I arrived at the suburban community college where I taught English composition in the evenings with an hour to spare. That gave me enough time to finish lesson planning. I entered the office I shared with the other adjunct instructors. The department chair, Professor B, approached me. She lowered her voice and said, “Barb, I’m afraid you’ve been let go.”
My thoughts, which were on the night’s lesson, abruptly stopped as what she’d said sunk in. The first time I was fired was when I worked as a receptionist at a consulting firm. I was twenty-one, big into partying, and had a tardiness problem so I understood why they did it. Still, I cried. The woman who fired me cried too, because she’d never fired anybody.
The second time I was fired, also at age twenty-one, was from my other job as a go-go dancer at a nightclub. The owner accused me of doing drugs in the bathroom, but I had no idea how he knew because I was never caught. Instead of crying, I got a drink at the bar. But what did I do this time? I was too stunned to shed tears.
Now I was thirty-three and had graduated with an MFA in creative writing the previous spring of 2002. I was in the process of searching for tenure-track positions while I taught part-time to pay the bills. I couldn’t think of any reason why I’d been fired, especially in the middle of spring semester. I was like a fledgling Jedi—a Padawan—told by her Master that she didn’t make the cut, long before her apprenticeship ended.
Professor B continued, “I’m afraid the new dean has made up his mind.” She lowered her voice further and said, “It’s because of your bipolar disorder.”
Her disclosure hit me in the face like a jab from Mike Tyson.
“A student complained,” she added.
“I don’t even remember mentioning that,” I said. Had I slipped?
“Well,” she said, “I think it’s because the dean’s new and doesn’t want to stir up trouble.”
She assured me I’d done a great job teaching my weekly evening courses the previous semester. That night was my last.
When my students settled into the classroom, I attempted to keep a neutral tone while I taught them how to cite sources using the Modern Language Association (MLA) format. At the end of class, I made the announcement, which was met with anger and dismay . . . at the dean. Some students later wrote emails to him protesting my being let go. It didn’t work. But it felt good they had my back.
Later that night, I drove 38 miles home to the city. I taught one class at three different schools and two classes at a fourth in various suburbs because as an adjunct being paid per course, I made peanuts. Having to drive up to 100 miles round-trip to class took a toll on me. I loved teaching, but I was super stressed.
Although I was on medication for bipolar at the time, I sank into a deep depression after I was fired. I could barely teach the rest of my classes. I don’t know how I mustered up the energy. I quit one of the courses in the middle of the semester because it became too far to drive. Needless to say, the department chair was furious. I was ashamed and in tears, but I had to take care of my health although, at the time, I didn’t realize it was such a priority.
As I was about to calculate my students’ grades at the end of the semester, my trusty old Gateway laptop crashed. All my grades were on it. I was an idiot for not having saved them onto a disk.
I sank even deeper and couldn’t get out of bed. I was weighed down by despair, wrapped up in hopelessness. My husband had to bring my meals to the bedroom. While he was at work, if I ate at all, it was Cracker Jack washed down with Diet Coke.
Things were so bad that, even though we couldn’t afford it, we hired my mother’s cleaning lady so our home would at least be tidy. Brian had a 9-to-5 in yet another suburb, and his commute could take up to two hours a day. He’d come home with just enough energy to feed us and our cats because I couldn’t do it.
Brian took the computer to the Gateway store and they recovered my files. Luckily, he had also taught English in grad school and knew how grading systems worked. I had already finished grading papers, but he calculated and sent in my grades because I couldn’t do it myself. I couldn’t do anything but wake up every day, even though I didn’t want to.
My teaching career came to an end.
Despite numerous changes to my medication, that particular episode lasted about two years. I was unable to work and would later go on disability. Finally, my psychiatrist informed me that I had treatment-resistant depression and strongly suggested I undergo electroconvulsive therapy (ECT), which I’ve written about here. The treatment made me feel a little better, but it eventually wore off and I’d have to be treated again throughout the following years.
After years of working retail jobs, being a cocktail waitress, drinking and doing drugs, I’d taken out loans to put myself through college as a non-traditional student and to continue on to grad school. I was to be a self-made woman. A full-time job as an English professor was to be the cherry on top. Despite the stress, I loved teaching and I loved my students.
As I look back over the past twenty-one years, and because of my memory lapses, it feels unreal, like it happened to someone else. That “me” had such a bright future ahead of her. Now, the only thing ahead of me is to try to have a good day.
Wow, what a journey!
I can empathise with the disassociation due to memory loss. (Lithium disruption, not ECT). Is it still that people would lose their jobs due to bipolar diagnosis where you are?