Hard truth

I used to think we'd come a long way in reducing the stigma associated with mental illness.

I made a very personal choice to be open about my condition, in the hopes it would help others understand that those who have a mental illness can still love, laugh, live and contribute like any other person.

I've been kidding myself.

And I'm afraid being open about my condition has actually made things worse for me and, by extension, my family.

Oh, for sure there is a lot more talk about mental illness these days.

Bell trots out its 'Let's Talk' campaign every year and we congratulate ourselves for how tolerant, how progressive, how down-right civilized we all are when it comes to mental illness.

But in the end, I've come to believe people are willing to be tolerant of those with mental illness -- just as long as they don't have to work with them.

Which means all the talk about tolerance and understanding is nothing more than window dressing.

A former employer asked me -- after I had been off work on short-term disability with depression -- how I could guarantee him I wouldn't relapse again.

I asked him if he asked that of a co-worker who was off with cancer, went into remission and was welcomed back with open arms.

"But that's different," he said.

And there you have it.

I've interviewed at five different organizations over the last six months, making it to the final round at two of them.

I'm still unemployed.

Of course I can't prove my public disclosure has given pause to any potential employer. There may have been other candidates more qualified or a better fit than myself.

But one thing became crystal clear to me today when I received my latest rejection.

If my illness was cancer and my blog was my story of overcoming it I would no doubt be more attractive to an employer doing research on me when considering hiring me.

In fact, it could be almost anything other than mental illness (and possibly addiction).

"He lost his leg to flesh-eating disease but came back to run a half-marathon. What courage! We need people like him!" they would say.

"He had a rare form of cancer but battled it and won the battle! We need people with strength like that!" they would say.

But I don't have cancer or flesh-eating disease.

I have major depressive disorder.

And until I can say that in an interview and not have it held against me, we aren't any further along than in the days when you didn't talk about it at all.

Because if you can only disclose it in situations that really don't matter, the stigma is still as strong as it's ever been.

And that makes me sad and discouraged beyond words.