, , , , , , ,

Anyone who follows me on Twitter knows that I got absolutely wasted last night. Buying in rounds is such a bad idea. I had had a stressful day and and when my boss got the first round in I ordered a glass of red wine. As the evening progressed more people bought rounds and they just bought without asking… they looked at my drink and bought another one. I didn’t spend a single penny but I had drinks lined up in front of me because I couldn’t get through them fast enough. That is really bad. I also didn’t eat enough or drink any water. I just downed glass of wine after glass of wine like an idiot. Hubby says he has never seen me that drunk. How I navigated the tube and trains I’ll never know.

I don’t remember fair chunks of the evening, but I do remember I fell over outside the pub and my boss walked me to the tube station because I clearly was not to be trusted wandering London streets alone in the dark. Hubby tells me I fell over when he collected me at the station the other end too, and the wealth of bruises and scratches all over my body would seem to back him up.

Oh. Fuck.

Alcohol does not have any depressant effect on me, rather the opposite. I go up and up and up, getting more hyper with every glass. I really really have to be more careful. Today has been full of humiliated lurches of shame in my tummy. The dread of walking into the office on Monday…

I’ve decided to disclose my mental illness to my boss. I decided last night while I was still drunk and wondered this morning if it’s the right decision. I mean, I was drunk, not crazy. I don’t need to give a diagnosis to explain why I was pissed as a fart. But it is linked because of what happens to me when I drink too much. And because my stress levels are through the roof which is why I drank so much without any quality control whatsoever. I know what I need to say to my boss and I know how to say it. But it’s such a big risk.

Since I started this job nearly seven months ago I’ve been utterly determined not to disclose. Even the nicest boss could view me differently once the mental label has been applied to my forehead. But hubby tells me categorically that the risk of not saying anything is bigger. He is convinced that I will break soon. His way of putting it is that my brain will explode and it doesn’t seem to make any difference when I tell him that brains don’t actually do that. He says I’m not coping, I disagree. I am coping, but very badly – see drunken exhibit A above.

On Monday morning before I go over to boss’s office, I’ll try to see the disability advisor. The woman is fantastic, although I had hoped my days of needing her advice were over. But even if I don’t manage to see her, I have to tell my boss anyway as soon as I can. And this is what I think I should say:

I have a disability, a form of bipolar disorder. Do you know what that means, if not, blah blah blah. It is mostly under control these days. But it means that I have to very carefully manage my stress levels, which I am finding difficult now. I am experiencing high levels of anxiety, blah blah etc. I would like you and I to meet with the disability advisor together so that she can help us think through ways to help support me in my very unusual job situation.

What do you think? I’m not sure how much detail to go into about what I currently deal with. Man, I wish I hadn’t got trashed last night. What was I thinking? I’m trying today to get my brain to latch on to the simple fact that I can’t change the past. I can’t undo last night, there is absolutely nothing I can do about it so why keep reliving what little I can remember of it and worrying? All I can do now is try and put some safety measures in place to ensure it doesn’t happen again, number 1 being tell boss about my disability (I hate thinking of it as such but the Equality Act says it is and that’s what matters in this case I suppose) so I’m not working out these safety measures alone anymore. I really hope this doesn’t backfire on me. I can’t get it out of my head that I might just make the whole thing worse.