Surviving The fall, 23

I had one of those dreams last night, Gentle Reader. You know the kind I mean? No need to go into a lot of detail. I was having a series of conversations with various folks about my work and how I fit in and of basically... How angry I am. This is turning into one toxic little dance number. I returned into steady employment with the proviso that this time I wouldn't do anything to undermine myself and end up jobless, homeless and even worse off than ever before. A succession of rightwing governments in our province and in our nation have really slashed and reduced programs of social assistance, making those who don't cope well in the workplace more vulnerable than ever. It has been with this sword dangling over my head that I have done my due diligence of staying employed, and of getting along as swimmingly as possible with my bosses and coworkers. This hasn't been a cakewalk. First of all, if you are at the bottom of the pile, as I am, you are vulnerable, more vulnerable than anyone, and if you, like me, simply are constitutionally incapable of behaving and talking like an incredibly grateful serf or slave, then it is going to be all the worse for you. If you, like me, are going to find yourself resenting being treated like inferior trash because of your lowly position in the hierarchy, then you are likely to have a miserable time. If you, like me, are going to be feeling chronically shoved aside and undervalued for your talents and potential with opportunities for training and real advancement in the workplace being either not available or virtually snatched away from you by those who don't want you to succeed, then after a while you are going to thirst for blood. If you, like me, are going to be carrying throughout your remaining work life a festering slow burning rage at your employers and the kind of oppressive douchebag society that enables those kinds of monsters, then you are likely at times going to need professional help. This hasn't been easy. I spent the early years of the Millennium in contact with a publicly funded employment counsellor. The idea was to connect people with little or no formal skills training or post-secondary education to employment that would get us off welfare, help keep a roof over our heads, and provide us with at least marginally meaningful employment. I should mention here that recent studies indicate that the many workers stranded in meaningless occupations have very high rates of depression and anxiety. Who knew? I at least have the good fortune that my employment is not meaningless. I actively engage every day with individuals on their various journeys of recovery and wellness and I get to help facilitate them. My immediate coworkers and supervisors, with the occasional toxic exception, are good, kind and helpful people. There is also, and this was noted in my dream last night, an ongoing struggle with workplace stigma because I am a mental health peer support worker, which also marks and brands me with stigma as a recovered or partially recovered mental health patient, or client. I have had to do bloody battle with some of the arrogant swine in my various worksites: nurses, case managers, psychologists, occupational therapists and recreational therapists, all determined to lump me and my other colleague peer support workers as damaged goods. It's better than it used to be, and unlike others I have stood up and fought and I am proud of this. I have never been a mental health consumer myself, since my contact with the mental health system was only in four years of biweekly talk therapy with a psychiatrist. I have never been on medication and I have never been hospitalized. I have never been sick, nor identified as damaged. This has been for me a most peculiar experience as I have had to navigate a workplace full of professional colleagues, some of whom habitually stigmatize peer support workers. It is not my coworkers that I blame for this, but upper management, the same ones who refused to give us a modest raise for almost ten years, and now are finally letting the money get pried from their cold dead fingers because the government has put a gun to their head given that the minimum wage is finally going up. But paying us a living wage? Peer support workers? Damaged goods? Oh, don't make me laugh! In the meantime I carry this low burning rage and I am determined to get through without incident these remaining three years before I can fully retire. In the meantime I am going to have to go on seeking constructive means of channelling this anger. Wish me luck, Gentle Reader. I am battle hardened and ready to keep fighting.