No Mental Health Days
By: The Gigconomist
Tags: Gig Economy, Borderline Personality, Mental Health, Suicide, Real Estate

Part 1: Bensalem

October, 2019. Bensalem Pennsylvania.

Would you believe that I wasn’t always The Gigconomist, Dear Reader?

I had been a real estate agent. Albeit I couldn’t afford many of the tools I needed to successfully compete in a busy market of agents, I do have a natural inclination to help someone else feel like they’re comfortable and have power in a negotiation, when they really don’t.

In other words, I’m a master manipulator. I’m a salesman.

At that time, I had nothing to show for it. I was living in a weekly motel in Bensalem, Pennsylvania. I had to get away from my grandparents, who before I had lived with, and made it a case to abuse and insult me into regular fits of madness.

I was 36, by the way, at this time.

Also, I worked for a startup in Philadelphia as a contractor. I showed apartments to prospective tenants on behalf of landlords.

And I was good too. I was the best in the company, and that’s not bragging. To put it into perspective, the Philadelphia office was at the best, in the middle of the company. There were six offices: Chicago, Cleveland, Pittsburgh, Philadelphia, Baltimore, and D.C.

My first month, I closed more lease agreements by myself than the entirety of the Chicago office.

I worked 60 hour weeks to pull this off. I ended up making $2,000 dollars a month.

Thank you, Gig-Conomy.

This story is going to jump around a bit, but we start at a nervous breakdown in a Bensalem motel.

At the time, I think I was taking Lithium and…maybe an antidepressant. I’m not sure.

Come to think of it, after this I started driving Uber and Lyft full-time, so this moment is my origin story.

Figure 1: My Resignation Letter

I had begged and pleaded for the month of September off. I was working too hard and couldn’t pay any bills and I was trying to move anywhere to Pennsylvania. It was granted, I think the guy who hired me kind of felt my burnout. But I simply lost interest.

That’s where the title of this article comes from, Dear Reader. During my sabbatical all I did was drive for Uber, Lyft, and Postmates. I didn’t take a vacation so much as I just switched jobs.

Which led me to Bensalem.

So, come October 1st, they wanted me back. And I started showing apartments again even though I didn’t want to.

This lasted two weeks, and I tried to get my passion for the job back. I love showing properties, I really do, but I couldn’t take anymore and sent the email above.

And that’s that, as they say. I actually tried to come back to the company twice during Covid but they rarely, if ever, respond.

The point is that I had to work myself into the ground for this job to be any form of beneficial to me. Doing so cost me my humanity and my personality. It cost me relationships. It cost me the love and respect of people who love and respected me.

I should mention at this point in our journey together that I have cyclothymia, borderline personality disorder traits, and PTSD.

And all three of those things are co-morbid with each other.

I only received a proper diagnosis when I was 35. When I was 27 I was simply “depressed”. When I was 30 I was “Bipolar 2”. When I was 33 I was “If I give you a drug test, you mean to tell me that nothing is going to come up?” (Nothing did, by the way. Thank you State of Delaware appointed psychiatrist for making me feel bad about something I didn’t even do.) and finally at 34 I was “Well, we’re not sure.” I’ve been through a dozen psychologists and even more jobs. I’ve ruined every personal relationship I’ve ever had, some more than once. I’ve only ever known chaos, and never stability.

And I’ve only ever been expected to just work through it. By my family, my employers, and even some counselors that I’ve had.

And it was that way with the apartment showing startup in Philadelphia by way of Pittsburgh. It didn’t matter that I was on the edge of a nervous breakdown. It didn’t matter that I didn’t know where I was most of the time and living as a transient. If I didn’t smell too bad, put on that collared shirt and head to Northern Liberties, we have to rent this three-bedroom.

And I wasn’t an employee, just a contractor, so what rights did I have? I just worked through it, like always.

The problem is that working through it makes me appear too functioning to the outside world. Even though I qualify as disabled by American government definition (technically the government defines even simple depression as a disability, as it should) I still get up every day, and I mean every day, and go to work.

See? I wasn’t lying! PTSD is right there!

To me, that’s the way it is. Get up and go to work and fulfill my obligation. Sometimes I’ll try to kill myself. If the cuts aren’t too bad and my stomach doesn’t hurt too much from whatever household item I try to poison myself with, I should get through the day.

I have drank bleach in my car before, prior to a seven-hour Uber shift.

So it goes, right Kurt? I’m too crazy to hold a job, and too sane not to have one.

I want to thank everyone, all of you, who have tried to talk me out of doing something reactionary these past few years. I want to make sure you know that I appreciate you trying to help me, and I’m sincerely sorry if I’m a burden.

I’m trying to be better, I really am.

I moved away from Bensalem and back to Delaware, by the way. Covid hit and I moved out of my grandparent’s house for good, this time. But that’s another article for when I feel up to it.

As for my current employer, well, I’m not driving ride share full-time anymore, anyway. But, I am starting to work too many hours again. And, I’ve hidden my diagnosis from them, based on a past event I had with one of my many bosses.

Get up go to work and fulfill my obligation.

I think I’ll make this a series, as it seems to be ongoing. So Dear Reader, I hope you enjoyed Part 1, Bensalem.

As for me, there’s a streak bonus I have to try and secure.

Gig.