainly not how anyone least of whom myself, most of whom, my parents (given their early and sustained investment in my education), had it drawn up in the post-adolescent playbook.

I sense that from the outside looking in there’s a good amount of WTF are you doing at WF, as it's an inquiry I often ask myself, having now ridden the retail rollercoaster for the better part of the past seven years. Here I’m reminded of Michael in the Godfather when he infamously said of the life, “every time I get out, they pull me right back in.” There's also a far more obscure song by Jay-Z called "Marcy to Hollywood", in which he laments returning to the projects ("and with every mistake, back to us you return, he raps), but to give my history with retail some context here it is:

In 2011, I was in Atlanta, facing a particularly imminent housing crisis. I felt recovered enough from an episode the Spring of the year prior to make the out-of-state move from Boston, but given the gravity of the eviction front, I took a job, any job, with a seemingly nil barrier to entry at the local Kroger, a regional grocer. The store was being remodeled with inventory constantly being moved around, so the customer service staff would take turns directing customers as best we could in the direction of their desired items.

Apparently, this was in my wheelhouse, as management noted my aptitude for recall amongst the ever-changing merchandise layout. They even gave me a sandwich vest, with the words “ASK ME” emblazoned on the front and back.

As readers of previous entries know, it’s a good thing I don’t take myself too seriously (perhaps not seriously enough- but that’s for another time) because I was paid the Georgia state minimum wage of $7.30 an hour (If this seems second world-ish – it’s probably because it is. For comparison’s sake, they say the average “bum” in Manhattan nets nearly triple that, tax-free, on any given day) to direct traffic and answer a slew of what became increasingly unrelated and unoriginal inquiries:

Customer:  You’re vest says, “Ask Me.”  What am I supposed to ask you?

Me: You need helping finding anything? But really whatever you want, shoot.

I was routinely asked about the forecast for the coming days, lottery numbers, and even once had to break down my elementary understanding of photosynthesis to a customer particularly interested in horticulture like I was some oracle of the aisles. Though the aforementioned housing crisis the job was meant to resist, snowballed into successive crises in the A, the job at Kroger was a classic “recovery” job, as they say for those getting back on their feet in different capacities.

After working there a year, due to a confluence of factors unrelated to my employment, I became manic and returned home to Boston, where my symptoms had me disruptive to the point where I became homeless for the first time. When I was finally out of the hospital and settled at a local shelter, with my back really against the wall, given its 90-day maximum stay policy, again I found myself looking for a job, any job (sense a pattern here?) and happened to see that Whole Foods was hiring. I successfully parlayed my Kroger experience into a cashier/bagger position at WF, got out of the shelter, rented a room, and maintained for nearly a year and half before the onset of a completely unexpected episode (my last one, for which I’m still grateful) in the Spring of 2014 caused me to resign without much notice at WF and dash my dreams of pursuing my MSW at USC that fall for grad school attempt part trois.

This episodic crisis persisted through the Fall of 2014 when again, I found myself back at the shelter, looking for a job, any job, which I found at my a local Target. I remained stable enough to get out (read: walk out on a lunch break) as I had procured what I hoped would be my next ticket out of retail- an equally ill-paying, but rewarding gig in human services for which  I took a training course in the summer of 2016. It was a terrible fit as the peer specialist position I had long desired proved unattainable, despite my concerted effort. That was over before it started, so with my back against the financial wall, I looked for a job, any job, and quickly found one as a cashier at CVS. After two months or so there I made my way back to Whole Foods for my latest and current tour of duty for the pay raise and familiarity of having worked there two years prior.

There are a million and one jobs out there, meaning there are roughly a million other places I could be collecting a check if not creating my own revenue stream through some form of self-directed industry, or even side-hustle outside of retail grocery (If nothing else, while writing this I’m reminded how desperation can inform our decisions and color our choices)

It’ll be two years this go-round at Whole Foods come this October. Though I could easily feel discouraged and defeated, I instead feel grateful to have been re-hired, to be stable, to be surrounded by dope working relationships amongst WF staff and customers, and to have been so richly supported by the store during the chaos of my mother’s terminal illness. While the ties that bind can easily be the ties that are keeping from advancing, it’s also worth noting that I recently was hired by a local tutoring company.  I hoped that I could juggle their truly lucrative hourly rate while still working part-time at WF. Though that tutoring opportunity seemed like a great fit, they failed to compensate me after nearly two months for training and orientation.

So as has been the observable sequence, now I’m back at WF full – time, and honestly, there is no other place I’d rather be making 13 and some change an hour. It provides stability via simplicity and stresslessness in a way that allows me to be there, without having to be there. The autopilot has become so routine that my active mind can wander wherever I may like, so long as I am physically present and relatively pleasant, which tends to be my natural state. On my best days, it’s really like going to hang out with good friends (my store is full of really and truly high quality, hard-working people from five continents, whose company and conversation I’ve come to delight in) for eight hours. Of course, when I come home, I’m not taking anything home with me, but some sore feet. But I’d rather have my feet hurting than my pockets any day.

My Mother's Eulogy (Good Mourning)

First and foremost, I’d like to thank each and everyone one of you for making it here today. Perhaps because of her modesty, I really don’t think my mother had any idea how adored, treasured, and truly loved she was. Not all that many knew of her illness, so we didn’t know what to expect today, but the turnout, support, and acts of kindness throughout have been beyond touching so please consider yourselves all part of the extended Mayfield/Ferguson family.

As the program heading states, this is a celebration of my mother’s life. When she came home from the hospital and began her in-home hospice, she sat us all down and said we were to celebrate for the remainder of her days and beyond, so thank you for joining us in celebration

My mother was special. I could stand up here and recite a dictionary full of superlatives and a thesaurus full of synonyms to describe just how special my mother was, is, and always will be to me, and I still wouldn’t be able to convey how much she meant to me.

She was everything rolled into one: my best friend, confidante, advisor, moral compass, model of virtue, superhero, and matriarch, but before any of those titles, I knew her as simply as mom. As a forever proud mama’s boy, being her son was the greatest pleasure, privilege, and joy I’ll ever know.

By a quick show of hands, how many of you have are familiar with Oprah? Ok, now how many of you have are familiar with former first lady Michelle Obama. The world only recently became introduced to a certain type of class, elegance, warmth, and spirit of black womanhood through them. To myself, I had a direct line to these qualities and never had to look any further than my mother to appreciate them.

Well, call me crazy, and trust me plenty do, I don’t believe that either of these two women, Oprah or Michelle Obama, as phenomenal as they are, could held my mother’s handbag of their best day. From the hardships she endured in her youth to the weight she carried as an adult, most of it dead (looks icily), my mother was the embodiment of grace under pressure. Of all the things she could have chosen to do with her prodigious gifts, she prioritized being a mother. For that I am eternally grateful.

While her physical loss would seem to leave an unimaginable emptiness, I fill this void with gratitude for having had the amazing mother I did for 36 years, four months, and 12 days, (but who’s counting?).

Before I wrap up, I just wanted to share a quick story about the time we spent together during her last month with us. I’m not sure how many of you are aware, but my mother smoked cigarettes up until the end. For those of you who may have mixed feelings cancer patient steadily smoking, she promised me that much like Bill Clinton, she never inhaled. This proved to be true, as throughout her countless CT scans, MRI’s, and X-Rays they never found so much as a single spot on her lungs. And trust me, while we’re on the subject, I tried, more than once, to convince her to join me in smoking a certain herbal alternative, but she always graciously declined.

In any case, when she came home from the hospital to begin her in-home hospice, I happened to be out at an appointment. I wasn’t expecting her so soon, but I quickly got a text. “Chris, where’s my cigarette (complete with smiley face emoji)??” Knowing she would be looking for them furiously, I quickly replied that there was an ample supply tucked in the pocket of her favorite red jacket. When I got home to find her exhaling away on the back porch, what she called our “therapy sessions,” officially began anew

While my mother showered us with love, she wasn’t the gushy or touchy feely type. She simply showed her love and we felt it. I had been talking to my therapist specifically about wanting to get mushy with my mother, out of fear that things would be left unsaid. Prior to her hospitalization my mother seemed to dodge my attempts to express myself in this way, but when she came home, maybe because she sensed an urgency she hadn’t felt before, she opened up the proverbial vault.

Because of her mobility challenges she would begin her day early in the morning and gingerly make her way to the back porch. In eager anticipation of our sessions, I would be up before the birds, much like a kid on Christmas waiting for the party to start. It pained her to move towards the end, so once she was seated and her coffee had been prepared, it was just her and I out there, chain smoking Newports like we owned stock in the company, spending hours upon hours (our record was six) saying what we meant to each other, sharing stories ranging from personal to hilarious, holding hands, exchanging pecks, and of saying, “I love you.” After enough time, she would urge me to go inside, but I assured her that the only place I wanted to be was with her.

I did the conservative calculation: over the course of those two weeks we averaged at least three to four hours a day together on the back porch. That roughly adds up to 48 hours, or in total, what amounted to the best two days of my life.

There’s an African proverb that says, “A person does not die until they are forgotten.” In that sense my mother will remain with me always in memory, spirit, and, of course, heart. Before she left us, I promised her that my siblings would celebrate her for as long as there was breath in our lungs.

Thank you again for joining us in celebration.

Baby boy loves you, mama.  

On Sankofa...

to go back and find my confidence (where ever the fuck I left it).

... Because it's Been Over a Year.

I have managed to maintain my mental health as it’s been about two and a half years since the onset of my last episode. While much has remained the same, there are some notable improvements as well. A few months ago, after tipping the scales at 225+ pounds, I rejoined the gym in keeping with the go-hard-for-five-or-so-months-every-four-years-or-so rhythm. To date I am down 22 pounds and have seen my body fat decrease from 26% to roughly 17.5% (according to Wikipedia the body fat percentage for those considered fit begins at 17.0%, so I’m creeping upon that goal). Getting regular exercise is good for folks in general, but especially those looking to maintain their mental stability. In that sense it was almost something of a panacea for me, as it meant I cut out the binge eating/drinking and daily toking, in favor of caloric restriction, clean eating, and a veritable elimination of the substance (ab)use (apparently I was right on the borderline according to most generally accepted definitions of abuse). While the weight has plateaued over the last few weeks there have been NSV’s (non-scale victories), most noticeably not having to squeeze into my favorite pair of jeans.

I finally escaped the Target nightmare, where I had been working for a year and some change, mainly as a cashier and occasionally as a cart attendant (think ducking parking lot traffic while maneuvering 25 shopping carts for 8 hours at a time- yes about as much fun as it sounds). After working with a state employment counselor, I was finally able to take his suggestion and enroll in a human services training program. For those of you not in the know, the field of human services assists people from vulnerable populations (e.g., folks with developmental disabilities, the elderly, the abused, the addicted, the homeless, etc) regain their footing, confidence and independence. After being on the receiving end of said services off and on during the course of my cycling, I thought it was would be a good way to give back and find some semblance of occupational satisfaction and fulfillment. To this end, I hopped in an eight week human services training program, that immediately led to a spike of call backs and interviews to positions for which I had had little success in applying prior. Streamlining and updating the resume helped immensely, as did leading with something other than Tar-Jay. After a series of varied interviews, call backs, and cost/benefit analyses, I chose to work as a community support counselor in a residential setting, helping middle-aged people who are dealing with schizophrenia and/or schizo-affective disorder. The agency actually turned out to be the same one through which I have received therapy and med prescription while home, so there was a bit of anxiety about running into someone and being “discovered/outed”, so to speak, as I was hesitant to ever disclose my diagnosis unless “lived experience” was part of the job description (as is standard for certain recovery jobs). After reading the files of some of the consumers, it became clear that there was substantial overlap in both background and our providers. As I flipped through their phonebook-thick cases prior to meeting them, I thought, yep, “I’ve been on that med, seen that doctor in the psych ward, and have that same prescriber.” Despite hitting close to home, they seem more like reminders of my progress than triggers for my potential relapse. The robust off-site orientation and training period lasted four days, and I recently completed my second day of on-site work. Both my co-workers and the consumers seem like a solid bunch.

The Quarterly

I tend not to update this bad boy a whole lot for fear of repeating myself and the same follies that are endemic to (mood) instability. In other words, the constancy of what I perceive to be a perpetual rut serves as the chief reason that I avoid writing. That said, my treatment team, most notably my Shrink Scott, and another social worker Sam (a female) with whom I worked for eight months or so, continually marveled at progress I have made (this progress is, of course, in comparison to the rest of their afflicted clientele). 

The way I see it, barely keeping my head above water is hardly cause for celebration, but then again things could always be worse. Scott and Sam continually applauded my efforts to put in the work necessary to improve across the board. Though most days my attitude hovers around a semi-depressive baseline and my physical energy seems to be nil (sometimes it feels like I'm glued to the bed, where today, I spent an all too common twelve hours) unless I'm forcing myself to work or the gym, minimal progress is better than no progress. 

When I take one step forward after taking several backwards (the seeming story of the last decade- now leaving me in the figurative red as far as net progress is concerned) it's important to remember that that step forward is better than stagnation, or worse yet further backsliding. 

It's Been a While

While things have settled for the time being, it seems, and perhaps because of my doing, or lack thereof, there exists an omnipresent and damn near unshakable air of potential instability lurking. I was describing to Scott, my shrink, how stability seems to be like that Whack-a-Mole game that used to be popular during the Chuck-E-Cheese days. For those that may be unfamiliar essentially you are given a mallet and a fixed time to knock down the eponymous moles that continually pop up. Just when you smash one back into its hole, another one, or two, or three pop up, turning it into a quite the exercise after the sixty seconds or what have you is up.

Mental (i.e mood), domestic (e.g. housing), financial, and physical (weight and wellness) are all such or domains (or, in keeping with the above analogy, moles) that require consistence maintenance as they have all faltered at one point or another over the past decade, sometimes crashing down simultaneously in an (im)perfect cacophony.

While my mood has been fairly stable for the past few months, despite an unexpected hypomanic hiccup a few weeks back, I recently found out that my roommates (were I any kind of decent blogger, I would have filled in a gap or two-- as of the new year, I moved out of the shelter and into a room in a house full of good-natured, overachieving, yet hard-partying college kids) will be deserting the house in search of greener pastures in a couple of months or so. As things stand right now, I'm not sure how or if it will affect my occupancy, but at the very least I could find myself in a dark house sans wi-fi, as the utilities are currently in my roommate's name.

Financially speaking, my federal return, despite being far more than expected ($1,000 or so), soon went to some sparse furnishings, housekeeping items, and, I'm not going to front some other recreational indulgences that can be easily surmised by regular readership. I'm still waiting on the state return, and while it's only about four hundred dollars or so, I'm reluctant to just bank it, as that's simply an impulse purchase away from nothing. That said, I've thought about treating myself to what seems like my 45th new iPhone or perhaps a playstation; though these expenditures may come across as reckless, at least these items have a decent resale value, should necessity ever mandate a parting.