thanks for checking in

by Melody Wordworker

Shitcanned at Bathtime

After more than a month of tasting sawdust, seeing grey, and sleeping 12+ hours a day, I decided, once again, to call the psychiatric crisis line.

This crash-out looked different from my previous ones, mostly because I didn’t care. With the emotional range of a lobotomized snail, the reason for my call was more because my husband and therapist were concerned.

The woman on the triage call told me I was brave for asking for help, and they’d get someone to talk to me right away. She suggested I play up the thoughts of ending my life, to ensure I got the necessary care. Fair enough, it was top of mind.

A blurry week of phone tag followed. I talked to countless faceless mental health professionals, with varying degrees of condescension, shaming, and compassion. Eventually, it was decided I needed to go on medical leave and into an intensive outpatient program. I was assured it was state-protected leave, and my work wouldn’t know any specifics.

I was given a letter on Friday afternoon to give to my employer, along with instructions to show up at a building at 9:30 am on Monday.

I turned in the letter to my employer, a sexual and reproductive health organization. I picked up my five-year-old from school, got her in the bath, started dinner, and then got a text from HR saying they needed to chat.

I was laid off while bathing my kid at 5:15 pm on a Friday.

“Hang on there, Cindy,” I said to the HR woman, who never liked me anyway and was positively gleeful about the business at hand, and also at a nail appointment. “Margot, when you’re done with your bath, there’s a towel there. Mommy has to take a phone call.”

Fortunately, unlike previous lay-offs, I responded with stoic poise. No tears, no shock and dismay.

I ended the call, toweled off a shivering and dripping Margot, drained the pasta, and set the table.

I hoped I’d get grippy socks in the outpatient program.

Intensive Outpatient Program

I moved my eyes across the circle of faces. Old, young, white, brown, long hair, no hair. A collection of sad humans as diverse as the city itself.

“For check-in today, please share your name, pronouns, something you’re struggling with, and a coping mechanism you’re trying,” explained the facilitator, a short woman in ballet flats.

A tall woman, with a slight, dashing mustache, volunteered to go first.

“Georgie, she/they. I’m struggling with work when this is all over. I’m pretty sure I’m gonna get laid off when I get back. Things have been hard for a while, and I just don’t know how I’m gonna keep this all going.”

“Thanks for checking in. That sounds really hard,” said the facilitator, as she scribbled on a pad.

The check-ins continued.

An older woman with cochlear implants also shared work stress and fear of getting fired after medical leave due to her disability.

“I’m afraid of discrimination. I’m lonely and not sure where to go next,” she used an iPhone to transcribe the meeting. “The insurance company rejected my request for additional physical therapy for my knee, and I’m just in so much pain.”

A middle-aged man came late, wearing an Operation Ivy tee and checkered Vans. He fidgeted while he talked about maybe losing his home. A young man in an Oakland Roots jersey expressed extreme stress about securing financial aid to continue his studies. A middle-aged woman with a service dog talked about navigating the health care system, and the whole group chimed in, as everyone had a story about the system failing them.

I finally spoke up, “I’m noticing all our struggles have one thing in common… It's capitalism. Capitalism is killing us. I feel like I’m done with talk therapy. I need to fight the government.”

Thanks For Checking In – Short Stories By Melody White

Murmurs of agreement rippled through the room, giving me confidence to continue my tirade. The facilitator shifted uncomfortably in her seat.

“I just think maybe we should be talking about how to dismantle the systems and rebuild something that actually works for us,” I diatribed. “Like maybe we need to build a guillotine to threaten some billionaires.”

“A what?” said the facilitator.

“You know, a guillotine, from the French Revolution?” said a thin woman with short fire-engine red hair.

“What is it?” said the facilitator.

“A machine that beheads rich people,” said the aged punk.

“Oooh,” said the facilitator, finally grokking the topic at hand and quickly directing us back to breathing exercises.

We practiced box breathing for a bit, and then the session was over. As we gathered up our coats and water bottles and shuffled toward the door.

“Hey,” whispered the red-haired girl, “I know someone who can help us build a guillotine.”

Fuck You, Kelly Clarkson

Between sessions, I was bed-rotting on TikTok. A woman lip-syncing to the rerelease of “Catch My Breath” by Kelly Clarkson found its way to my For You Page.

I did as the song suggested and caught my breath. I felt a twinge of motivation rise. I followed that urge. I put on the song at full volume and danced around my apartment.

“This is my LIFE! I won’t be told what’s supposed to be riiiiight!” I screamed and flailed. Letting anger, resentment, and frustration spray off me with every spin and twirl.

I decided this song was my ticket to recovery. That weekend, I excitedly shared the discovery with my husband and daughter. We blasted the song in the car on the way to the disc golf course. I moved my arms and head to the music in big motions with the windows down. My daughter joined in the gaiety.

After the song ended, I turned to my husband, “See? Isn't it great? Didn't it solve all your problems?”

“Umm, maybe half of them,” my husband said.

“So let's listen to it again!” said my daughter, doing the math in her head.

The next day, I crashed so hard I couldn't get out of bed, and my husband had to handle drop-off, pick-up, dog walks, and dinner solo.

Fuck you, Kelly Clarkson. I hold you personally responsible.

Photo of Melody Wordworker

BIO: Melody Wordworker is a recovering small-town reporter with a background in covering government, education, arts, and crime. She originated a curiosity-based journalism initiative at a public radio station that broke traffic records and servers. She has contributed to P.S. I Love You on Medium, reaching a wide audience with a personal essay about using a spreadsheet to do a risk analysis before moving in with her boyfriend.