Bipolar Disorder: Navigating the Shame I Feel in Working Part-Time

Two years ago, I was at my weekend retail job, silently cursing to myself while collecting trash in the Target Starbucks. A line was forming as moms rolled up with crying babies in strollers and espresso machines hissed. Clad in a red hoodie, blue jeans, and black boots, I shook the gossamer plastic garbage bag to fill it with air. This was my corner of the world for 90 seconds. I was inside looking out at people who I assumed hadn’t experienced a manic episode that ruined their lives.

• What is Bipolar disorder?

My face was hot. I was upset. Tears began to form behind my eyes. It was happening again — another moment where I felt ashamed, broken, and full of regret. I was embarrassed to be working a part-time job after everything I’d been working toward. Moments later, I headed to the back of the store where the trash compactor was located and waited there for a while after discarding a few overfull bags of coffee cups, napkins, and half-eaten food. I thought to myself, “If I don’t return to the floor, will anyone even notice?”

A decade ago, Jersey City, New Jersey was my college home. My university sat across the Hudson River providing easy access to New York City. I interned at MTV, helped plan large-scale university events, and eventually earned my bachelor’s degree. A few years later, I earned a master’s degree and married the love of my life. Things were good. We felt like the Jeffersons.

Then disaster struck. I burnt through all our checking and savings. Through a domino effect of events, almost everything was lost, all thanks to my manic episode. I received the help I needed and was told, by medical professionals, that I shouldn’t return to work until I was stable. Time crawled forward as I changed diapers and packed lunches. I was jobless and felt hopeless. Our daughter kept me going, but I kept sinking deeper in shame. One day I was deemed stable enough to return to work, but my therapist recommended it be a low-stress job. I applied to do seasonal work at Target and got the job on the spot.

Some days, I’d look up at my diplomas and think back to my salaried years and sulk. I convinced myself that I was a failure. All my work had been for nothing. I’d never recover. Never bounce back. I’d be ringing up shampoo and storage containers for the rest of my life. Don’t get me wrong, I liked what I did, but I, like many of us, had this voice in my head saying, “Look at what you’ve become. How sad.”

One day, before I left the car to clock in, my wife asked me to wait for a moment. I was early, so it was fine. We were a one-car family at this point. I’d sold my car so we could pile up cash for our upcoming cross-country move. Our daughter sat next to me, smiling, secure in her car seat, as I lowered my head in defeat.

“You know I’m proud of you, honey,” my wife shared, her voice cracking a bit. We locked eyes in the rearview mirror. I gently shook my head and replied with everything that I’d been carrying, weighed down like an overloaded shopping cart.  She repeated, “I understand and I know this is all so hard. I want you to know we’re still so proud. Both of us.”

We talked about how far I’d come. About how having a part-time job as a buffer didn’t make me any less than. I thought about my family that raised me — they worked two, sometimes three jobs, just to make ends meet. Here I was, navigating shame, working to get my life back, and slowly noticing how blessed I was to have a place to clock into.

Later, while scanning the last few items on my shift, a father and two younger children stood patiently in my aisle. I asked if they wanted stickers, the children nodded, and the dad jokingly asked if he could have one too. The children’s faces lit up when I gave them their sticker, and something sparked in my mind as well. I was bringing joy to someone else’s life, just by noticing them, offering something, and that was enough for me.