Enough is enough. I stormed out of the office today. Another surprise desk audit awaits me tomorrow. Mr. Palmer from Human Resources is coming to the Youth Counseling League to interview me regarding a “recent incident at the Youth Counseling League”.
Surely they are coming to fire me, I pray. But I will not be there. I’m calling in sick. My employer needs to hurry and answer the third complaint I filed with the New York State Division of Human Rights against them. I got my copy in the mail yesterday. A new control number has been issued. It was jointly filed, one copy going to the Federal Branch of the Equal Opportunity Employment Commission.
On this filing, I made my complaint simple: “Excessive desk audits (3 since January 2008). Respondent implied that I stole more than $2,000 in petty cash funds.”
The e-mails were poor judgment on the part of my employer– “Your petty cash account stands at $4,000. You should have submitted receipts for the outstanding $2,654.00.”
For the last three months I have been subjected to “surprise desk audits” – a tactic by my employer to retaliate, in my view, for accusing them of disability discrimination. Why now were there questions regarding the balance of my petty cash fund? Quickly, under paranoid duress, I filed another complaint with the state, alerting them that my employer is harassing me again.
In all fairness to the State of New York, I was granted a hearing several months ago, in response to the complaints I made. My bosses were summoned to Harlem to the top floor of the Adam Clayton Powell, Jr. state office building. They had powerful attorneys with them. I was alone. It was at least twelve against one. However, I won. I got them there. I made them talk– thanks to the Division of Human Rights.
Unfortunately, after the state dismissed both of my previous filings, the Jewish Board came after me like a pack of wolves. They’ve been persecuting me ever since. Constant surprise “audits” plague me like an STD every day–
“Let’s count your money, Mr. Taylor,” Officials from the Jewish Boar announce as they walk in on me– busy doing my office manager job. “Oh, it looks like something is off here,” they giggle. They want me to get pissed off and leave. I won’t. I filed another complaint after they made the mistake in an e-mail to imply that I stole or mismanaged funds.
I showed everything to the state in my third complaint– the paperwork indicating that indeed, all $4,000 had been spent on the Teens on the Town program of the Youth Counseling League.
They chuckled, as if to imply, get ready, we are coming for you.
An early morning e-mail alerted me of the meeting with HR tomorrow. At least they are coming to my office at 386 Park Avenue South. Perhaps they are simply trying to offer an honest response to the state of New York in regards to my formal complain of undue harassment. Who knows. I told my boss, Janet Johnson– “I’m leaving. I’m going to St. Vincent’s.”
Several years ago, I was ordered to attend and take minutes of the Board of Directors of the Youth Counseling League.
“Joan, I can’t,” I said to Joan Adams, the director of the program at the time.
“Yes you can Charles. I’m going to make you better,” she insisted.
“Joan, I love you, but this is too much. I had a mental breakdown before working here. I simply cannot. You’ve heard from Mary Pender-Green, Chief of Social Work Services, that Charles Taylor is bi-polar. That’s none of your business Joan. I came here for a job, not treatment.”
“You are going to do this and I got you a $10,000 raise. Your writing is a gift, Charles, you must use it.”
“Fuck you, Joan. I’m crazy. There is no hope. I cannot take those minutes.”
“You will and you’ll like it.”
One day, after being scolded by JBFCS Board Co-Chair, Joyce Cowin for not reminding members of an upcoming meeting two days prior, I was reprimanded for informing Ms. Cowin that I was being overwhelmed and had an illness. Shortly after I read that bitch, my pay was suspended. Sure, I called Joyce Cowin a money grubbing whore, but in reality, JBFCS had no right to make me write again, especially after I had called three prior meetings with members of senior management to express my mental illness and my desire to survive in life without the assistance of drug company invented prescription medications.
It was the pen that caused my psychosis in the first place. The inability to stop permitting words to flow from the top of my consciousness drove me insane. JBFCS had no right to force me to write again. Now look at me!
“Fine Charles,” Janet Johnson, my boss, replied as I left the office today on my way to St. Vincent’s, as if I’m the crazy one.
“Do you need assistance,” Maria Barreto, social work supervisor asked.
“No thanks. I’ll see you tomorrow, I hope.” I said on my way out the door in a pair of grass green flip-flops.
I stormed down Park Avenue, crossed over to sixth a 14th Street and marched my ass into the outpatient psychiatric ward of St. Vincent’s Hospital. I was mandated to receive treatment at St. Vincent’s following my involuntary incarceration in Elizabeth, NJ.
“You were treated here for six months. What happened?”
“I’ve been off my meds for seven years now, and never felt better. Listen, you need to do something to get these lunatics off my back at work.”
The Psychiatric Evaluation went on for an hour and a half. The social worker asked me to spell things backwards, and remember certain items that she would repeat back to me, later in our conversation. If I happened to miss anything– well, we know what that means…They could keep me there!
I’m pleased to report that I answered all the social worker’s questions, posed to me during my mental status evaluation. I even spelled SHREWD backwards. Try it right this second, without looking at the word in the sentence. I just knew they were going to keep me today.
“Oh yes, I’m much better. I no longer walk barefoot down the streets of New York City screaming ‘the end is near’ with bloody feet.”
Someone knocked on the office door. She seemed angry at whoever was knocking at her door, but excused herself and answered.
She vanished for at least ten minutes, returning to ask me to repeat the words “Sofa, Blue, Bookshelf” to her, the words that she had advised me earlier, would be tested on me later. What does that mean, exactly? I asked myself during the interview. What kind of shit is this? I mean really, what if I had replied, Sofa, Red, Bookshelf? Does that make me crazy?
I was hoping to get a letter of excuse from my job for about two months. I want to cash in on all my sick and vacation time I have gathered over seven years, with very little sick time taken. How ever, I had yet to meet the psychiatrist for possible medications…
“I’m not taking anything that makes me 250 pounds or has severe side effects,” I insisted to the queer shrink.
“I recommend Abilifly. Very little weigh-t gain. No blood tests necessary.”
“That sounds good– I saw the commercial,” I replied to THE SHRINK.
“However, I must warn, it causes hand tremors in the limbs,” he advised.
“You must be out of your God damned mind,” I snipped at the man in white who was obviously a bottom homosexual. A real fag. Limp wrists and the works! The type I have slapped to the side inside of bathhouses and such. “I’ll sue those fuckers for every dime they got. I need a letter from you indicating I was here today. I don’t want your fucking pills. Get off my dick, bitch!”
For a moment I thought he would have me committed. But he didn’t. There was a side to the fag that believed me– what I keep saying and writing about in regards to the Jewish Board, the “mental health professionals” and the topic of Spiritual Emergence.
The SHRINK didn’t arrest me. He let me walk out of there. Despite, what became apparent to me after the suggested medications thrown in my direction today.
There is nothing Bi about me. I’m schizophrenic. Despite my attempts of arguing with the “professionals”, they still insist that what I had after Shawn died– that “psychotic espisode” was in reality, a manic one.
“Look. I believed I was God. I felt the Holy Spirit come into me,” I said to the social worker who did my assessment today. Still, she had no right to answer the door twice. What kind of treatment is that– to have one’s psychiatric evaluation interrupted twice.
“Do you believe you have special powers,” she asked.
“Of course not,” I squeezed through the gap in my teeth, realizing that some of the material I have written over the past several years in the this literary forum is sometimes immaculate.
“Tell me more about your psychosis.”
“It was like being on ecstacy, but times ten. I keep waiting. After seven years it still hasn’t come back. Perhaps I’m not manic depressive. Perhaps I have schizophrenia,” I said to her.
She didn’t say anything. She kept typing and answering her door, as if, from the outside, aliens were trying to interrupt our session.